by Arlene James
He nodded. “My wife did that.”
“Wow.” Eva saluted. “Honors to the missus. I think I’d be jealous.” Think? She instantly and intensely loathed Brigitte Leland, a dead woman, because Doc Gorgeous had loved her, truly and dearly, with a once-in-a-lifetime love that was a far cry from attraction.
Morgan chuckled and straightened away from the table. “My wife knows how dearly she’s loved, and so do I. We’re very blessed.”
Blessed and prayer seemed to be bywords in this house. Eva couldn’t help thinking that even Brooks’s dead wife had been blessed, even if she wasn’t around any longer. It was enough to make a girl who had foresworn self-pity curl up in a ball and cry herself into the grave. Eva realized with a stab of sheer terror that she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. So, as usual, she retreated to her trusty old standby, humor.
She quipped, “Prepare to be blessed anew. By the Muffin Queen’s chicken and dumplings.”
Morgan chuckled and began strolling from the room. “It’ll be a short-lived blessing once the hordes get wind of it.”
“Suppose Jesus would forgive you for keeping it to yourself?” Eva quipped.
“He would,” Morgan told her gently, “but I won’t. Keep it to myself that is. I will, however, rub it in when the California contingent gets here. Dorinda adores Hilda’s chicken and dumplings.”
The “California contingent” came in two waves the next morning. Dorinda, the youngest Chatam sibling, and her husband, Tony Latimer, arrived with Dorinda’s daughter, Melinda Leland Harris, and her family, husband JW and son Johnny, early in the morning. Dorinda’s son and Melinda’s brother, Reeves Leland, was on hand with his hugely pregnant wife, Anna, and ten-year-old daughter, Gilli, to greet his mother and stepfather. Redheaded Dallas—youngest sister of Asher, Phillip and Petra—put in an appearance before heading off to teach school. Brooks came, too, greeting his aunt Dorinda with an effusive hug. She actually was his aunt, having married then divorced his uncle, Thomas Leland. He introduced Eva as his transcriptionist and told the newcomers that she was currently staying at Chatam House. No one blinked an eye.
Dorinda had to be decades younger than her older sisters but at least several years older than her husband, Tony. A shapely blonde with the amber Chatam eyes and piquant cleft chin, she wore beautiful clothing. They were all, right down to six-year-old Johnny, terrified for Hypatia and, for some reason, terrified for Anna as well, whom Dorinda scolded even as she hugged her.
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
“When I lie on my back, your granddaughters dance on my spinal column and paralyze my legs,” Anna said. “When I lie on my side, they play soccer with my kidneys. When I sit, they try to strangle me.”
“She lives in the recliner right now,” Reeves said, his hand pressing against the small of her back.
“What do the doctors say?” Dorinda wanted to know.
“That I’ll be lucky to make my due date in mid-March,” Anna told her.
“But that’s to be expected,” Brooks put in. “Multiple-baby births often come early. The longer she can wait the better, of course, but the babies are a healthy size for triplets, and all the indicators are good.”
“Triplets!” Eva yelped, surprised. “What’s that, a Chatam trait?”
Anna sighed and laid her hand atop the huge mound of her belly. “In this case, it’s a petri dish trait. We required a bit of assistance, and the process worked rather well.”
“I prefer to think that we’re just a pair of overachievers,” Reeves quipped, kissing his wife’s cheek. “Come on. Let’s get y’all into a comfortable position.”
“As if,” Anna muttered, allowing herself to be ushered away.
Gilli took Johnny by the hand and asked, “Wanna go up to the attic and play?”
He shrugged, and Gilli said, “The adults’ll tell us if anything happens to Auntie H. Dad promised.”
“Auntie H. is doing fine right now,” Brooks assured them.
Thus reassured, Johnny let himself be towed off to the staircase. Eva told Dorinda and Melinda that Chester was taking their luggage up to the Master Suite and that they’d find the rest of the family in the sunroom or the family parlor. Brooks promised to return for lunch and again at the end of the workday to see his “cousins.” He gave Eva a quick hug before he left, then and again after lunch, as if doing so was the most normal thing in the world. It occurred to Eva as she swallowed her pills that she’d never felt less as if she was dying. Somehow, living every minute came naturally around the Chatams.
Said “cousins,” twenty-four-year-old twins, arrived in midafternoon. Lyric Latimer was as classy as her mother and even more elegant, wearing her blond hair scraped back in a neat chignon. Lyric wore an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a strawberry and carried an envelope bag the exact same shade as her shoes. In contrast, her sister Harmony looked like a walking Halloween costume and carried a guitar case.
When Eva opened the door to them, they spoke the same words in unison. “How is Aunt Hypatia?”
Eva introduced herself and told them what she knew as she led them toward the family parlor, their luggage piled behind them in the foyer for Chester to carry up to the East Suite. They hadn’t gotten down the hallway before the door opened and a tall, handsome cowboy walked in with a newborn cradled in the crook of one arm. A woman and little boy crowded through the door behind him.
“Chandler!” the twins cried, startling the baby so that she threw up her tiny hands and mewed like a kitten.
