Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  As Jessica hit the bed control again, Darrell appeared in the doorway. Sam smiled and waved, the bed still moving under him so that he felt as if he were on a parade float. “Hey, buddy. What are you doing here? You didn’t need to make that drive again today.”

  “Of course I did. I wanted to see you.” Darrell walked over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed Sam’s cheek. Then he took in the casts on Sam’s shoulder and legs. “Man, you look bad. Mom told me what happened. Next time, you’d better wear a parachute.”

  “And a crash helmet,” Sam added. “It was a long way down. I have to admit it—and admit that I’m a real idiot for climbing up there in that weather in the first place.”

  “It was an accident, Dad. It could have happened to anybody.” Darrell moved a second chair close to Sam’s bed.

  “Anybody who’s thickheaded and a know-it-all, you mean. Bart told me not to climb up there. I’m lucky he stayed back to hold the ladder. I hate to think what would have happened if I was alone.”

  “Let’s not even go there,” Jessica said quickly. “All the doctors said you were very lucky.”

  “That’s funny, because I don’t feel very lucky,” Sam replied honestly. “I feel very stupid.”

  “Darrell’s right. You can’t blame yourself, honey. Your injuries could have been permanent. Or worse.”

  By “worse” she meant he could have broken his neck or ended his life with that fall in some other way. Maybe he should count himself lucky to get off like this, coated with enough plaster to cover a ballroom ceiling.

  “How long will it be before they take all this plaster off?” he asked with a surge of impatience. “Did the doctor tell you yet?”

  “Not yet. But the nurse indicated . . . probably at least . . . six weeks. Maybe eight,” she added quietly. So quietly he could hardly hear her. Which had been her intention, he was sure.

  “Eight weeks? For the shoulder, too?”

  Jessica nodded. “I think so. The doctor should be by later. Let’s see what he tells us.”

  “Calm down, Dad. It won’t do any good to get yourself worked up,” Darrell said. “Six weeks isn’t such a long time in the bigger scheme of things. Get the big picture. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

  Sam glanced at his son, annoyed to have his own classic advice tossed back at him. Whenever Darrell got impatient about waiting for some big life event—to find out if he passed a test, to hear if he was picked for a team, to get his license, to get accepted to colleges—Sam had always told him to get the big picture. Time has to pass, through the joyous events and the sorrowful, the most onerous and annoying.

  “I took a walk down this hall while you were sleeping, Sam,” Jessica added. “It looked to me like most of your fellow patients would give a lot to hear that they’ll be back up and running in six or even eight weeks.”

  Sam knew that was true, too. He was just too angry to acknowledge her point. Angry at himself, mostly.

  “I know but . . . I want to hear what the doctor says. Let him tell me eight weeks.” He noticed his wife and son share a glance and knew that he sounded belligerent, as if he planned to talk the doctor out of such a long recovery time.

  “Looks like you’ve got your wish.” Jessica turned to the doorway. “I think I hear Dr. Bradley’s voice in the hall. He must be doing his rounds.”

  Sam smoothed the sheet across his lap with his good hand and once again forced himself to sit up straighter, trying to look as if he had already started to recover. Though it was hard to pull off such an act, attached to all the tubes and wires and wearing the flimsy hospital gown.

  The doctor walked up to Sam’s bed. “Hello, Mr. Morgan. I’m Dr. Bradley. I was on call when you came into the ER today. I’m the one who slapped all that plaster on your legs. You weren’t in great shape. You may not remember that clearly.”

  “I don’t really remember. Not all of it,” Sam admitted. “But I have been wondering who to blame.”

  “We were just wondering about Sam’s recovery,” Jessica said. “How long it will take?”

  “I can’t say exactly. A lot depends on how fast your bones heal, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Call me, Sam, please. And I’m very fast healer, believe me.”

  Dr. Bradley smiled at Sam’s testimonial. “Best scenario, six weeks for the legs. Perhaps a little longer for the shoulder. Though at some point, you’ll get soft casts. But no driving and no putting weight on that foot for a while. You’ll need physical therapy, too.”

