Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  Please tell me how to help her.

  - + -

  It wasn’t so hard to breathe now. It felt like he really didn’t need to; it was more like swimming. Going down deep. Like when Drew wore his fins in their grandmother’s pool, and his brother had to stay on top because he had those blow-up things on his arms. Drew would dive down and pretend he was a shark. Shoot up top and make Eli laugh. Yank on his swimsuit and make him shout, “Quit! I’m gonna tell!” He never did, though. They never tattled. They were a team. And they made a promise that they’d always stick together.

  Drew shivered, and his teeth made noises like Grandma’s poodle on the tile floor when its toenails were too long. He was cold. Not because of the swimming. The swimming felt warm. He was cold because Eli had washed his hair with those towels. But now . . . Drew turned his head as best he could. The mask poked against his eye. He could still see his brother anyway. Asleep right next to him. Right underneath Emma’s drawing . . . and the cross. Jesus liked water too. He didn’t need blow-up arm things or fins. He could walk on water. Maybe Drew could learn that.

  The shivers were gone. He was swimming again in the warm water. It was funny—he could use both of his arms and legs. Like they were new. Nothing hurt. And his music was there, right in the water. All around him. Maybe even inside him, sweet . . . warm. Better than blueberry pancakes. He didn’t need to breathe, but he could sing . . . all the words about lambs and love and glory.

  There was light now. So much light. And—Drew smiled—rainbows, rainbows everywhere. Emma would love it. . . .

  - + -

  Eli thrashed, fought the blankets, and then jerked to a sitting position in the chair. Awake, drenched in sweat, and confused. He’d dreamed he was drowning and—

  No.

  “Drew!”

  Eli freed himself from the recliner and hunched over the bed. “Breathe, Champ—take a breath!” He grasped his brother’s shoulder, shook him, holding his own breath. The mask was delivering oxygen, but there was no fogging from respirations, no movement of Drew’s chest.

  “Florine, Vee!” he shouted, pressing his fingers under his brother’s jaw. Please, let me find a pulse. Please . . . “Breathe, Drew. Breathe for me!”

  They were there in seconds, and in half that time he sent Vee to get the portable suction and the Ambu bag. Eli’s knees went weak when Drew’s eyelids flickered and he drew a raspy breath at last. He’d looked peaceful, like he was sleeping, but the flush from the fever had been replaced by a waxy pallor.

  “I checked on him not fifteen minutes ago,” Florine said, attaching the blood pressure cuff to Drew’s arm. “His temp was down to 100, and he looked comfortable. His pulse ox reading hadn’t changed. I didn’t want to disturb him for anything more.”

  “It’s okay,” Eli assured her quickly. “He’s done this before. Gone down the tubes really fast. Respiratory acidosis. It’s what happened last Christmas.” Saying it, he expected the familiar rush of anger and frustration. Images of Drew tied to the bed with an ET tube shoved down his throat. But all that came to mind was Emma . . . the Nativity picture she’d had that janitor tape over Drew’s bed. Her prayers. And her hope that her uncle would live.

  “Here.” Vee handed him the Ambu bag, moved to connect it to the portable oxygen tank.

  “I’ve got the suction ready,” Florine reported. Her gaze rose to Emma’s Palm Sunday cross, her lips moving. Eli had no doubt she was praying.

  “I’m here too,” Cyril reported from the doorway. His rumpled appearance said he’d slept even less than Eli. “I’m not medical, but I’ve got two good hands. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it my best.”

  “Thanks,” Eli told them. “I’m going to prime his breathing with this bag. Try to blow off some of that CO2. Then see if we can get him going enough to pull in another respiratory—”

  “I’m getting the albuterol,” Florine anticipated, already moving to the doorway.

  Eli fitted the Ambu mask over Drew’s face, gave the bag a first oxygen-rich squeeze. His brother’s dark eyes opened, searching for his. “I’m helping you breathe, Champ. The same way you helped me . . . with so many things. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. We’ll play your music and I’ll squeeze this bag. You’ll feel better . . . and so will I.”