“Oh, I want to see Katherine Jane,” Lyric declared softly, hurrying to him on tiptoes to fold back the layers of pink blankets. “She’s gorgeous!”
Suddenly Chatams spilled into the hallway from every direction, greeting newcomers of several varieties. Eva slipped into the dining room, out of the way. She felt both swept up into the warm bosom of this large, loving family and on the outside looking in. She couldn’t help thinking of Ricky, and yet the person she most yearned for at that moment was not her son but Brooks Leland. That frightened her as nothing else had ever done—more than realizing she would be raising her son alone, more than having a brain tumor, more even than the thought of dying. She just wasn’t sure she had the courage to love again, and if she didn’t have the courage for that, where would she find the courage to live? Suddenly, dying felt like the safest thing she could possibly do, which got her to thinking about what Brooks had said about what came after.
She didn’t sleep well that night for thinking about the possibility of an afterlife. Her aunt’s version of hell wasn’t something Eva wanted to contemplate, but Brooks obviously believed there was something on the other side of this life. He’d spoken of Heaven as a place of healing, and she wanted to believe that, but she had so many questions, and Sunday morning proved too busy to seek answers.
The Chatams literally filled the Downtown Bible Church on Sunday. Eva attended worship service simply because Brooks asked her to and everyone else seemed to take it for granted that she would. Afterward, he spent the day with the family at Chatam House, haranguing Eva to slow down, sit down or remember to take her pills. She felt self-conscious, though, hanging out with the Chatams. When she didn’t sit next to him, she felt very alone in the crowd, and when she did, everyone seemed to be watching the two of them. She wanted to jump up, point both index fingers at her temples and shout, “Brain tumor, people! Hello. He’s not going there a second time.” Instead, she kept busy. It wasn’t difficult to do with so many people in the house.
Just the babies were enough to keep her running back and forth emptying garbage cans. She didn’t realize how many baby products were disposable these days. She fell into bed utterly exhausted that night, but in the morning she felt tired even after a full night’s sleep.
Still, the news that Hypatia had stabilized enough for her surgery to be scheduled for the follo
wing Wednesday seemed to energize everyone, Eva included. Brooks’s relief couldn’t have been more obvious, and that was enough to relieve Eva.
“She’s going to have a long recovery,” Brooks said softly, “but compared to where we began, this is very good.”
Eva felt weak with relief, as if every ounce of concern and, therefore, every ounce of strength drained right out of her.
“But she’ll be okay.”
Suddenly, Eva seemed to float on a cloud of relief so keen that it was almost euphoria. Almost.
“What?” Brooks asked sharply.
A strange uncertainty accompanied the euphoria, a tingling fear that all was not right...
* * *
“She’s going to have a long recovery,” Brooks said, keeping his voice pitched low to ensure privacy, “but compared to where we began, this is very good.” He knew he shouldn’t confide in Eva like this, but he couldn’t share the worst of his concerns with anyone else. Oh, he was honest with the family, as honest as Hypatia would allow him to be, but he had a personal stake in this, too, and where could he take those personal concerns without alarming the family if not to Eva?
“But okay for she’ll,” she said, idly rubbing her head.
“What?”
She waved a hand and went back to rubbing her head. “That right?”
“Is your head hurting?” he asked, turning her by the shoulders.
“Herdin,” she said.
He burrowed through her hair to find the stitches he’d put in. They looked fine, clean, dry, no swelling at all. The skin had closed and was healing nicely.
“I could take these out now, if you want,” he offered.
“Tagllseelagat,” she babbled.
He jerked her around. “Eva?”
Her eyes rolled like marbles in their sockets. “Slummabwidhabelda.”
“Murdock!” Brooks yelled, calling for the retired doctor who had arrived with Asher and Ellie earlier. He came with his older brother, Hubner. “We’ve got to get Eva to the hospital.”
Her knees buckled even as he spoke, but he simply dipped with her and scooped her up into his arms, folding her against his chest.
“Reddymud,” she whispered into his ear.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Just hang on.” To Murdock he said, “My keys are in my pocket. Get the doors.”
Hubner reached down for the keys, but Murdock had them in hand, along with his coat and Brooks’s, which he draped over Brooks and Eva both, before they reached the front door. They flew across the porch and down the steps. He didn’t want to put her down, but he couldn’t get into the car with her, so he had to. She looked confused and lost when he slid into the backseat next to her. He threw his arm around her and yanked her close.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. We’ll take care of this.”
She tucked her face into the space beneath his chin, against the flesh of his throat. “Glibbernuckmib,” she whispered, and it sounded to him, it felt to him, like “I love you,” which must have been why he wanted to weep.
“I knew she was doing too much,” he said to no in particular. “I wanted to believe she was strong enough for it. I want this not to be a blasted brain tumor!” He realized he was shouting when she reached up and pressed a fingertip to his lips. He kissed that fingertip and pulled it away, whispering, “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, rubbing her face against his throat. “Bittdelig.”
“It’s not your fault,” he told her. “It’s not your fault.”
She tapped his chest with her finger. “All right,” he said on a chuckle, trying not to cry, “it’s not my fault, either, but I’m the doctor. You’re the patient, stubborn, hardheaded, beautiful patient, and you’re not allowed to die. Do you understand me? You’re not allowed to die.”
