“Anyway,” Gayle finished, “I only wanted to say that I’m proud to work alongside you all. You’re dedicated and caring. No better team exists. If there’s anything I can do to help you with this situation or anything else, please let me know.” She glanced at her watch, felt her pulse quicken. “I’m afraid I need to get to an appointment. Thank you, Lauren. This was good of you.”
Lauren cleared her throat. “No problem.”
- + -
“I’m sorry,” Eli apologized, certain that the older woman—tall and slender with graying auburn hair—had to be Darcee Grafton’s mother. He glanced toward the bed. The trauma patient was nearly hidden beneath a plastic-and-wire web of machinery. “I didn’t know she had a visitor.”
“It’s all right.” The woman set a small book on the bedside table and walked forward, extending her hand. “I’m Marsha Grafton. Darcee’s mother.”
“Elijah Landry—Eli,” he told her. “I’m a physician assistant in the urgent care. I examined your daughter when she was brought in.”
“By the police.”
“Only as a courtesy,” Eli reassured. Something in Marsha’s expression said an arrest wouldn’t have been a surprise.
“She was dancing.” Marsha glanced at her daughter.
“Yes.”
From her tone, Eli had a strong sense that this was history repeating itself. He had a sudden urge to run from the ICU before this mother calmly informed him that she was certain her daughter had jumped from the roof. Because she’d attempted suicide a dozen times before. Instead, she turned back to Eli with what could only be a proud smile.
“Darcee’s creative,” she told him. “From forever back. She finger-painted with the Sunday gravy, tattooed her sleeping grandmother with permanent markers, wrote a gossip column about the neighborhood.” She clucked her tongue. “Not well received. Her father and I called Darcee our Energizer Bunny; she never ran out of ideas. Or zeal. When she was a child, she charmed the pants off everyone. When she got older, it started to worry us.” Marsha’s expression grew more wistful. “Her friends made plans. College, careers . . . family. Darcee seemed detached from all of that. She got angry, resentful, alarmingly irresponsible, then depressed. That was the worst. People call it ‘the blues,’ but that’s not enough. Not even the right color. It’s so much darker. More like black.” Marsha drew a slow breath. “To see your child in those depths is like the world before there was light.”
“She was on medicine,” Eli said gently. “For bipolar disorder.”
“Several medicines over the past few years. This last one—the one that’s also used for seizures—has been the best. It evens things out. When she takes it. That’s the problem, taking it. Darcee thinks medicine dulls her creativity, ‘snuffs her spark.’ She’s a dance teacher; there’s a waiting list for her classes. She performs in local theater, paints. Sells her work. A lot of it—she’s very talented.” Marsha shook her head. “But she always thinks she could do better. Be more. She misses the creative high she feels when her mood would swing her that way.”
Eli thought of Darcee on that rooftop. A two-story, lethal high.
“It’s a frustrating, elusive illness . . . and it destroyed Darcee’s marriage,” Marsha continued. “But I’ve seen her taking huge strides forward since, long stretches of time where I almost forget how bad things can get. She’s been happy, enjoying her life, her daughter, friends. And now this happens. . . .”
Eli wished he could offer this woman hope that her daughter would survive fully intact, but he didn’t believe it was there. Not after Drew. These days he would settle for simple mercy, and even that seemed impossible to find.
“But,” Marsha added, certainty in her expression, “there was a small response today when they lightened the sedation. It only looked like flinches to me, but the doctor called it an ‘appropriate response to stimuli’ that hints at brain recovery. I’m hanging on to that. My sister was diagnosed bipolar years ago, and she’s living a full and satisfying life—she’s a research biologist for St. Jude Children’s Hospital.” Marsha’s smile lit her face, making the resemblance to Darcee even more obvious. “I may not be a scientist or a dancer or an artist, but I’m a stubborn woman with big faith. That’s my ‘spark.’ And I believe to the depths of my soul that all things are possible.”
“Well . . .” Eli couldn’t think of anything to say, so he offered his hand to say good-bye.
“Thank you.” Marsha surprised him with a warm hug. “Thank you for caring about my little girl. I’m going to keep you in my prayers, Elijah Landry. You and your family.”
