Had he survived? Was he out of harm's way?
Horrible images crashed through her brain as the world tumbled down around a man she thought she hated. More than a small spark of thanksgiving lit her soul when Addie called with news that Conor was alive and holed up in a building not far from the toppled World Trade Centers.
She’d felt almost guilty that he’d lived while others died, that she’d celebrated his escape in her heart when she didn’t even like him all that much. But her girls did, and that was reason enough. Wasn’t it?
Rushing toward his hotel now, she wondered why she never realized how hard it must be have been for those who lived to return to the financial centers day after day, watching the ever-present rise of dust, seeing the workers move like well-orchestrated ants, clearing debris. Had she ever put herself in Conor’s shoes, fully considering the effect such a thing might have on him? No. Because he was Conor, the invincible. She felt her stupid-o-meter rise notably with the realization. What a dolt.
Once she pulled up in front of the first-rate hotel, she parked the car, pushed through the front doors, and had the surprised and somewhat suspicious desk clerk call Conor’s room. The room phone sat near the bed. Surely its intrusive ring would wake him.
No answer, still.
Citing Conor’s illness, she talked the clerk into accompanying her upstairs with a key.
Dread filled her when Conor didn’t answer the knock on the door. The clerk’s expression showed mixed feelings, but he applied the slide key and swung the door open at her insistence, a quality Conor had never found endearing. If he were conscious, no, slash that, alive, he might be a little bit grateful for her persistence tonight.
Conor’s strained breathing spurred their instant action once inside. “Call an ambulance,” Alicia ordered the clerk, motioning to the phone. “Tell them to hurry.”
She moved to Conor’s side, hands gentle, heart racing. His gray pallor and raging temperature told her he was beyond any influenza she’d ever seen.
The next hours passed in a flurry of activity followed by more than enough time to beat herself up over her choices. Why hadn’t she stayed with him? She saw how sick he was, how he collapsed onto that bed, so unlike Conor. If she’d stayed she could have gotten help sooner, had him in professional care in a more timely fashion, but no. She’d gone home to her perfect house on her perfect street, curled up and gone to sleep while both Conor and the poor dog fought for their lives. What kind of woman was she?
By the time Kim arrived at the hospital, Alicia had thrashed herself fairly well.
“How is he?” Kim asked, hurrying toward her mother, her coat draped over one arm, her scarf trailing unnoticed along the floor.
Alicia waved a hand and shook her head. “Not good. On top of that, they won’t let me see him.”
Kim stared at her, her expression blank. “Because?”
“I’m not family.”
“And?” Kim’s look said she still didn’t quite get the drift.
Alicia glared. “And they should, that’s all. He’s got pneumonia.”
Kim gave her a look of disbelief. “Pneumonia? And he’s this sick?”
“I know.” Alicia slapped a hand to the back of a vinyl chair. “It doesn’t make any sense. Your father’s got the constitution of an iron horse, there’s no way something like pneumonia would get him down.”
“Pneumonia.” Kim rolled the word like a well-played tune, then stood. “Where’s his doctor?”
“In the room. Why?”
“This way?” She pointed through the locked double doors of the ICU.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Montoya. Why, Kim?” Alicia stood, concerned by the expression on Kim’s face. Kim took two strides and hit the intercom button with singular force.
“Yes?”
“This is Kimberly Bradstreet. I need to speak with Dr. Montoya, STAT.”
“Are you a relative of the patient?”
Alicia watched Kim’s eyes narrow in a look she recognized from her own mirror. It made her proud.
“I’m his daughter and next of kin and I need to talk to the doctor now.”
“Kim, I...”
“Mom.” Kim turned away from the intercom and held up a hand. “One of Dad’s workers got diagnosed with Legionnaire’s disease on Friday, then another one was hospitalized last night with similar symptoms. Dad was at their worksite on Tuesday, and had lunch with them.”
Alicia heard Kim’s words but made no sense of them. “Worksite? He had lunch with the workers? Kim, what are you talking about?”