  He did as he promised, the rhythm of the Ambu bag matching the music beat for beat, in the same strange way the fever sponging had. Eli watched his brother’s face and remembered the time the roles had been reversed. When, like in his nightmare, he’d been drowning in the Gulf of Mexico. And Drew dived in. Dived deep and pushed him to the surface of the water. Allowing him to breathe while putting himself at risk. And then Eli thought of last night’s desperate moment, when he’d stood beside that raging water, feeling helpless to save his child. Knowing he’d failed to keep her safe. His father must have felt exactly the same way when his sons were in that storm-swept ocean.

  “Thank you,” Eli told Florine as she handed him the aerosol treatment. “I’m going to bag him a little longer, and then I’ll see if we can get this medication into his lungs.” Eli drew a slow breath, watching his brother’s face. “Meanwhile, call 911. Tell them to get that chopper here, stat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They hurried away, Cyril to secure a landing spot, Vee and Florine to make the arrangements for transport. Eli was left squeezing oxygen into his brother’s lungs. And feeling a need he’d denied for far too long.

  “Please, God,” he prayed in a thick whisper. “You know I’ve doubted you. Blamed you, even. But I need your help now. For my brother. And for me. I’m tired, and I need this long storm to end. I need peace. I know you’re the only one who can do that. I’m putting this in your hands now.”

  LAUREN CHECKED THE COFFEEPOT, then glanced around the living room, satisfied it was reasonably tidy. Morning sun filtered through the balcony doors, a narrow shaft of light landing square on the sleeping Hannah Leigh’s furry behind. Sun and just enough rain in the clouds to make . . . Lauren smiled. She’d seen it when she carried her coffee onto the balcony half an hour ago: a rainbow among the remaining clouds. Pale, like a watercolor painted with a too-soggy brush, but there it was. A hopeful banner of color. She’d take that.

  The sound of the hair dryer in the distance stopped. She’d insisted Jess take the bedroom for the rest of the night, telling her it would be more comfortable—telling herself it wasn’t so that she could guard the balcony door. Lauren took the sofa bed, but she hadn’t slept. She’d spent the hours before dawn petting Hannah and praying for answers. Then certainty finally came, like that pale rainbow. Thank you, Lord.

  Her pulse quickened as Jess ambled into the room, yawning.

  “I smell coffee,” she said, hiking up the waistband of Lauren’s old jogging capris. The matching hoodie’s long sleeves reached her fingertips.

  “Full pot. Powdered creamer on the counter,” Lauren offered and watched her sister move toward the kitchen. She looked at least somewhat rested. “Fridge is pretty bare, so I ordered some breakfast.”

  “Delivered breakfast?” Jess blew on her coffee. “I didn’t think you could do that.”

  Lauren smiled. “I have my ways.” She patted the couch. “Bring your coffee over here. I’ve been doing some thinking about those things we talked about.”

  “Me too.” Jess sat beside her, took a long sip of her coffee, and groaned with pleasure. “Ah, caffeine. I needed you.”

  “You were thinking?” Lauren prompted.

  “Right. About that problem with Mrs. Humphries’s meds. First, the point is that they were outdated. Expired prescriptions. The pharmacy had already been called to come get them for disposal.” She shrugged. “Basically, when you look at it, you might say I was doing a kind of service.”

  Lauren told herself that pointing out the flawed logic would be counterproductive.

  “And,” Jess continued, “everyone already thinks that Gayle took them. I mean, it’s the least of her wor
ries now, considering. Everything’s probably going to be blamed on her thyroid condition anyway. So I thought, why not leave it like that? It seems like a perfect solution.”

  Ah, Jess . . . Lauren’s heart lugged as she remembered the ICU conversation with Gayle about Mrs. Humphries’s meds. Gayle told her not to worry, that she’d “never do something like that.” She hadn’t.

  “Because,” Jess finished, “I’ve got to keep my job if I ever hope to get my own apartment again. And—”

  “You told me you don’t want to feel the way you’ve been feeling,” Lauren interrupted. It was time to do what she had to do. “You said you’d talked to Darcee about bipolar disorder, that you understood those highs and lows. You said . . . you said you understood thoughts of suicide. You’ve cut yourself because it’s less painful than how you’re feeling inside. You said you feel like you’re drowning, and you can’t make it go away this time.”

  “I was tired, that’s all.”

  “You need help, Jess.”

