by Karen Rock
“How was dance, Becca-Bell?” Eli’s arms opened wide, his gaze expectant.
Some members of the support group began speaking in low-pitched voices, the word Yankees punctuating their discussion. No doubt they were debating the team’s chances tonight. It was a crucial game that Christie was interested in herself. Yet this family fascinated her, as well.
“The same,” Becca mumbled, fidgeting with the latch on her bag. “And please don’t call me that anymore. Remember?”
He slowly lowered his arms, a crease appearing between his brows. “Does that fastener need to be fixed?”
Becca shrugged before she turned away.
Christie glanced between the two; their tension was palpable. Although it could be a teenage thing, it seemed deeper than that.
Elizabeth stood and brought treats, another member following with Dixie cups of juice. After taking the proffered snacks, Becca said, “Thank you,” nudging Tommy to do the same.
“All right, kids.” Eli rose to his imposing height. “Time to go.”
He held out his arms once more. Tommy flew into them while Becca hung back and tightened her shoelaces. “I’ll be home in a little bit,” he promised.
“Sure,” Becca replied, her voice flat. She gave Christie and the smiling support group a small wave, wrapped a protective arm around her brother and followed Mary through the exit.
“That was nice, Mr. Roberts.” Christie’s smile faded at his glower. She cleared her throat. “Does anyone have something they’d like to share?”
She looked pointedly at Eli, who stared back, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Why the sour mood? Even though there didn’t appear to be a woman in his life, and his relationship with Becca seemed strained, he still had what was most important—his health and family. But his bleak expression made her wonder.
Perhaps he didn’t have everything after all.
* * *
ELI FORCED HIS eyes away from Ms. Christie Bates as everyone in the group took turns recounting their week. He knew his staring bordered on rude, but something about her fascinated the photographer in him.
She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her nose had a slight upward tilt that spoiled its classic lines. Her green eyes, his favorite color, were set too deep, the dark circles under them belying her carefree attitude. Her forehead was a finger’s breadth too high and her delicate, pointed chin reminded him of old-time movie stars, not modern-day bombshells. Her hair, a shimmering auburn waterfall, would meet the fashion industry’s standards, though.
Despite the imperfections, or perhaps because of them, her face captivated him. Even the splatter of freckles across her nose made him long for his Nikon, something he hadn’t picked up since— He forced his mind away from that memory. It was one he wanted buried, cremated, even.
He peeked at Christie once more and met her jewel-toned eyes. Busted. But the quick glance confirmed his instincts. All her flaws added up to an arresting face. It was a shame her personality was so over the top. All that phony stuff about cancer making you stronger, giving people false hope. It bordered on criminal. He hated to call her out on it, but these people needed to know the truth, to be prepared.
“Elizabeth, that is a lovely scarf. Is it new?” he heard her ask the woman beside her. Her soft voice had a unique, musical lilt. Where had he heard that accent before?
The woman lowered the silk paisley covering her tracheotomy and reminded Christie she had bought the scarf for her last Christmas. Christie laughed, her bowed lips curling. He dragged his gaze away and bolted down a cup of lukewarm juice. Why was this woman getting under his skin?
“Well, then, that was grand of me, wasn’t it?” Christie asked.
His mind clicked. Irish. The accent was subtle, as though she’d grown up around people from the old country. No wonder she bought into all that hope and faith stuff. Maybe she believed in rainbows with pots of gold, as well.
Her white teeth flashed at a man with an oxygen tube. “That’s wonderful,” she responded to something he’d said. “You’ve nearly doubled your white-blood-cell count.”
Eli glanced at the clock, glad to see that there were only twenty minutes left. With any luck, they’d get a cab and be home in plenty of time to relieve Mary. She’d been a loyal friend and employee through these difficult three years.
No matter how much John nagged him to go to the White Horse Tavern, he’d be home by eight. Mary had been telling him for the past two weeks that she and her husband had reservations at one of Manhattan’s best restaurants to celebrate their anniversary.
“And, John, I’ve noticed you’ve got some new equipment. How is that going?” asked Christie. Eli glanced down at his buddy. John’s head rested sideways and back against the chair, his eyes closed. That figured. John dragged him to this meeting, made him promise not to leave—as if he would—and then fell asleep.
Christie rushed toward them, her face creased in concern. She grabbed John’s wrist and held up her watch, checking his pulse with a medical professional’s efficiency.
“Someone get Anne,” she called, all business. “Everyone else, stay seated.”
Eli dashed out into the hall, his heart thudding. Why had he assumed John was sleeping?
He skidded to a stop before a woman whose desk nameplate read Anne Cartwright.
“Come quick,” he urged. “Christie needs you.”
Despite his long strides, the diminutive woman kept up with him.
“John. Blink if you can hear me,” Christie was saying when they returned. “Good. Now, can you squeeze my hand? No. Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up, good as new.” She looked relieved at Anne’s appearance.