My family. This poor woman had no idea that there weren’t prayers strong enough to fix any of this. Eli took one last glance at Darcee, then beat a hasty retreat from the ICU.
He’d made it to the second-floor stairwell when his phone buzzed with a text. Eli pulled it from his coat pocket, certain the urgent care staff was getting antsy for his return.
Impossible . . . He stared, read the message a second time. And grinned.
- + -
“I was bummed I couldn’t get to the chapel,” Vee told Lauren, drizzling salsa over her remaining nachos. “That new ortho resident thinks every cast has to be a masterpiece. Michelangelo carved David faster. With less mess; I have plaster in my hair.” She nibbled at a tortilla chip. “How was it—the staff gathering?”
“Good.” Lauren glanced toward the doors to the patio, thinking of what the housekeeper had said about not wanting to eat in the cafeteria anymore. There were definitely fewer people at the tables. “Social services sent the brochures about coping with stress. And the chaplain stopped by. There were maybe a dozen people from several departments.”
“Gayle thought it was a good idea.”
“Hmm.” Lauren bit her lip before she could say what she thought of Gayle’s idea to reveal Jess’s visit to the second floor. Granted, Gayle hadn’t used her sister’s name, but the registration clerk would know who she meant. The remark had surprised Lauren; it felt out of character and insensitive. Jess had come to the hospital on her day off because she was worried about a patient. She didn’t need to be pointed out as an example of traumatic stress.
“I heard Darcee showed some appropriate responses when they backed her off sedation this morning.”
“Yes. Her mother was there. With the baby. She got permission to bring her in for a little while. She’s fourteen months.” Lauren sighed, thinking of Emma Landry and her uncle. How did you explain something like that to a child? “Darcee’s response was only to painful stimuli, but at least that’s something.”
“A beginning. Hope.” Vee smiled. “I saw the mother in the chapel on my way down—” She stopped. “Excuse me a second.” She pulled out her cell phone and scanned the screen. Then frowned.
“Something wrong?”
“It was Bella. You know her—the tech who works per diem. Her wallet is missing. Security’s on it.”
“Not another—” Lauren’s heart stalled. “Where was Bella working? Which floor?”
“Second.”
Lauren fought a wave of nausea, remembering Gayle’s reference to Jess’s visit.
“Bella said she left it in the break room. She ran back to get it, and it was gone.”
She wasn’t going to ask. There was no reason to worry about—“How long ago was that?”
“Sounds like only a few minutes ago.”
“Oh . . .” The rush of relief made Lauren dizzy. “Poor Bella. Awful feeling.”
“I’m betting it turns up.” Vee gathered up her trash and stood. “I love Bella. But she always makes me think of something my auntie would say: ‘That girl would lose her head if it wasn’t glued on permanent.’” She rolled her eyes. “I’m going back a few minutes early. I need to check the vacation schedule.”
“I’ll probably stop by the ER on my way out. See you there.”
Vee tossed her a mock salute and headed off.
Lauren glanced toward the patio, then leaned
back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Rotten timing. Jess had always had an unlucky habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thank heaven the wallet had gone missing hours after she left the hospital. Gayle had all but announced over the PA system that Jess was hanging around. Someone certainly would have recalled that she “disappeared” the night Darcee Grafton was admitted and that there’d been a theft on the second floor then, too. Lauren remembered the tears in her sister’s eyes the times she’d talked about the young trauma victim. And her defense of that visit to the ICU today: “Is it some kind of crime to check on a patient?”
No. Caring was not a crime. And Lauren wasn’t about to let anyone imply—
“Hi.”
Lauren’s eyes snapped open. “Oh . . .”
Eli’s lips quirked very slightly. “With your eyes closed like that, I thought maybe I should check for a pulse. Or get you some caffeine.”
“DID YOU NEED SOMETHING?” Lauren asked Eli. She looked wary—blue eyes filled with suspicion, a flush high on her cheeks. Obviously she was a million miles from trusting Eli. With anything. And not too keen on conversation, either.
“I was coming out of the ICU, and I got a text message,” he explained. “I thought you might like to see it.”
“A text?” Lauren’s wariness morphed into confusion.