  “That’s the best you can do, six weeks?” Sam asked. Even in his hazy state, he knew he had a long list of jobs that had to be completed.

  Dr. Bradley nodded. “Any sooner and there would be a risk of a new injury. That would be even harder to mend, Sam. You don’t want to be left with a permanent limp or chronic pain.”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Jessica answered before Sam could reply.

  “I’m sorry . . . I don’t mean to sound unreasonable.” Sam looked down at his legs again. “But I have a business to run. I have projects going. I can’t be immobile for that long.”

  “We’ll work it out, honey,” Jessica cut in. “Dr. Bradley can’t do anything to solve that problem.”

  The doctor stood at the foot of the bed. He did look sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Sam. I wish I could help you solve that issue. Patients are often shocked when they hear the recovery period. But they always seem to find a way to take care of their obligations. It might take a while, but I think you’ll sort things out.”

  Sam wasn’t so sure about that. What if you had to take a six-week leave from setting bones, Doctor? How would you like that? he wanted to say. But he held a tight rein on his temper, feeling his jaw set in what Jessica called his manly, stoic mode. He tried to cross his arms over his chest, in a further pose of defiance, but could only succeed in folding his left arm over, which felt awkward and silly.

  The doctor spoke to them for a few more minutes about practical matters—the medication Sam was taking, how the nurses would soon get him up and sitting in a chair, the sort of foods he was allowed to eat. Sam didn’t hear half of it, simmering over the six-to-eight-week sentence that had been handed down.

  “Any other questions?” Dr. Bradley met Sam’s gaze again.

  “Just one more. How soon do you think I can get out of here?” Sam knew he sounded curt but couldn’t help it.

  Dr. Bradley smiled mildly. “Very soon, Sam. There’s not too much more we can do for you here. I’d say Thursday, barring anything unforeseen. I hope that’s enough time to prepare the house,” he added, turning to Jessica. “You’ll need to rent a wheelchair and maybe a hospital bed. No climbing stairs, of course. Not even at night.”

  “We’ll have everything he needs, Doctor,” Darrell said. He quickly turned to his father. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll get you out of here pronto.”

  “Thanks, pal.” Sam offered Darrell a small smile, though the truth of the matter was he wanted Darrell to go back to school the next morning.

  Sam waited until the doctor left the room then leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “Are you all right, Dad? Are you in pain?”

  Sam looked over at Darrell, his son’s handsome face full of concern. “I’m all right. Just a bad headache.”

  “Oh, I was going to call the nurse and get you something.” Jessica stood up. But Darrell was faster.

  “I’ll go ask. You stay here with Dad,” he said, and was soon out the door.

  Jessica cast a wistful glance at the empty doorway. “I know you didn’t want him to come, but it’s good to have him here.”

  “Yes, it is,” Sam agreed. “Maybe you want Darrell to stay until I come home—to help you set up the house and all that?”

  Despite his own wish to have Darrell return to school, he didn’t want to deprive Jessica of Darrell’s help. His son was ta
ll and strong, definitely able to move furniture and hospital beds, and do whatever heavy work was needed.

  “Only if he’s not going to miss anything important at school, but we can figure that out later.” She sat down next to him again and took his hand. “What do you think of Dr. Bradley? I hear he’s a very good orthopedist. I liked his bedside manner. Those specialists usually seem so rushed. But he spent a long time with you, answering our questions.”

  “He’s all right. I just wish he’d had some better answers.” Sam sighed. “I can’t just drop off the face of the earth for six weeks, Jess. I have three projects going and more lined up to start soon. My clients will be furious. I’ll get bad-mouthed all over town . . . I don’t even want to think about the lack of income.”

  “Calm down, Sam. Everyone understands when there’s an illness or an accident. This is not going to ruin your reputation. As for an income, I’ll go back to work. It’s probably not too late to get my old job back, despite what I told my mother. But even if that position is filled, I think the bank can find something else for me to do. If not in Cape Light, then at another branch. Or I can find a job at a different bank,” she added. “Or some other sort of work.”