She lifted a hand and snapped a floppy salute right into his chest. Smiling grimly, he kissed the top of her head and began to silently pray.
Please, Lord, not again. Don’t ask this of me again, I beg You. Give her a chance. Please give her a chance...
Chapter Eight
“It doesn’t behave like any tumor I’ve ever seen,” Murdock agreed. “You say her recovery was even quicker this time?”
Brooks nodded. “She didn’t hit her head this time or have to be sedated, and the diuretic seems to have made a difference. What made you think of it?”
“We used diuretic on an aphasic boy with seizures until we could get in and unblock his shunt.” Though retired now and in his seventies, as a surgeon Murdock had performed any number of tricky procedures.
“So we could be dealing with a buildup of fluid in the brain,” Brooks surmised, rubbing his chin.
“Could be,” Murdock concurred. “Won’t know until you get some decent pictures.”
“Which she has resisted,” Brooks pointed out.
“Something tells me she might be a tad more amenable now,” Murdock said, pulling open the treatment room door.
Brooks hoped that was so—and feared why it might be. He was getting in deep with her, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. If only he knew how to go forward. For all he knew, she truly was dying, and the best he had to offer her was false hope. And if she weren’t actually dying...
God forgive him, but he almost didn’t want to go there.
Gulping, he followed Murdock into the treatment suite of the emergency wing of the hospital and put on his bedside smile. Eva sat up in the bed, beaming and looking adorable.
“Hey, if I do this again, will I get three handsome doctors?”
“Two handsome doctors per patient,” Murdock came back smoothly.
She threw up her hands in mock disgust. “Oh, all right, if you’re going to be chintzy about it.”
“And one of them has to be old enough to be your father,” he added, shaking a finger.
She craned her neck, looking toward the door past Murdock. “When does he get here?”
Murdock laughed and looked to Brooks. “You have your hands full with this one.”
“You think?” He pulled a stool close to the bed and sat down. “Let’s get serious now.”
She made a face. “I’d rather not. Serious is a brain tumor.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “At least not anaplastic oligodendroglioma.”
“What?” She blinked at him. “But my mom...”
“It doesn’t add up,” Murdock told her. “The way you respond to the medications, and the medications themselves. It doesn’t add up.”
“Your mother was diagnosed at a time when we had fewer diagnostic tools,” Brooks pointed out. “It’s possible that her problem was something else, a different type of tumor or... Eva, we need to do tests.”
She shook her head. “I—I can’t see what that would accomplish. Whatever killed her, it’s bound to be the same thing.”
“Not necessarily,” Brooks argued.
“What are the odds,” she demanded, “that my mother, my sister and I would all die of three different types of cancer?”
“Slim,” he admitted, looking her squarely in the eye.
“Ding-ding-ding-ding!” she crowed. “You win. I lose. Can’t we just leave it at that? I knew going in that the game was rigged, but hey, I’ve had fun playing.”
He bowed his head, unwilling to give in to her ridiculous sense of humor.
“At least let me see all of the records, yours and your mother’s. I promise you that I won’t urge you to take tests or undergo treatment that is of no real value to you.”
Eva licked her lips, her mind obviously running through scenarios. “A-all right.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, grasped her hand in both of his and had it halfway to his lips before he realized what he was doing. Freezing with it there, h
e squeezed it and let it go. “I’ll fill out the paperwork, and you can sign it tomorrow. I want you resting today. Then you can come into the office tomorrow, where I can keep a better eye on you.”
“Whew,” she joked, “for a minute there, I was starting to feel like a kept woman.”
Brooks rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like you’d ever let that happen. You’re the hardest working sick woman I’ve ever known.”
“Pshaw,” she scoffed.
“Actually,” Murdock said, “the whole family agrees that you’ve been a godsend at this difficult time for us. Your selflessness these last days has been widely observed and remarked on.”
Eva seemed temporarily speechless, her eyes suspiciously bright. Instead of speaking, though, she finally just shook her head. Brooks wondered when the last time was that anyone expressed simple appreciation to this woman and why that was so?
He cleared his throat and pushed back from the bed, saying briskly, “Frankly, I can use your help at the office tomorrow. Things have slipped a bit lately. We can use an extra hand.”
“I have two,” she joked, lifting both and waving them around. “Which one would you like?”
Laughing, he shook his head.
Thank You, Lord. Thank You.
* * *
He should have known she would be more than an especially able transcriptionist, Brooks told himself, looking around the tiny office that Eva had reorganized in a flash. She’d done it almost without a thought, while tossing out quips, signing papers and answering questions. A shift here, a nudge there, a shove, a push, and the next thing Brooks knew they had twice as much space.
“Let’s get rid of those stitches,” he told her, shaking his head and holding out his hand.
She followed him to a treatment room and hopped up onto the table. His nurse, Ruby, assembled the tray while he pulled on gloves. Eva elected to remain sitting and bowed her head, letting her long hair flow over her shoulders. The perfume of her wafted into Brooks’s nostrils, and he fought the urge to kiss the slender nape of her neck. Instead, he scolded her, mildly.