“Here.” He sat down and pulled the phone from his jacket. “I didn’t believe it at first, but . . .” Eli opened the message, held it out for Lauren to see. His chest warmed at her incredulous and delighted smile.
“‘Hi brother. Ate pancakes. Love u.’” Lauren pressed a hand to her throat. “It’s from Drew.”
Their eyes met. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
“But how did he do that?”
“I called to ask. One of the staff, Florine, helped him use an iPad. Big font, one thumb—it took a while. She even set up that e-mail address for him.”
“‘Champ Landry.’” Lauren smiled. “I saw that.”
“We’ve tried a laptop before, hit or miss. He’d get bored or frustrated. But he did do it. Until this last year . . . It’s been a rough year.”
“Drew seems to like staying with the Viettes. How did you decide on their place?”
Eli gave a short laugh. “It was weird. I’ve never had any real input regarding my brother’s care, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t have a clue how to choose a care home. I talked to Vee, visited the place once. Our grandmother in Baton Rouge—Dad’s mother—was named Marie. We called her Mimaw. I think I picked the Viettes’ place for the name. And the promise of those pancakes.” He shook his head, still baffled. “But yeah, he seems to like it there.”
“And you . . . got a text message.”
Eli decided Lauren’s smile should be bottled. “Yes, and—oh, I forgot. When I talked to Florine, she said something about a party on Sunday. And Drew really wants me to be there. Do you know anything about that?”
“It’s a Mardi Gras party.” Lauren raised her palm. “I know, I know. Long story, but it was postponed. Now the Viettes have an itch to do it. I’ve heard rumors of gumbo and costumes and king cake. If Poppy’s discharged from the hospital in time, I have no doubt he’ll be playing the washboard.” Her expression clouded. “Anyway, yes, Sunday.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She’d glanced away, the beautiful smile erased. Eli would bet she was thinking about the tense words they’d shared during Poppy’s resuscitation. She’d assumed he would question the order, make some judgment about the elderly man’s right to aggressive medical intervention. He had no intention of doing that. This wasn’t about Poppy, Darcee Grafton, or some long-range moral agenda. This was about Drew—only him. It was about his brother never spending another Christmas the way he had last year. But no one got it. Lauren included. Still, Eli was glad he’d shown her Drew’s text; he’d needed that smile.
“Are you going?” he heard himself ask.
“Yes,” Lauren said, gathering up the napkins and a few stray bits of lettuce. “Jess is at home, sick. I’d better go see if she needs anything.”
“I meant the party. Will you be there?”
When she met his gaze, Eli realized he was holding his breath.
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
- + -
“Just sleepy. It’s the cold medicine,” Jess mumbled, squinting at Lauren from the weather room couch. The room’s only meager light came from the TV, its audio muted now. The window shutters had been closed tight as if the world wasn’t welcome inside.
It wasn’t a good sign; Jess had holed up in her apartment for days before she took off for Corpus Christi with those sleeping pills. But this time she was sick with a sore throat. So . . .
“You know. That awful stuff Mom buys in a gallon jug from Costco.” Jess pulled her legs up, hugging her knees, long thermal shirtsleeves around plaid flannel pj bottoms. A Band-Aid fell from her bare foot to the pink carpet. “The stuff always makes me groggy.”
And slurred? Was her voice slurred? Had she been drinking? No, there wasn’t any liquor in the house. The Barclays didn’t drink. But . . . Dad kept a bottle of brandy up high on the pantry shelf, dutifully trotting it out at Christmas and setting it alongside the Corsicana fruitcake. In case guests wanted a little “ho-ho-ho” in their eggnog. Lauren hoped she was wrong, but her sister’s bleary eyes looked less like Costco and more like a few jiggers of Santa’s belly laugh.
“How’s the throat?” she asked, sinking onto the ottoman; Hannah Leigh had a firm stake on the comfy armchair. “Any better?”
Jess shrugged, swept her fingers through her tousled hair. “I’ll live.”
And keep your job? Pass that class? Have even a chance at getting into nursing school?