The doctor banged through the door, looking short on sleep. He glared at Alicia as if she were personally responsible for Conor’s condition and medicine’s inability to lessen the 106.2 fever wracking Conor’s body. His look shifted from her to Kim. “What is this about?”
Kim stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Conor Bradstreet’s daughter, Kim. I work for him. On one of his current projects we’ve had two workers hospitalized this week with similar life-threatening symptoms. The first patient was positively diagnosed with Legionnaire’s late yesterday.”
The doctor’s expression went from angry to empowered in the space of her words. “Was your father exposed?”
Kim nodded. “He visited the site and had lunch with the workers on Tuesday. On Friday afternoon he complained to me of a headache and tiredness. If you knew my father, Doctor, you’d know that he rarely complains and he never gets tired.”
Doctor Montoya gave a grim nod. “This news is good and bad. Good because erythromycin is quite effective against Legionnaire’s. Bad because the mortality rate for this particular pneumonia is not good. Which hospitals are these other patients in?”
“Forest Hills in Queens and Suny Downstate in Brooklyn. No other cases that I’m aware of at this time.”
“And your father has no underlying illness or condition I should be aware of?”
Kim shook her head. “Healthy as a horse. Until now.”
“Then that is in our favor.” The doctor gave a quick nod before pushing back through the interlocking access doors, his footfall hurried.
Alicia eyed her oldest daughter. “Have a seat, Kim.”
Kim arched a brow, pressed her lips into a thin line and sat. “I want to see Dad.”
“They’ll call us in when they’re ready,” Alicia advised her. “Right now they’re trying everything they can to bring his fever down.”
“How high?”
“Over one hundred and six.”
“Dear Lord.” Kim bowed her head, hands clasped, lips moving. Addie showed up right then.
“Mom. Kim. How is he? How’s Dad?”
Kim stood, flashed Alicia a look, then took a step back.
Alicia hugged Addie, then snaked an arm around Kim’s waist. “He’s very sick, honey. High fever, pneumonia, dehydration and possible organ shut down.”
Addie stepped back, her face, Conor’s face, washed pale. “He could die?”
Kim opened her mouth to answer but Alicia arched an eyebrow. “Somehow I don’t think heaven’s ready for the likes of your father yet. Kim, just what kind of worksite was your father visiting on Tuesday and since when do you work for him?”
Addie made an ‘oh, no’ face while Kim’s look went suddenly thoughtful. “You know I work for Homeward Bound.”
Alicia nodded, one eye on the door, wondering when they’d be updated on Conor’s condition. Soon, she hoped. “Yes.”
“What you don’t know is that Dad started Homeward Bound about eight years ago.”
Kim’s words took a moment to register. “He what?”
Kim nodded. Addie stepped closer to her sister’s side. “He devised a program that encompassed mobile meals, medical care, toiletry needs, and eventually housing for those homeless that want it. One of the new worksites is in Queens. They’ve been finishing up the work there to open enough space in eight different apartment high-rises to accommodate
nearly three hundred homeless people.”
Alicia stared at Kim, then shifted her look to Addie. “You were aware of this as well?”
Addie nodded. “It wasn’t a secret, Mom, it’s just that you kind of freak every time we talk about Dad so we...”
“Didn’t.” Kim finished the sentence for her sister. “What would have been the point of upsetting you?”
Dismay smacked Alicia with the weight of an oversized I-beam. “Your father heads up this homeless project in addition to his partnership and active practice at Wells, Terwilliger, Whickman and Bradstreet?”
“Dad’s good at managing things.” Kim shrugged, unapologetic. “Pretty incredible, actually.”
She’d known that all along, Alicia realized, her heart heavy with this newsflash. Obviously, somewhere along the way, Conor had done some big league changing, unbeknownst to her. Of course that could be because she’d treated him like a poisonous snake for nearly a decade.
She moved toward the exit door, the pressure in her chest tight and raw.
“Mom? Where are you going?” Addie stepped forward, a hand out. “Won’t you stay?”