“Anne, call 911. Tell them we have an ependymoma patient who’s had an arrhythmia-induced stroke that’s affected the left half of his body and speech. He’s conscious but in atrial fibrillation.”
Anne rushed off, phone already in hand. She stopped at Christie’s next words.
“Where is the center’s AED Unit?”
After spending hours in medical clinics, Eli knew these were machines that used electricity to jump-start failing hearts.
Anne whirled, her face ashen.
“It’s down the hall near the gym.” Her voice was a notch above a whisper. She turned back to her call for the EMTs and hurried out of the room.
“Mr. Roberts,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Got it.” Eli bolted for the door. After scouting the hall, he spotted a couple of guys leaving what looked like the gym and raced that way. In a locked cabinet marked AED he saw a gray plastic box. But where was the key?
“Hey,” Anne called from down the hall, the phone pressed to her ear. She threw a set of keys to him. His hands shook as he tried three before finding the right one.
Back in the meeting room, he passed the AED to Christie. She thanked him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to his friend. Who was this capable, take-charge woman?
“Would you lift him to the floor?”
Eli scooped John from the chair and laid him down, sliding his jacket beneath his friend’s head. Christie pulled up John’s shirt and pressed two adhesive pads to his chest while the rest of the support group sat in a worried huddle. An automatic voice rang out that it was assessing the patient. Eli’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
After a moment, the voice warned all to stand clear; a shock was advised. Christie pressed an orange button and stepped back, her eyes meeting Eli’s. Her calm expression slowed his racing pulse. Clearly, she knew what she was doing.
A jolt shuddered through John and his lids fluttered open. “Wharrrr—” he slurred.
She smoothed John’s glistening forehead then pressed her fingers to the base of his throat. Behind them, seats shifted and creaked as the group strai
ned to see what was happening.
“Is he going to be okay?” someone whispered.
“John, stay with me. The ambulance will be here any minute,” she said, but John’s eyes closed once more.
“No!” Eli burst out. This was not happening.
She took her fingers off John’s neck. “No pulse. Starting chest compressions,” she announced to no one in particular. “The AED needs two minutes to recharge.”
He scrambled over to John’s other side and grabbed his friend’s limp hand. Hang on, buddy, he pleaded silently. You can do this.
Christie began rhythmically pressing John’s chest. “Is he breathing?”
Eli gawked at her. If John wasn’t breathing, that meant he was—
“Put your ear next to his mouth.”
He bent toward John and felt a faint rush of air against his cheek. “Yes. Still breathing.”
Thank you, God.
She checked his pulse again. “Still no pulse.”
The whimpering behind them gave way to all-out crying as she resumed her chest compressions with cool precision. A minute later, the AED announced its readiness. She hit the button and they moved away before it zapped John again.
Eli and Christie exchanged a worried look. She probably felt as scared as he did, but she hadn’t panicked under pressure. She was a competent professional and he’d made all the wrong assumptions about this strong woman.
After the unit completed its round of electricity, Christie felt for John’s pulse. His breath caught when her eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping through her lashes. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. No. No way. Not now, John.
“Pulse is faint, but it’s steady,” she whispered and opened moist eyes. Suddenly, she rocked back on her heels. Without thinking twice, he ducked over to her side and slid an arm around her waist for support.
She’d saved John’s life.
Christie blinked up at him but made no move away from his touch. “Thank you,” she said, a blue vein standing out on her pale forehead. “I’m not usually so...” Her voice trailed off as she looked over at John again.
She really was something—unflappable when it counted most, when he could hardly see straight. Eli’s fingers tightened around her slender waist.
“Coming through,” hollered one of the two men pushing a stretcher. She gave herself a small shake then took off the AED unit before he helped them lift John onto the lowered gurney. While they checked vitals, Christie summarized what had taken place.
“Good work.” An EMT nodded to her before tucking a chart under his arm. “Who’s coming with John?”
“Me,” Eli and Christie said.
“Only one rider, up front with the driver. Decide fast and meet us outside in thirty seconds.”
Eli’s shoulders drooped. Without a babysitter he’d have to renege on the vow he’d made John to stay with him, see him through whatever happened. But asking Mary to stay was out of the question. She deserved this special night with her husband.
“I guess it’s you.” He folded John’s wheelchair and picked up his coat. “I promised John I’d be there if the end came, but I don’t have child care.”
She studied him for a moment then surprised him. “Obviously you and John are close. If you feel comfortable with it, you could give me your address and I’ll watch Tommy and Becca.”
“You would do that?”
She nodded. “But I’d want an update every half hour. Deal?”
The children had met her twice. And he’d seen her in action. They couldn’t be in safer hands. Besides, Mary would give Christie the third degree before she’d even let her into the apartment. Mary would make it work. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”
When he rattled off the address, she pressed something furry into his hand and closed his fingers around it. “Trust me. I know how important it is to be there for your friend. And that’s for good luck.”
He called Mary from the ambulance then unfurled his other hand to reveal a rabbit’s foot. Seriously? He tucked it into his pocket, wondering how someone who dealt with loss all the time could believe in something like that.