Lauren gritted her teeth against a familiar snarl of worry and exasperation. As strongly as she’d wanted to wrap her arms around Jess in that parking lot today, she now had an urge to switch off the TV, fling open the shutters, take her sister by the shoulders, and shake her. Tell Jess she was the reason Lauren had put her own life on hold. It was her inability to get herself together that made their mother a hovering wreck and their father a stroke victim.
“Did you hear anything about Darcee?” Jess hugged a pillow to her chest. Her expression was solemn, eyes as droopy-sad as Eeyore’s.
“She’s showing small signs of improvement.” Jess hadn’t even asked about their aunt in Colorado, and yet she seemed compelled to check on this near stranger. “They lightened her sedation to do neuro checks, and Darcee showed some appropriate response.”
“To what?”
“Pain. There are ways to test that,” Lauren explained. “Things like applying pressure to a fingernail, squeezing the top of the shoulder. Not enough to injure, but strong enough to cause a groan, a grimace, make the patient open her eyes or try to pull away. Darcee has bone fractures, so caring for her—moving her as needed—has to hurt. She’s started reacting to that, too. It’s another positive sign.” Lauren sighed. “Harsh as it sounds, showing a response to pain is important.”
Jess hugged the pillow closer. “So pain . . . is good.”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far, but sometimes it’s a reason for hope.”
“Hmm.” Jess sat quietly for a few moments, her gaze on the silenced TV. A weather segment. The eager young reporter wore a polka-dot blouse and a brilliant smile, her arms swooping in muted mime across a rainbow-color map of the Gulf of Mexico.
“Well . . .” Jess stood, swaying slightly as she hitched up the low-slung pajama bottoms. “I’m going to bed. Work tomorrow.” She pointed toward the TV, polka dots moving frantically over the rainbow. “Glorietta is approaching hurricane status. But don’t wake me up unless she’s at least a cat-2. And our roof caves in.”
“Deal.” Lauren stopped herself from asking if Jess had eaten anything. Then on impulse caught her hand as she limped by. “Hey . . . I put a new tube of Neosporin in the bathroom for those blisters. And . . .” She smi
led at her sister, gave her fingers a warm squeeze. “I love you, kiddo.”
“Me too.” Jess’s lips curved in a rueful smile. She slid her hand away. “Careful, Lolo. You don’t want to catch what I’ve got.”
“I’d risk it. Sleep tight.”
Lauren watched her sister leave, trying to remember the last time Jess looked happy. Truly happy. Not the giddy I’ve-been-running-the-beach high from last week. Or that giggling, gleeful unveiling of her one-woman all-night apartment-painting project last year: garish pink and lavender kitchen cabinets. None of that showed soul-deep happiness. None of it erased Lauren’s continuing worry. But at least Jess had shown no dangerous signs of depression since Lauren had come home from Austin. Not like before.
Lauren’s phone buzzed with a text: Vee.
Bella forgot wallet in lavatory. Good thing head glued on permanent.
Lauren sighed, grateful that drama was squelched. Now, if only . . .
She headed into the hallway and glanced at Jess’s closed door before walking to the kitchen. Then opened the pantry door, pulled the dangling chain for the lightbulb, and scooted the stepladder into place. She climbed high enough to reach the top shelf. Felt around the Christmas candles, searching for that seasonal bottle of ho-ho-ho.
It was there.
She pulled it down.
Dusty. And as full as it had been last Christmas.
Lauren’s breath escaped in a whoosh. Her sister was okay. She’d make up her schoolwork; she always did. Tomorrow she’d be at Houston Grace. Maybe Jess wasn’t completely happy yet, but still . . .
Lauren hopped down from the ladder and snagged a box of cinnamon grahams. Happy was a relative term. It’s not like she had a big claim on happiness herself. She slid a cracker from the package and bit in, sugar and crumbs speckling her chin. Then she squinted in the dim-lit pantry, trying to think of the few people she knew who were truly happy. Her parents, married thirty years next fall. Kate Callison in Austin, soon to be a bride. Even Vee Viette, who, despite her struggles, seemed so very much at peace. That had to feel good. Lauren smiled, thinking of Emma Landry. Even at her tender age, she looked pretty happy hugging that blind bear of a dog, singing her heart out about the hope of tomorrow . . . and sharing rainbows with her beloved uncle, who, just today, sent that impossible text:
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