by Nancy Moser
It was too late for that.
Anthony didn’t know if his temperature had gone down because he was truly better or because of an act of will. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that he had been discharged. Since it was so late in the day, they said he could stay until morning, but Anthony wouldn’t hear of it. He was going. Now.
He tucked his shirt in, minding his sore ribs. The shirt they’d bought him was slick to the touch. Polyester city. And the pants did not hang right at all. But what could he expect from a blue-light special?
He turned toward the sound of a wheelchair only to find Lissa in the doorway. “Your chariot awaits, sire.”
He was alarmed to find himself smiling with genuine pleasure at the sight of his head nurse. He pulled the grin back to its proper place in storage. “Lissa. Finally a visit.”
“Yeah? Well, I got stuck in traffic for a few days.”
“But I’m checking out.”
She moved the wheelchair forward an inch. “Duh. I called to check on your condition, and that’s what they said. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t want you taking any cab home.” She grinned. “So I brought my ’67 Impala with the leopard-fur seats.”
He stared at her. Certainly her taste wasn’t that bad.
She laughed at his expression. “Give it a rest, Doctor. I’m kidding. How’s a honeybee yellow VW sound?”
He raised an eyebrow.
She let go of the wheelchair. “Hey, I refuse to have my mode of transportation disparaged in any way. Especially from someone whose last mode nearly killed him.”
“Touché.”
She angled the wheelchair for him to sit. He eased his way into it, and she expertly flipped the footrests into place. “Care for a seat belt, Doctor?”
“I think I’ll skip it. I like to live dangerously.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She pushed him into the hall. Anthony looked around for the nurses who’d taken care of him. He remembered the chatter and good-byes the other survivors had received upon their discharge. Nurse Double Entendre looked up from her paperwork at the nurses’ station.
“Bye, Doctor.” She went back to work.
That’s it?
The elevator door opened immediately, and Lissa pushed him inside and punched one. They had the elevator to themselves.
“You alienated them too, huh?”
He tried to see her face, but she was behind him. “What are you talking—?”
“You know what I think I’ll do for you, Doctor? As soon as you’re well, I’m going to sign you up for a Dale Carnegie course: How to Make Friends and Influence People.”
He stopped trying to see her. Now she was being disrespectful. “I influence people plenty.”
“Ah yes, but in what way? And what about the making friends part?”
The elevator doors opened. Just in time.
“You’re quiet,” Lissa said as they neared his house.
Anthony shrugged. What was there to say? Nothing was working out right. He’d expected some kind of fanfare when he left the hospital but barely got a nod. Then for Lissa to imply it was his own fault? Perhaps it stemmed from his asking those reporters to come to his room. In retrospect that had been a mistake. And perhaps he shouldn’t have been so open regarding his true feelings about living when others had died. Definitely a miscalculation. And the press was pouncing on the fact that he’d taken the lifeline, citing all that “it wasn’t yours” bunkum. But he could handle that. He was okay with that.
But to have no recognition at all, to anonymously slip out of the hospital and back to his house—riding in this absurd lemon drop of a car. What had he done to deserve such treatment?
They neared his neighborhood, and he did a double take as a TV van drove by. Maybe they heard he was coming home and were camped in his yard? Maybe—?
“My, my, what brightened your day so suddenly?” Lissa said. “You look positively hopeful. You remember some socialite who might be available for dinner tonight?”
He was in no mood to have her harp on his love life. “This seems to be a reoccurring theme with you, Lissa. What’s so wrong with my dating a lot of women?”
“Nothing. Not a thing. I date a lot myself.”
He started to laugh, then caught himself. “Sorry.”
She glanced at him while driving. “You think you’re the only eligible single person on the planet?”
“Fighter, take your corner!”
She wagged her head. “You infuriate me.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“I came to take you home because I thought you might need a little sympathy, a home-cooked meal, and some nursing.” She looked at him. “I am a pretty good nurse, you know.”
“I know.”
Her look was suddenly pitiful. “You do?” She caught herself and was cocky again. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“An oversight to which I humbly apologize.”
She sniggered at him.
“What’s that sound supposed to mean?”
“The great Dr. Thorgood? Apologizing? You just cost me ten bucks.”
“Excuse me?”
“I bet Candy that you would never apologize to anyone, for anything.”
The gall. “But Candy bet for me?” I’ll have to be nicer to the girl.
“Yeah … well … she’s new. And not too bright.”
He laughed. “You are a piece of work, Nurse Conklin.”
“It’s about time you noticed.”
She turned onto his street. He could see his house. The street was empty. So much for reporters. Yet maybe it was a blessing.
She pulled into his driveway, and a question surfaced, “How do you know where I live?”
She shrugged and got out of the car. “It’s about time you realize I know everything.”
Anthony closed his eyes and let the rich aroma of spaghetti sauce fill his senses. It was odd to hear the sounds of someone else working in his kitchen—especially someone who sang as she worked. He didn’t recognize the tune, but the subject of the lyrics was love. With a start he wondered if all this attention was part of a romantic plan.