Alicia heard the hurt and surprise in Addie’s tone. She turned. Nodded. “But I need a little time to think, Ads. Really think. Your father—”
Addie held up a hand of dismissal. “I know, I know. It’s just—”
Alicia stepped back and grasped Addie’s upper arms. “You don’t know. Your father and I, well...” She thought of the way he’d looked at her yesterday, of the man who strode forward carrying a smelly, neglected dog, who cradled the dying animal just like he cradled Jon all those years ago. Dear God, how could she have forgotten that, the time and effort Conor put forth to save their son, his disappointment that no matter how hard he tried, nothing worked? Seeing Addie’s worried gaze, Alicia tried to soften her expression. “I need to go see the vet about your father’s dog. He’ll want a report as soon as he wakes up.”
“His...what?” Kim eyed her as though she, too, might be fevered.
“Dad has a dog?” Addie’s face said that the day couldn’t get much stranger.
Alicia stepped back toward the door, her mind racing, her heart beating a zigzag rhythm. “Yes, but the dog’s sick. I need to see if he’s okay.”
The girls’ expressions said they thought her delusional, but she’d explain later. Right now she needed a little time, a little space and some sort of magic Alice pill that made her suddenly mixed up world right again.
Quiet, she stole through the side door of the gray-stoned church across from her bookstore a few minutes later. The lustrous interior smelled of lemon wax and incense. Nice. Catholic. Comforting.
Alicia slid into a west-side pew and knelt, angled sunlight flooding dawn-facing stained glass scenes, their colors a rainbow of promise and light. She stared at the altar, hands clasped, her eyes registering the empty church, her heart seeing the last time she’d knelt on the drop down kneelers.
That day Conor had been by her side, his breathing tight, his face tormented. She’d leaned against him, grateful for his bulk, his muscle.
How foolish she’d been, expecting him to be the strong one. Expecting him to handle her grief on top of his own. Assuming he’d make everything right, same as always. This was Conor, the man, the myth, the legend. How on earth had things gone so terribly wrong?
On that day he was just another poor guy burying a child.
“Mrs. Bradstreet?”
Alicia turned, startled. Fr. Murphy stood at the end of her pew, his hands extended in comfort.
“I just got a call from the hospital, asking for an anointing.”
She nodded, lips dry, heart aching. Oh, Conor, not this. Not now. “My husband is very ill.”
If the old priest noted her word of choice, he ignored it. Or maybe he just accepted the use, believing marriage should be forever. Alicia tried not to think of what Conor must have faced, going in to work, day after day, pretending to be strong because she needed someone to be strong and he got elected by default. She dropped her chin, embarrassed.
The aging rector moved into the pew, his voice gentle. “I never expected he’d go to these extremes when we talked yesterday, but this is Conor we’re dealing with.”
Alicia frowned her confusion.
He settled onto the pew alongside her. “Your husband. We had a bet. I never thought he’d pull it off, but he’s a sly one, he is. Commendably speaking, of course.”
Alicia sat back, eyeing him. “You bet with Conor, Father? Isn’t that against the rules?”
The priest grinned. “Naw. Catholics like the odd game of chance now and again. Keeps life interesting. But I never thought he’d stoop to this.”
“This?” Alicia frowned, puzzled.
He dipped his chin as though sharing a confidence. “I bet him that if he could get you back into church, I’d take a turn in the dunking booth during the June festival. I knew full well that nothing short of catastrophic illness would send you through these doors, and Conor appeared quite hale and healthy yesterday afternoon, so I figured I was a sure bet to stay dry this summer.” He shook his head, his face creased in smiles. “The man plays to win.”
“Always.” Alicia regarded the rector, an eyebrow arched, a slow boil simmering within her chest. “You bet on me?”
The priest nodded and stood. “For your own good, of course.”
