by Irene Hannon
Tess’s spirits took a nosedive. Her current dilemma confirmed what she already knew. Life was filled with difficult choices. And as Bruce had recently discovered, it often wasn’t fair.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, Uncle Ray, that ship-in-a-bottle is cool! Where did you get it?” Bruce handed the older man his glasses, which he’d volunteered to fetch from the bedroom, then sat beside him in front of the computer in the den.
Uncle Ray took the glasses and adjusted them on his nose as he turned on the computer. “My son, Jeff, made that for me many years ago.”
“No kidding! How did he get all those big pieces in there?”
“With a great deal of patience and skill. He was good at that kind of thing. Would have made a fine surgeon, I think. That’s what he wanted to be.”
There was a momentary pause, and when Bruce spoke again his voice was tentative. “On the way down here I heard Mr. Jackson tell Mom that he got killed in Vietnam.”
“That’s right.”
“You must have been real sad.”
Uncle Ray took off his glasses and swiveled away from the computer to look directly at Bruce. He studied the boy for a moment, as if debating how to respond. “That’s a fair statement, son. It’s real hard when someone you love dies, especially when they’re so young. And when it didn’t have to be.”
Bruce frowned. “What do you mean?”
Uncle Ray sighed and carefully set his glasses next to the computer. “I was once a very stubborn man, Bruce,” he said quietly. “After I made up my mind about something, I couldn’t see things any other way. That’s how it was about that war. When I was growing up, young men went to war when they were called. Maybe they didn’t like it, but they went anyway, because it was the right thing to do. But Jeff didn’t see it that way. Not for that war, anyway. He didn’t believe in what we were doing in Vietnam. In fact, he felt so strongly about it that he wanted to go to Canada to avoid the draft.”
“Could he have done that?”
“Yes. Some young men did.”
“Was that wrong?”
Uncle Ray gazed into the distance. “I thought so at the time. And I told Jeff so. Plus a lot of other things. I told him that he was being unpatriotic. That I’d always thought he had guts, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. And that I was ashamed of him.”
The answer was plain, straightforward and painfully honest, given without excuses and unsparing in its harshness. But the raw regret and deep sadness in the older man’s voice eloquently communicated his anguish. Instinctively Bruce reached over and touched his arm.
Uncle Ray looked at Bruce and laid his work-worn fingers over the boy’s hand. “I’m sure you can guess the rest, son. Jeff loved me so much he couldn’t bear for me to be ashamed of him. So he put aside his own convictions and went when he was drafted. He was only over there two weeks when we got word he’d been killed in an ambush in the jungle.”
Bruce’s voice was hushed when he spoke. “I’m sorry, Uncle Ray.”
The older man patted his hand. “Thank you, son. I am, too. I still miss Jeff every day, even after all these years. And I still regret that he never got to be that surgeon. Could have done a lot of good for a lot of people, I think. It was such a waste.” He sighed and shook his head. “Took me a long time to learn to live with myself after that. Had a lot of conversations with the Lord about it. Didn’t seem fair, him gone, me still here, when it was my mistake. ’Cause the fact is, I was wrong about that war.”
Bruce looked at him curiously. “It’s kind of weird to hear an adult admit they’re wrong.”
Uncle Ray smiled gently. “Let me tell you something, Bruce. Admitting mistakes, having the courage to say you’re wrong, is a sign of growing up. Trouble is, a lot of people never learn to do that. Or they learn too late. Like me. I didn’t get a second chance with my mistake. But lots of times people do, and if we’re smart, the next time we do better.”
“I guess everybody makes mistakes,” Bruce said slowly, his brow creased with a frown.
“That’s a fact. Important thing is to learn from them.” Uncle Ray picked up his glasses and settled them back on his nose. “Okay, that’s enough heavy stuff for today. Let’s surf.”
“Man, he is one cool dude.”
Tess gave the spaghetti sauce one final stir and turned to Bruce. Instead of the perennial scowl he’d worn for the past few months, his face was animated and eager. Uncle Ray had certainly made an impression. Bruce had talked of little else since their visit to the farm a week before.
“What’s the latest?”
Bruce straddled a kitchen chair. “He just sent me an e-mail about this great Web site he found on the Pilgrims, to help me with the research for my history paper. Did you know that they landed at Plymouth Rock because they ran out of beer?”
Tess chuckled. “Can’t say that I did. Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah. The Web page has part of a journal from the ship, and it says they had to land because they ran out of food and stuff, especially beer. Mr. Landis knows a lot about history, but I bet he doesn’t know that.”
“You could be right.”
Bruce rose and helped himself to some cookies from the jar on the counter.
“You know, Mom, Uncle Ray could use some help on the farm and I was thinking…well, I’ve got spring break coming up in two weeks, so I thought maybe…if he wanted me to…I could spend the week with him.”
Tess looked at him in surprise. “Did he invite you?”
“No. Not exactly. Not yet. But I think he would, if I volunteered to help him.”