Surely not. Nurse Conklin? A love interest? The idea was absurd. He was filet mignon; she was fried chicken. He was Armani; she was Target. He was opera; she was. He listened to her singing and wasn’t sure how to define it.
“What is that song?” he finally asked.
She popped her head out of the kitchen. “You like it?”
“I wasn’t saying that. It was merely unlike any love song I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s because it’s a love song to God, not to a man.” She pointed a wooden spoon at him and changed to a song he knew—“You’re So Vain.”
He felt himself redden. “Cute.”
“Absolutely. But the point is, did you think my previous love song was about you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“If I don’t, who will?” She eyed him a moment. “Care to volunteer?”
“That sounds … dangerous. Is that an apt word?”
She turned on her heel. “You said you liked living dangerously.” She turned back. “Or would you rather lay low on the danger for a while?”
The crash had supplied him with enough danger to last a lifetime, but he couldn’t tell her that. “All I want to do now is get back to work.”
“Hold that thought. You can tell me your plans while we eat.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned bearing two plates of pasta. She set them at the dining room table, on which she’d already placed a green salad and bread.
She held out his chair for him. “Thank you. This looks good.”
“It is good. My last name may be Conklin, but my mama’s name was Figatoro. I made my first sauce at age five.”
“You’re not married?”
She made a disgusted face. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to get to know some of us. No, I’m not married. How long have I been working for you?”
> He had no idea. “A while.”
“Six years. Six long years.”
He put his napkin in his lap and reached for his fork. She diverted his motion by taking his hand. She bowed her head, and before he could react.
“Bless this food, O Lord. Thank you for bringing Dr. Thorgood home safely. Help him use this second chance to do good work for You. Amen.” She looked up. “There. Doesn’t that make it better?”
“If you say so.”
She sprinkled Parmesan on her sauce. “My, my, doesn’t the good doctor believe in the Almighty?”
“Actually, the good doctor has never thought about it much.”
She gawked at him. “How can you not think about it? You have a God-given talent; you help people feel better about themselves; you help people who’ve been injured regain their lives. God gave you that gift. He’s made you privy to medical truths that make everything you do possible. He’s—”
“I learned what I know from medical school and medical books, not any god.”
“We’re not talking just any God. We’re talking the one and only.”
Anthony spun his spaghetti on his fork. “Whatever.”
She dropped her own fork with a clatter. “I knew you were cocky and confident, but I never took you for blind.”
He didn’t need this, home-cooked dinner or not. “I think you’re overstepping your authority, Nurse Conklin.”
“Perhaps I’ve been negligent in not making clear the One I hold in highest authority.” She raised an eyebrow. “And for your information, Doctor, that isn’t you.”
“If you want to let yourself be deluded by believing fairy tales instead of the facts of science, go ahead, but don’t bring your ignorant views into my home. I’ve been through enough. I—”
She put her napkin on the table beside her plate. “Perhaps you haven’t been through enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Generally when people go through a tragedy, it’s called a life-changing experience. For good reason. People use the event as an impetus to assess their lives and change—for the better. Apparently, you see no need for such a change.”
“Absolutely not.”
She shook her head. “You’re planning to go on as you did before, with no change in attitude, purpose, or growth?”
Now he got it. And the knowledge of her intentions incensed him. “So that’s what all this do-gooder attention has been about? You wanted to be around to witness some hallelujah change?”
She crossed her arms. “A woman can hope, can’t she?”
“So by this action, I assume there is something about my life that offends you? Something you disapprove of?”
“I can think of one or two things.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“Would you care to listen?”
He wasn’t so sure.
She took his hesitancy as a no. “I thought so.”
It was his turn to toss a napkin on the table. With difficulty, he stood. “I think you’d better go, Nurse Conklin.”
She pushed back her chair. “I think you’re right.” She collected her coat and shoved her arms in the sleeves like bullets being shoved into a gun’s chamber. She tossed her purse onto her shoulder.
He sat back in his chair. “I assume you won’t mind if I don’t see you to the door?”
“I wouldn’t expect any less, Doctor.” She slammed the door behind her.
The chore of getting to bed was difficult, but Anthony took comfort in the fact he wouldn’t have asked Nurse Conklin to help even if she had stuck around. He didn’t need a nursemaid—or a conscience.
He sat on the edge of the bed and noticed his answering machine for the first time. He hit the button to get his messages. The mechanized voice proclaimed, “You have no new messages.”
That couldn’t be. He’d been gone for days, his name had been splashed across the news, and he had no messages?
Whatever. Who needs them anyway?
He switched off the bedside lamp, held his ribs as he stretched out, and drew the covers up to his chin, wincing at the effort. He planned to go to work tomorrow, but with the pain, it wouldn’t be easy.
You don’t have to go. It is your own practice.