  “Don’t.” Jess set her coffee down. “Don’t get all preachy on me. I really can’t handle that today. I’m fine. Storm’s over; we all survived. End of story.” Her eyes met Lauren’s. “All I’m asking is that you help me out. Like you always have. Cover for me on that one stupid mistake. You want Mom and Dad to find out? Do you really want to wreck my chances of getting into nursing—?”

  “You’re not ready.”

  “What?”

  Lauren forced herself to imagine twelve-year-old Vee raising a gun in that foul, hellish darkness. And Cyril’s wise words: “I don’t expect God to fill the sandbags.”

  “You’re not ready for nursing school, Jess. Not yet. You need to get healthy first. I’ll handle things with our parents; don’t worry about that. This is the way I’m going to help you now. Because . . .” Lauren’s voice cracked. “I love you with all my heart. I can’t stand by and watch you suffer. Yes, I’m praying for you. But I’m also going to see to it that we tackle these problems on all fronts.”

  The doorbell rang. Followed by a knock.

  “Breakfast.” Lauren managed to stand despite her weak knees.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I am.”

  Stay with us, Lord. . . .

  Lauren opened the door, and Fletcher stepped in. Street clothes, shadow of a beard, food boxes in both hands.

  “Somebody order breakfast burritos?”

  “I told her I wasn’t hungry.” Jess crossed her arms. “Just tell my sister to butt out, Fletcher.”

  “No can do.” Fletcher stepped aside so that Angela could come in.

  “Good morning, Jessica.”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake, what is this?” Jess shot Lauren a look.

  “Breakfast. With people who care about you.” Lauren walked back, settled on the ottoman, and reached for her hand. “We only want to talk, to toss some ideas around. See what we can come up with—all four of us—to help you start feeling better. Will you do that?”

  “I . . . I can’t believe this. . . .”

  Lauren squeezed her sister’s fingers. “It’s time, honey.”

  Jess shut her eyes for a moment, as if by doing it she could make them all go away. Her shoulders rose and fell with her deep sigh. She opened her eyes. Then lifted one brow. “You have bacon in there, Fletcher?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Enough for five—including Hannah Leigh.”

  “Good.” Tears filled Jess’s eyes. “I think this is going to take more than a cupcake.”

  Lauren leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her sister. Then raised her gaze toward the ceiling. There might have been bacon for five, but Lauren had no doubt there were six at this meal. And hope enough for all.

  - + -

  “Come here.” Eli gathered Emma into his arms in the Memorial Hospital intensive care waiting room. “I can’t get enough of you, my brave little girl.” She smelled of shampoo, Cheerios, and blind Newfoundland. He’d never inhaled anything so wonderful.

  “Did you really come here in a helicopter?”

  “I did.”

  The enormity of it all, especially the peace Eli felt now, struck him again as his daughter’s arms circled his neck. “Your uncle and I were up there in the clouds like a couple of action-movie heroes. He wanted to fly the chopper himself, but I said I knew he’d hijack us to Disneyland. I told him that Mickey Mouse would have to wait until he was rested up.”

  Emma’s giggle tickled his ear; then she leaned back, her expression serious now. “He’s going to be okay, Daddy.”

  “I hope so.” The word rolled off Eli’s tongue with surprising ease.

  “We’ve been praying. Grams and me and Shrek.” Her eyes could have been a poster for the word hope. “God’s hands are big. He’s got it covered.”

  “I believe that,” Eli managed around the rising lump in his throat. He touched a fingertip to her nose. “Wise on top of brave; that’s my girl.”

  “You betcha.” She tilted her head. “I heard Yonner tell Grams that you saved Uncle Drew’s life at Mimaw’s. I think he was crying when he said it. Is it true?”

  The lump was threatening to choke him. “Well . . . I had lots of help.”

  “Emma?” Eli’s mother beckoned from the doorway; she was smiling, though her eyes were still puffy from crying. “Let’s go find some juice. Yonner wants to talk with your daddy for a minute.”

  Here we go. . . . Eli took a deep breath, reminded himself that he was prepared for anything. He was going to trust for the best and keep a grip on this new sense of peace, no matter what.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Elijah.” His father looked like he’d been awake half the night too. Beat, far beyond any fatigue. “Your brother is opening his eyes more now,” he reported, glancing toward the hallway and then back at Eli. “They think maybe they can turn things around with that Bi . . .”