Tess reached over to stir the spaghetti sauce again, buying herself a moment to think. A week on the farm was certainly preferable to a week with the group he’d been hanging around with at school. And Bruce and Uncle Ray had certainly seemed to hit it off. They’d been e-mailing daily. It was a completely unexpected turn of events, but Tess was nonetheless grateful. Bruce had seemed more like his old self ever since their visit to the farm, and she was willing to support anything that made a positive impact. But she wasn’t willing to take advantage of the older man’s generosity, even though the temptation was great.
“It would be okay with me, Bruce,” she replied finally. “But Uncle Ray might not want two week-long house guests.”
“Two?”
“Mitch will probably be there, too.”
Bruce’s face fell. “Yeah. I forgot about that.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll ask Mitch to talk to Uncle Ray and see if he’s willing to take on one more farmhand for the week.”
Bruce frowned. “I don’t know. When we were there for Easter, I kind of had Uncle Ray to myself. It wouldn’t be the same this time.”
“Maybe it would be better.”
He gave her a look that said, “Get real.”
“Why is that so unlikely?” she persisted. “You haven’t had any trouble with Mitch at school lately.”
“He’s still the principal.”
“He could also be your friend, if you’d let him.”
“Like he’s yours?”
The unexpected question, delivered in an accusatory tone, startled her. “What do you mean?”
Bruce shrugged stiffly. “You call him Mitch. And you two seemed real friendly at Uncle Ray’s.”
Tess felt hot color steal onto her cheeks, and she bent down on the pretense of looking for a lid in the cabinet. She’d tried to keep her growing feelings for Mitch in check, but apparently Bruce had picked up some undercurrents. Had Mitch, as well? The thought made her cheeks grow even warmer, and she rummaged even more vigorously in the cabinet. Get a grip, she admonished herself tersely. You could be overreacting here. Play it cool.
“Well, I guess we have become friends,” she said, striving for a conversational tone as she straightened up. “He’s a very nice man, Bruce.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Tess folded her arms and leaned back against the counter. “You may not want to believe that, Bruce,
but it’s true. He cares about people. Especially his students. He could be your friend if you let him.”
“I have enough friends.”
They were moving onto dangerous territory, and she didn’t want to get into an argument that could propel him back into the arms of his so-called friends. Since Bruce had been grounded after the car accident, his contact with his “group” had been limited to school hours. Interestingly enough, he hadn’t complained much. Nor had he talked about his brief visit to jail. Maybe she was being naive, but Tess had a feeling the events of that night had had a big impact. As had the trip to the farm. With things going so well, she didn’t want to rock the boat. If Bruce didn’t want to associate with Mitch, so be it.
“Have it your way,” she said, trying for a nonchalant tone as she pushed away from the counter and turned back to the spaghetti sauce. “So should we forget about the farm for spring break?”
Tess held her breath while he mulled her question over in silence.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally said noncommittally as he snagged another cookie and headed toward his room.
Tess watched him disappear down the hall, her expression troubled. He hadn’t said no outright. Which was a good sign, she told herself encouragingly.
What wasn’t so good was his reaction to her relationship with Mitch. She’d felt him withdrawing as they discussed her “friendship” with the principal. And she couldn’t let that happen. Bruce needed to think of her as an ally, not a traitor. So until he made peace with Mitch, she needed to keep her distance. Make that if he made peace with Mitch, she corrected herself.
Tess sighed. She’d known all along that her feelings for Mitch could get her into trouble. Especially since the attraction appeared to be mutual.
Then again, she could be wrong. She didn’t have much experience in such things. And she hadn’t heard from him once since their trip to the farm, though her heart had skipped a beat every time the phone rang. Maybe he had been interested, but the attraction had waned during their weekend at the farm. Or more likely she’d just read more into his kindness than was intended. Chalk it up to the overreaction of a lonely woman starved for affection, she thought with a bittersweet pang.
Besides, if Mitch was attracted to her, things could get really complicated. It was better this way.
At least for Bruce.
Bruce wasn’t sure what had awakened him, but suddenly he was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling above him. Or at least in the direction of the ceiling. It was too dark to see anything. He turned and squinted at the illuminated dial of the clock on his nightstand. Two o’clock in the morning. That was weird. He never woke up in the middle of the night. Unless he was sick or something. But he felt fine.
With a shrug he flopped onto his back and closed his eyes. Better get back to sleep or he’d never make it through the American lit class tomorrow. Mrs. Bederman’s droning voice was a sure cure for insomnia, he thought with a sleepy grin, especially on Fridays. In fact, just last week Dan…
Suddenly his eyes flew open again. Now he knew what had awakened him. That low, moaning sound. From his mom’s bedroom. Cold fear gripped him, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed and took off at a run.
He stopped in front of her door, which was uncharacteristically shut, and knocked cautiously. “Mom?”
There was no response, but now he could hear the sound much more clearly. Something was really wrong. Without bothering to knock again, he pushed the door open. And that’s when he got really scared.
Tess was lying on her side, doubled up, gasping for breath. Her face was gray, her eyes were tightly closed and beads of sweat dotted her forehead.
“Mom?” He dropped down beside her and touched her shoulder, his voice laced with panic. “Mom?”
Her eyelids flickered open, and for a moment she seemed to have trouble focusing.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
Even through a fog of pain Tess could hear the fear in his voice. And though his face was hazy, the terror in his eyes was clear.