  Sam was not surprised by Jessica’s solution. That’s just the way she was, at any moment ready to put aside her own desires and priorities for their family’s sake. But her selfless offer didn’t make him happy or ease his anxiety. “I don’t want you to do that. You just left office life. It’s not fair to you at all. Just because I’m a dumb idiot who climbed a ladder in a snowstorm—”

  “It wasn’t a snowstorm. And you’re not an idiot,” Jessica overrode him. “And it doesn’t have to be permanent. It doesn’t even have to be at a bank. I can find something to cover the bills until you’re ready to go back to work. And you can file for some benefits, too. Workers’ comp?”

  Sam had already thought of that, but he doubted the workers’ compensation check would make a dent in their monthly budget. Maybe it would cover the pet food? But he didn’t want to worry Jessica any more than necessary now.

  “Finding a decent-paying job takes time. I don’t want you taking some minimum-wage job as Christmas help in the mall, so put that out of your mind right now. I could be recovered by the time you find a job that makes sense. We have savings,” he reminded her. “That’s what it’s there for. A rainy day. We’ll be okay.” Jessica didn’t answer. She looked doubtful, Sam thought. “Honestly, Jess. We’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, I know we will.” Jessica nodded. He couldn’t tell if she really believed that or was just trying to make him feel better. But he believed it. He was trying hard to, anyway.

  “I wish Joe Kelley was still around,” Sam said as Darrell walked back into the room.

  Joe Kelley, one of Sam’s longtime workers, had managed projects whenever Sam found himself overbooked or in a bind. But Joe had recently moved away, leaving Sam without that sort of backup. Sam knew it was his own fault. He preferred to be the one in charge, to oversee his jobs down to the smallest detail. He believed it kept the quality of his work high, resulting in a sterling reputation. But at times like this, he could definitely see a downside to his perfectionist tendencies.

  “Joe could have taken over in a heartbeat. But there’s no one on the crew to replace him,” Sam said to Jessica. “Bart is a hard worker, but he doesn’t like being in charge.”

  Darrell stepped closer and stood at the foot of Sam’s bed. “I can be your foreman, Dad. I can watch the jobs and let you know what’s going on.”

  Sam was touched by his son’s offer. “Thanks, Darrell. I appreciate you stepping up, son. But I can’t see how that could work out. For one thing, you need to get back to school and finish the semester.” Darrell’s expression fell and Sam felt bad at refusing his offer. “Maybe when you come home for Christmas break you can help me. If there’s any business left to manage,” he added in a quieter voice.

  “The semester is practically over, Dad,” Darrell told him. “There’s only one more week of classes, then the study period before finals. I can tell my professors it’s a family emergency. I only have one final. The rest of what I’ve got due is all papers and projects.”

  “It’s still schoolwork, important work. You need to keep your grades up if you want to get into a good grad school,” Sam reminded him.

  Darrell was studying engineering and architecture, and wanted to be an architect, which required a graduate degree in order to become fully certified. Sam was more than willing to see him continue his schooling, though Darrell hadn’t yet applied to any graduate programs. He had told his parents he wanted to work for a year in between, at an engineering or an architecture firm. Sam wasn’t so keen on the idea. He worried that one year might stretch to two or more, and Darrell would never get his graduate degree.

  But that was a debate for another day. Right now he needed to make his son see that finishing his fall semester of senior year on a strong note was what mattered. Sam had started college but had quit after two years. Though he loved his work, he had often regretted his lack of a college degree. He wanted better for his children. He didn’t want anything to hold them back from achieving their full potential. Darrell was so smart and talented, the sky was really the limit for him, and Sam wanted to see him get there. Even if he had to nag at times or play the heavy.

  “I’ll get good grades, Dad. No worries,” Darrell assured him. “The next week is all review. Most of my projects and papers are practically done, too. I can easily finish them at home.”