“Lucky for this guy a nurse was there. She saved his life,” the EMT said.
Eli peered out of the ambulance’s passenger window at the disappearing YMCA. He imagined Christie in full-on pep mode, offering hope and comfort. The platitudes hadn’t been an act. And the EMT was right—she did save lives.
But as his fingers dug into the lucky rabbit’s foot, he knew firsthand that no amount of comfort, luck or medical skill could rescue some people.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER CONCLUDING THE support-group meeting with reassurances and hugs, Christie huddled beside Eli’s brick prewar apartment building on a narrow SoHo street. Streetlamps glowed to life as the purple dusk deepened, illuminating pavement shining from the evening’s drizzle. A few buildings away, a Korean deli’s green awning stretched over flower-filled buckets. She inhaled the sweet scent, desperately needing some grounding after tonight’s ordeal with John.
Her insides still shook, but at least her hands had quit trembling. The need to save John had gone beyond professional, firing through her with a desperation stirred up by ghosts from her past. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d been unable to simply go home afterward. If she couldn’t be at the hospital, she was glad, at least, to be here, where she was guaranteed updates.
John should have arrived at Bellevue by now, and the critical-care team would be working hard to stabilize him. Given his already-compromised health, the group faced a serious challenge. But didn’t they always? And John’s strong, larger-than-life persona would help him conquer this setback. It had to.
She shifted her weight to her right foot and pulled her damp shirt from her shivering body. How much longer would Mary keep her outside? She had promised to watch Eli’s children so he could stay with John. And if she didn’t get inside soon, she might miss hearing the latest on John’s condition.
“Ms. Bates?” Mary’s voice crackled through a brass speaker.
She pressed the talk button. “Yes. I’m still here.” Emphasis on the still. She shifted to her left foot.
“My husband ran your license number and it seems you’re all clear.”
“Your husband?” Mary had some serious connections. Getting inside Eli’s building was tougher than gaining clearance at the Pentagon.
“He’s a sergeant at the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth Street,” said Mary, pride ringing in every word.
“A man in blue? He must be handsome, then.”
“There’s nothing like a man in a uniform,” Mary gushed, the sound of the buzzer ending her sentence.
Christie’s sneakers squelched across a white marble floor to elevators with wrought-iron gates. A bronze art-deco light fixture made of scalloped glass dangled from a fifteen-foot ceiling with crown moldings.
This was the glamorous New York she’d envisioned back when she’d sat on her front porch swing in Kansas, dreaming of the day she’d rejoin Gran in the big city. Visiting her widowed grandmother had fueled her desire to become part of this vibrant, cosmopolitan world once more. She’d never forgotten her old neighborhood’s Irish street festivals and specialty shops, and its fine-dining and family-style restaurants.
She pressed the elevator button and stepped back to watch an ornate dial twitch closer to the lobby. When the elevator dinged, the familiar panic about entering an enclosed space clutched at her throat. An image of her brother’s casket flashed in her mind before she could block it. Where had that memory come from? She thought she’d locked it up and thrown away the key.
She searched her purse with trembling hands. Where was her lucky rabbit’s foot? She’d had it for ages. Wait. She’d given it to Eli. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured John. He needed
it more than she did. She pulled the crisscrossed metal gate open and forced herself inside.
“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight...” she counted, a coping trick her psychologist friend and roommate, Laura, had taught her. She whispered “ninety-four” before the doors swooshed open, the lit button indicating the top floor. Impressive. Whatever Eli did for a living, he must be very good at it.
“Christie!” Tommy yelled as he burst through the double doors of his apartment. He wore dinosaur-patterned pajamas and massive green claw slippers. His wet hair and clean scent suggested a recent bath.
“Hey, Tommy.” She strained to keep her voice calm as she tugged at the stuck elevator gate.
“I’ll get you out, Christie. Daddy says I’m strong.” Tommy wrapped his small fingers around the metal strips and pulled. A golden retriever bounded out and barked.
“Scout. Tommy. Back inside.” Mary appeared, shooed the two into the apartment and turned to Christie. “My dear, are you all right?”
Christie slowed her breathing and dropped the hand hovering over her chest. Blackness crept around the edges of her vision.
“I can’t get the gate open,” she gasped. How much longer before she passed out? How mortifying if she did.
“We’ve asked the condo board to replace this thing a hundred times but they claim it’s too valuable.” Mary yanked the gate upward and sideways, applied a light kick to the bottom left corner and pulled. With a grating squeal the apparatus came loose. “Looks like a piece of scrap metal to me.”
Saved! Christie stumbled out and dragged in a deep breath.
“Thank you.” She tried to pull it together. The ambulance call and the high emotions of the night had shaken more than just her claustrophobia.
“We should thank you. Eli would have been crushed if he couldn’t be there for John.”
“Has he called?”
Mary nodded. “While you were outside. He said to tell you that John’s condition is stable but still critical. Oh. And that he’ll call you again soon.”