For a brief moment, Alicia wondered what the penalty was for pummeling a man of God. Father Murphy must have sensed her train of thought because he moved toward the aisle, his gaze compassionate but alert. “Stay as long as you like. I’m going to join the girls and do some praying at the bedside. It’s the least I can do for a man who’s been so generous to our parish. I expect I’ll see you there?”
She stared up into the rugged, aged face, knowing he was sending her a message, and not as surprised as she would have thought. “I’ll be there shortly.”
Tiny lights swam in her field of vision. She blinked back tears, wishing the old priest had thought to bring along his handy box of tissues.
No such luck. Swiping her sleeve to her eyes as the priest’s footsteps moved to the door, her gaze centered on the dancing points, her vision clearing. Candlelight flickered in cranberry-glass votive holders, their glow spreading rose-hued light, the color of a mid-summer sunrise.
She’d never lit a candle for Jon, figuring the custom old and archaic, but today she felt the need to bring more light into the world. Anything to pretend she wasn’t totally helpless again and somewhat foolish still. Would she ever learn?
She moved forward and withdrew the long taper from its resting spot, then dropped to her knees, the feeling both familiar and comforting. Igniting the used end, she reached out and lit the first candle on her left, the petite flare shedding a glimmer of warmth. On impulse she lit the next, then the next, then each one after it, until the entire bank of candles waved bright bits of flame.
Reaching into her purse she withdrew a wad of cash and stuffed the entire amount into the offertory box, then stood, her knees tight. At the side door she paused and looked back, the twinkle of tiny lights sending a fleeting pattern across the deep-grained wood of the suspended cross. With a half sigh at how much time she’d already wasted, Alicia pushed out the door, the cool air and bright sun less welcoming than the gloaming corners of the sweet-smelling church.
She called the veterinary office as she headed back to Conor, her head dipped against a cool wind. The news was less than good. Sarge had relapsed since his minor improvements the night before.
“This is not abnormal for a recovery of this sort.” The vet’s voice held an edge of reassurance. “His body took weeks to deteriorate into this condition. We need to be patient and allow him time to recuperate.”
Alicia swallowed her disappointment. “Of course. I understand. Please call me at this number if there’s any news.”
“As well as Mr. Bradstreet?”
What to tell him? Alicia sucked in a breath. “
Mr. Bradstreet’s been taken ill, but I’ll keep him apprised of any changes in Sarge’s condition.”
A moment of silence followed before the vet spoke. “I’ll keep you informed personally, Mrs. Bradstreet.”
So formal. Prescribed. Feeling like she needed to break loose of her surrounding cage, she told him, “Alicia, please, and my husband is Conor.”Another short span elapsed as the vet addressed someone in the clinic before saying, “Alicia, then. I’ll call you later today.”
“Thank you.”
What a dweeb she was, standing here, feeling all good and holier than thou because she’d just asked the veterinarian to call her by her first name, like that was some big thrill for him.
But that little step forward made her feel a million times better, so who cared if the vet thought her silly or goofy or pretentious. She hurried into the hospital, anxious to see Conor, wanting to let him know that Sarge was holding his own and expected no less from his master.
Chapter Fifteen
Lead anchors hung from Conor’s legs, no doubt some form of Princetonian ex-husband torture. Odd images flashed before his eyes in chaotic fashion, sporadic, disconnected, making little sense.
He saw himself coming home to their old house, the curtains hung fresh and crisp the way Alicia liked them, the sweet-spiced scent of candle wax enveloping him as he pushed through the oak and glass door.
Fleas attacked from all sides, hopping to and fro, rhythmic and cadenced, a scene straight out of Disney, the bugs tap-dancing their way across the room before him. Then a sorry looking dog ran through, trailed by a sarong-wearing mouse who danced with the fleas like Ginger Rogers leading a Broadway chorus line. Then Jon stepped in, their boy, their son, strong and healthy and years older than he’d been when they laid his tired body in the ground. Hale and hearty the boy looked, laughing at the dog, dodging the mouse and fleas, throwing a ball, then accepting the soggy mess back from the dog’s jowls without a word of discouragement as they moved into a leaf-strewn field.
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