Then he thought of Lissa’s harsh words and knew he would have to go in as a show of strength—mental, if not physical. How dare she presume to know how he would react to the crash? True, most people found such occurrences to be life-changing events, but he was not most people. Certainly there was nothing wrong in having his previous view of life vindicated. He was important. His life was important. He knew that before, and he knew it now.
He closed his eyes and tried to expel all thoughts of Lissa from his mind.
Dora tossed the TV remote on the couch. She hated having the television scoop her story on the hero’s identity. But it couldn’t be helped; she’d given George her word.
Henry Smith.
As she’d discussed with George, it was such an ordinary name. But was he an ordinary man?
How she would love to meet Mrs. Smith. Yet the sight of the widow’s distraught face on the news had quelled any thought of bothering her for an interview. But how could Dora write what she wanted to write without talking to her?
How can I betray my own boundary of decency?
She leaned her head against the couch cushions and sighed. But my heart, Lord … I want to write about this man. I want the world to truly give him his due, not just report on his actions, but delve into what You see as important in his sacrifice. I want to somehow answer the question of why You chose him.
Her thoughts spun against each other, not staying still long enough to form a solution. Yet perhaps she couldn’t clarify her thoughts because there was no solution.
Would there ever be?
Eleven
The LORD redeems his servants;
no one will be condemned who takes refuge in him.
PSALM 34:22
Tina sat alone in her classroom, waiting for the first period bell to ring. She’d come back to the concerned voices of her fellow teachers, but she quickly felt the need to have a few moments alone before meeting up with her students.
So much had changed in her life. And yet, had anything really changed regarding her attitude toward teaching? Did she want to be here? Did she feel a renewed passion for the profession? She closed her eyes and waited for some profound wave to rush over her and spur her toward being the best teacher she could be.
Nothing happened.
She glanced at the notes the substitute teacher had left but found herself rereading them multiple times without letting them sink in. It was Mallory’s fault. Through innocent but keen insight, the girl had made Tina realize that she was a mediocre teacher. And in return? Tina had failed the girl. Just as she had failed all the students she’d ever tried to teach?
I can’t do it. I’m a flop before I even get start—
The ringing of the bell made her muscles jump and her heart beat double-time. Within seconds the sounds of conversation, footsteps, and banging lockers grew closer.
Her stomach flipped over. They were coming and there was nothing she could do to stop them.
Not a single student asked to sign her cast. Tina didn’t understand why that bothered her so much, but it did. Fellow teacher Tom Merit had broken his arm once, and his cast had been covered with students’ signatures, funny notes, and pictures. In fact, Tom had it displayed on a bookshelf in his classroom like a trophy, an expression of affection and respect. Tina felt the old opinions and points of envy return. Perhaps they were never dead. She wondered how long God would continue to take her over the same character road.
She knew the answer: Until she got it right. Yet it was such a struggle, and at the moment, she didn’t feel up to it.
Just do the job and go home. Forget about being a beloved teacher. It ain’t going to happen, Tina.
“Ms. McKutcheon?”
Tina looked up from the copy of
The Scarlet Letter that lay open on her desk. Ashley had her hand raised, her elbow supported by the other hand. How long had she been trying to get Tina’s attention?
“Yes, Ashley?”
“Can we not talk about the book today?” Ashley scanned the room, looking for support. “We can talk about that anytime. What we want to know about is the crash.”
A chorus of agreement. Tina’s heart lightened. They were truly interested. In her! Maybe things had changed.
She closed the book and received whoops of joy. She looked across her class. “So … what would you like to know?”
Mack raised his hand, and Tina was so shocked at his participation that she called on him. “Did you see any bodies?”
Tina paused in shock. “No, I did not. The only people I saw were alive, in the water.”
Mack’s face fell. “I thought there was supposed to be blood and stuff when a plane crashed.”
Jon reached across the row and swatted Mack’s arm. “That’s only if the plane crashes into the ground, not when it goes in water. All the people went in the water. Slid right in.” He made a swooshing sound and a sliding motion with his hand.
“Did you see the pictures of the cars in the parking garage?” Duncan said. “Smashed like this.” The boy swigged the last of his cola, then stomped on the can. “Wham!”
Some laughed. Others groaned.
The kids angled toward each other and continued the discussion.
“Did you see them haul those pieces out of the river? And the rows of bodies on the shore?”
“My dad’s friend works for the medical examiner, and he saw tons of them. Had to touch tons of them.”
Tina had had enough. She wasn’t needed in this discussion. They had not asked her to delay their schoolwork to talk about her experiences. They didn’t care about her. They only cared about the flash and crash. They were interested in the stuff of tabloid headlines, not in the heady emotional effects of her survival. Their discussion was an affront to the memory of Mallory, the hero, and all the others who had died.
She stood and gathered her crutches. A few students glanced in her direction, but they didn’t miss a beat of their discussion. As soon as she was steady on her feet, she grabbed her teacher’s commentary of Hawthorne’s book. The weight of it felt good in her hands.