  “Maybe Darrell should call his professors and see what they think,” Jessica said before Sam could answer. “He’s worked for you every summer since he was in middle school, Sam. He does know the business and most of the men working for you, too.”

  Sam met Jessica’s gaze. She did have a point. But he was annoyed that she was taking Darrell’s side.

  “I’m sure I could be just as good a foreman for you as Joe Kelley,” Darrell chimed in. “Maybe even better.”

  Sam sighed, suddenly noticing a throbbing in his shoulder and his head. “I know you can do it,” he said, though he wasn’t convinced. “And I know you want to help. But let’s not figure it out right now. I’m tired. It’s hard to think. Is that nurse coming any day soon?”

  “She said she’d be right here. I’ll see what’s taking her.” Darrell nodded and left the room again.

  Sam looked up at Jessica. “I want him to go back to school. I didn’t even want him to miss school today.”

  “I know. But he wants to help you. He wants to help our family,” she added. “That’s the way we raised him. It’s a good thing, nothing to complain about.”

  “I know he wants to help, but—”

  “And he’s persistent once he gets an idea in his head. Just like you,” she added.

  He couldn’t argue with that either. Sam sighed and closed his eyes. “He is. But I still want him to go back to school. I’ll figure out some way to keep the jobs going. Just not right now.”

  Chapter Three

  That Nurse Crosby. Is she here again?” Jean’s mother looked up from her book when the doorbell rang. “She just came on Sunday.”

  “And she comes every other day, and today is Tuesday,” Jean reminded her mother as she headed to the front door.

  “Oh, bother. I could do without seeing her for a week or two,” Cynthia grumbled.

  “Actually, you couldn’t,” Jean muttered. She had gotten her mother washed and dressed and settled in the living room, but none of that required medical expertise.

  During the short time she had been home, Jean had quickly learned her mother disliked the visiting nurse. Jean had just as quickly decided the woman was a breath of fresh air. Especially on a drizzly winter day, like today. Jean also knew that the nurse’s visits were essential to Cynthia’s survival.

  Despite that fact, her mother’s attitude toward “that
Nurse Crosby!”—which was what she always called her—was a mixture of fear and disdain. While her mother considered Barbara Crosby far too irreverent, Jean found her upbeat and witty. Barbara was caring and competent, but she didn’t handle Cynthia with kid gloves or seem the least bit fazed by Cynthia’s crankiness and complaints.

  Jean opened the door, and Barbara greeted her as she came in. “How’s it going? You look a little tired. Her ladyship wearing you out already?”

  “Not yet,” Jean replied. “We seem to be falling into a routine. She’s in the living room, in her recliner, reading.”

  Jean did feel a little tired. But not due to caring for her mother. Not entirely, anyway. After her mother had gone to sleep the night before, Jean had been working on sketches and paintings that were part of the children’s picture book she had started a few months ago. As usual, once she took the work out, she had lost track of the time and had gone to bed much too late.

  “Good morning, Cynthia,” Barbara said. “What are you reading today? Anything interesting?”

  “It is to me. But I doubt it would catch your fancy. A biography of Pablo Picasso?” Her mother prodded the nurse with her question, as if Barbara would not be familiar with the world-renowned artist. Her mother could be an intellectual snob at times. Most of the time, Jean decided.

  “I bet he led an interesting life. But you’re right. I’m not big on biographies. I like an easy, fast read with plenty of romance and a happy ending. Mysteries can be fun, too.” Barbara set her bag down. “May I examine you in here, or would you prefer the bedroom?”

  “This room is fine with me.”

  “Let’s start with your blood pressure.” Barbara took a blood-pressure cuff from her bag and unrolled it. She wrapped the cuff around Cynthia’s outstretched arm and began pumping it up. “How about you, Jean? What do you like to read?”

  “Oh, all types of books. It depends on what I’m in the mood for. I enjoy serious novels at times. Then a light book with romance or a mystery next. Sometimes I even read cookbooks.”