  “BiPAP.”

  “Yes. And maybe not have to do the tube.” His father cleared his throat. “I told them we’d feel better if that didn’t happen again. Not unless it was a short-term measure and the outcome looked promising.” He met Eli’s gaze. “I told the doctors in charge of your brother’s care that we would all sit down and talk about making the advance directive more specific.”

  Emma had been right, because tears were gathering in the judge’s eyes now.

  “I said we want comfort and mercy for Drew,” he continued. “And for all of us.”

  “Dad . . .” Eli’s voice caught.

  “Let me get this out, please.” His father took a breath. “After we got Emma back last night, I couldn’t sleep. I poured myself a stiff drink. And then I poured it out. I thought about my granddaughter, curled up in that bathtub with a tornado tearing the roof off. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d trusted me to pick her up from that party—if I hadn’t made it blasted impossible to trust me.” He rested his hand on Eli’s shoulder, steadying himself as though his knees might buckle. “And then I thought about that day when I took you and your brother fishing.”

  Eli wasn’t so sure about his own knees.

  “I thought about your mother telling me not to take a chance in the storm. I asked myself, what kind of father does that? Takes a risk with his children’s lives?” He shook his head. “And then . . . after all these painful years, bars one son from seeing the other. What kind of man chases his son down the driveway with a shotgun?”

  Eli closed his eyes. Please, God . . . be here.

  “And I answered myself, Eli.” A tear coursed down his father’s cheek. “An irresponsible, arrogant fool of a man. A judge playing God. I’ve been hanging on to Drew any way I could, no matter how he or your mother or you or Emma suffered for it. I’ve held on because letting him die would prove the truth once and for all: I killed my boy.”

  “Dad . . .” Eli swallowed against a rush of tears.

  “I am proud of you, Son,” his father continued, his hand beginning to tremble on Eli’s shoulder. “I always have been. I have n
o excuses for the way I’ve treated you. I guess I was afraid you could see through me, see everything I wouldn’t let myself see all these years. You’ve been the responsible one, Eli. You’ve been the man, the father, I never was.”

  “Not always, sir. I’ve made more than my fair share of mistakes.”

  His father smiled, squeezed Eli’s shoulder. “This is where your mother would pop in and say something about grace. She does that.”

  “Emma too.” He smiled back at his father. “We get it in stereo.”

  “That we do. And more.” The judge shook his head. “Your mother read me the riot act this morning. All but pointed my bird gun to get me to sit down and listen. She made me promise I’d extend my sabbatical into a medical leave of absence. Get some problems straightened out.”

  Relief washed over Eli. “Go, Mom Landry.”

  “So . . .” His father sighed.

  “So you’ll have more time for Emma. She misses having all of us together, and . . . I do too.” Eli’s voice fell to a whisper. “I love you, Dad.”

  “Eli . . .” His father clapped him on the shoulder, then pulled him into a tight bear hug for the first time in far too long. “I love you too, Son.”

  LAUREN STARED UPWARD. The new roof was under way. Or would be, once the last of the shingles were pulled off. Those that hadn’t blown across the neighborhood, into swimming pools, and onto the playground of her grammar school. One had apparently been wedged in the top of the monkey bars like a flag. She’d heard countless stories of Barclay shingle sightings. Glorietta’s baby tornado had been confirmed. Their house had been the worst hit—but then, the roof had been easy pickings.

  Her father decided to go with a standing-seam metal variety this time. More resistant to hail, wind, fire, and freezing—not that he was expecting many frozen days in Houston. But post-tornado, he wasn’t taking any chances. He wasn’t willing to put bolt holes in that new roof either. So Pamela Barclay intended to make a weather vane wall display once the family room remodel was complete. She’d also decided that pink was passé and was leaning toward a cocoa-brown-and-turquoise color scheme. And she wasn’t entirely sure she was going to replace all the weather equipment. She’d been a little embarrassed that she’d boasted about all those alerts and preparedness supplies . . . under a roof the contractor said could have fallen in from the vibration of her Zumba DVD. Mom was rethinking things. And of course, much of their time—and Lauren’s—was spent supporting Jess.