“I got sick…a couple of hours ago,” she gasped. “I didn’t want to…bother you, so I shut the door, but…the pain just keeps…getting worse.”
Bruce’s face drained of color. “What’s wrong?”
“I…don’t know.” She closed her eyes again and moaned.
“What should I do?”
No response. Bruce wasn’t sure if she’d even heard him. And if she had, she was too sick to give him any instructions.
Bruce stood and stared down at his mom. He’d seen her sick before. She’d had the flu last winter, in fact. But he’d never seen her like this. Something was really wrong. She needed help—fast.
Bruce ran to the kitchen, snatched up the phone and punched in 911. The woman on the other end took some preliminary information and assured him that an ambulance was on the way.
He raced back to Tess’s room, where he dropped down beside her and awkwardly laid his hand on her shoulder. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it would burst through his chest at any moment. “It will be okay, Mom,” he said, his voice quivering.
And for the first time in a long time he prayed.
The policeman laid his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Is there someone you can call? A family member?”
Bruce watched the paramedics carry his mom out on a stretcher. He’d never felt so alone in his life. “We don’t have any family. It’s just me and my mom.”
“How about a friend, then?”
A friend. He thought of the guys at school, and just as quickly dismissed them. They weren’t the kind of people you called in an emergency. He thought of Uncle Ray. But the older man was a long way away. He needed somebody now. Somebody who would know what to do in an emergency like this. Somebody you could count on to take care of things. Somebody you could trust.
His gaze suddenly fell on Mitch Jackson’s card, still thumbtacked to the message board in the kitchen. That was the last person he wanted to call.
But he knew with absolute certainty that Mitch Jackson was the right person to call.
Mitch didn’t like middle-of-the-night phone calls. Never had. They almost always spelled trouble.
So when the phone rang at twenty minutes past two in the morning, he was instantly awake.
“Yes.” His voice was clipped, terse.
Silence on the other end. He frowned, impatient now. “Hello?”
“Mr. Jackson? It—it’s Bruce Lockwood.”
The voice was high and tight, teetering on the edge of hysteria. He swung his feet over the side of his bed and reached for his shirt as a wave of fear coursed through him.
“Okay, Bruce, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.” It took every ounce of his self-control to modulate his voice, keep his own terror from showing.
A strangled sob. “My m-mom’s sick. I called 911 and the paramedics are taking her to the hospital.”
Mitch felt as if someone had kicked him in the gut. “Which hospital?”
Muffled voices while Bruce asked the policeman, then relayed the information to Mitch.
“That’s a fine hospital, Bruce. They’ll take good care of her. You ride with the paramedics, and I’ll meet you there. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
The line went dead. For a moment Mitch just sat there, numb. Tess seriously sick? It was inconceivable. She’d been fine at the farm. More than fine, in fact. Beautiful. Vivacious. And very, very desirable. That’s why he’d kept his distance since their return, though he’d lost track of the number of times he’d been tempted to reach for the phone and dial her number. And now she was in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.
Another surge of adrenaline shot through him, and he went into action. Pants. Wallet. Socks. Where were his socks? Forget the socks. Shoes. He was in the car in three minutes flat.
Bruce was in the waiting room when he arrived, a forlorn figure huddled in a straight chair, who looked as scared as he’d sounded. For the first time in their relations
hip the boy actually seemed happy to see him.
Mitch strode toward him and instinctively placed a hand on his thin, trembling shoulder.
“You okay?” His voice was gentle.
“Yeah.”
“Has anyone talked to you yet?”
“Only to ask about insurance.”
Mitch bit back a curse. There was something wrong with a health-care system that would ask a scared kid about insurance in the middle of the night. “Okay. Sit tight. I’ll find out how your mom is doing.”
In five minutes Mitch had his answer. Appendicitis. They were running some tests to verify the preliminary diagnosis, but given the symptoms, the doctors were 99 percent sure. Their biggest concern was removing it before it ruptured. Tess had already authorized surgery, and they were prepping her now. They’d do laparoscopy if possible, to minimize postoperative pain and recovery, but they wouldn’t know for sure if that was feasible until they got a look at the appendix.
Mitch relayed all this to Bruce when he rejoined him in the waiting room. He didn’t minimize the problem, but neither did he make it sound like life or death.
“So will she be okay?” Bruce asked anxiously when Mitch finished.
“I’m sure she will,” he replied honestly. “But depending on which kind of surgery they do, she could be pretty sore for a while. She’ll need some help with day-to-day things.”
“I can help her.”
“I know you can.”
Mitch didn’t add that she’d need more help than a fourteen-year-old boy could provide. There would be time for that later. First they needed to get past the surgery.
They didn’t talk much while they waited. Mitch got them both a soda at one point, but Bruce refused food. Mitch could understand that. His own stomach was roiling. Hospitals always did that to him. They simply sat there, together. And that was enough.
Three hours later, it was over. Fortunately the more minor, less invasive surgery had been possible. The doctor, still dressed in his surgical garb, told this to Bruce and Mitch just as the morning light was beginning to touch the horizon through the window.