For Keeps

by Rachel Lacey

  She looked up at Merry with those heartbreakingly sad eyes. Her tail gave one shy thump against the bottom of the crate as Merry unlatched the door and let her out. “You’re just pathetic, you know that?”

  No-Name settled on the floor next to Merry with a bone-weary sigh.

  “I thought I’d figured out a way to get you into a quieter foster home, but it didn’t work out.” She stroked her fingers through the dog’s soft fur. “Since you’re still here, it’s time to make introductions, okay?”

  No-Name and Ralph had met yesterday with no problems. Ralph was calm and well socialized and had always welcomed new fosters into the home. Chip and Salsa were too young to get territorial. They’d think No-Name was their new best friend.

  No-Name herself was the wild card. She hadn’t shown any aggression, but she was very antisocial and could easily become overwhelmed being introduced to three dogs at once, especially when two of them were hyperactive puppies.

  Merry started by putting her on leash and taking her for a walk around the neighborhood. She gave the dog a chance to stretch her legs, relieve herself, and walk off as much tension as possible.

  When they got back home, she fetched the other dogs from the backyard and put the baby gate across the doorway from the kitchen. Merry dropped the leash, but kept it clipped to No-Name’s collar in case she needed to regain control quickly.

  No-Name lifted her head and stared at the three faces on the other side of the gate. Chip and Salsa bounced against the gate in unbridled excitement. Ralph stood behind them, his nub wagging rapidly, ears pricked with friendly interest.

  No-Name walked up and sniffed noses with Chip. Then Salsa pushed in, her brindle face smooshed against No-Name’s shoulder. They postured and sniffed, reaching noses over the gate to check each other out. No-Name tucked her tail between her legs but made polite introductions.

  Merry sat nearby, watching. This was good. She’d kept dogs separated in the past when she had two who didn’t get along, playing musical crates, alternating who got to be out in the house, but this was much better. This gave her more time to find someone to take No-Name.

  She left the gate up for a bit while the puppies calmed down. While they greeted, she pulled out her cell phone and sent a text message to her best friend. Miss you. When are you coming for a visit?

  Cara texted right back. Next month. Girl’s night at Red Heels?

  Merry smiled. Many a night had been toasted by martinis at Red Heels. I’m counting the days. You staying with me?

  That would be great. Thx.

  I’ll save a few foster dogs for you to take home, Merry typed.

  Ha! Matt would kill me. I’ve already got three, plus Casper and Sadie.

  Merry blew out a breath. Damn, she missed Cara.

  She watched No-Name sniff Salsa’s butt, then thumbed through her emails. Linda had sent a request to get her foster dog neutered. Trista’s foster needed more heartworm medication. John’s was still awaiting surgery to repair a torn ligament in his knee.

  And the rescue’s bank account had a whopping five dollars in it.

  That was a problem. Not only did she need more funds for them and for future dogs, but also she hadn’t exactly shared with Cara what a mess she was in, so she wanted to have it fixed before her visit next month. Merry had created Triangle Boxer Rescue, nurtured it, and watched it grow. Right now, her beloved rescue needed CPR, stat.

  This was more than a financial crisis. If TBR went under, it would be a personal failure for Merry, the loss of the one thing in life she’d really gotten right. The prospect was both horrifying and humiliating. And the impact for the dogs would be even worse. For them, this was a matter of life and death.

  With one eye still on the dogs, Merry scooted to the dining room table and opened her laptop. She sent emails to all her contacts at local pet stores and boutiques, inquiring about setting up fund-raising events. They always led to a few new adoption applications and modest donations. Plus they were fun.

  A friend of hers with a local German Shepherd rescue had mentioned recent success with Facebook. Merry logged in to the page she’d created for Triangle Boxer Rescue. A hundred and thirty-two people had liked the page. That was a lot, wasn’t it? Merry rarely found time to use social media, for herself or her rescue. She’d set up the page last year and done practically nothing with it.

  What should she post?

  After drumming her fingers against the keyboard for a solid minute, she attached a photo of Jake, the dog needing ACL surgery. She wrote, Jake needs surgery to repair a torn ACL in his right rear leg. This is a painful injury and needs to be repaired before he goes on to his forever home. We need to raise $600 to pay for the surgery. Please visit our website and make a donation so that Jake can run again!

  She hit post, then sat back with a smile. Out of a hundred and thirty-two people, surely five or ten of them would be feeling generous.

  Five minutes later, she got an email notification from Paypal that a donation had been received. “Yes!” She fist pumped the air.

  The donation had come from Cara.

  Merry scowled. Not that she didn’t appreciate her friend’s money—because she was grateful for every penny received—but Cara had given plenty to the rescue already. She needed fresh blood, a new source of funds to replace what she’d lost when her anonymous benefactor quit holding TBR’s head above water.

  Oh well. It had only been five minutes, after all.

  So maybe she’d never had to figure out how to raise enough money on her own, with that anonymous money coming in every month. It didn’t mean she couldn’t learn now. She could do it. She had to.

  The dogs had settled down. No-Name left the gate and curled up in the den by her crate. Merry decided to let her rest for now.

  Merry had to work tomorrow, but then she was off for four days, and she’d get the dogs fully integrated while she was at home.

  And, dammit, No-Name needed a name.

  * * *

  Merry arrived at Dogwood Hospital the next morning and rode the elevator to the third floor, the pediatric floor, where she’d spend the next twelve hours. She deposited her purse in her locker, then headed to the shift change debriefing led by the night shift charge nurse.

  Luckily, it had been a quiet night, and the meeting was quick.

  At the nurses’ station, she scanned the board for her assignments. Charlene was the outgoing nurse on three of Merry’s patients, which was lucky because she was a damn good nurse and meticulous with her notes.

  Merry spied her halfway down the hall and hurried after her. “Morning, Charlene.”

  “Good morning.” The other nurse smiled. “Who’ve you got?”

  “Three-oh-five, three-oh-eight, and three-ten.”

  Charlene stilled, her hand extended toward the door to Room 305. “Brace yourself. Three-ten is a one-week-old with neonatal abstinence syndrome. He was admitted last night.”

  Merry felt a wave of cold wash over her skin. The babies got to her, every time. And the ones with drug withdrawals made her want to punch something, preferably the mother. “How bad?”

  “Heroin withdrawal. Poor thing screamed most of the night. Mom’s a junkie serving time for shoplifting. Social Services is overseeing the case.”

  Merry swallowed hard, then followed Charlene into Room 305.

  Inside, four-year-old Tori slept peacefully, her face smooshed against a stuffed puppy wearing a pink tutu. From the recliner beside the bed, her mom gave Charlene and Merry a weary smile.

  “Morning, Alice,” Merry whispered.

  Charlene briefed them on Tori’s progress. A nasty stomach virus had landed her in the hospital with severe dehydration the night before last. She was scheduled to have her IV removed on Merry’s next round, and if she continued taking fluids on her own, she should be discharged after lunch.

  Doing her best not to disturb her, Merry checked Tori’s vitals and her IV insertion site, then entered everything into her online medical rec
ord. Apparently exhausted, the girl slept through it all, even having her blood pressure taken. Merry waved to Alice as she and Charlene headed for the door.

  Next up was Peter in Room 308, a little boy recovering from surgery to set a broken arm. He was awake and watching cartoons. Merry chatted with him about baseball while she checked him out, then continued to Room 310.

  The only sound inside was the rhythmic beeping of the pulse ox monitor taped to Baby Jayden’s foot as it recorded each precious beat of his heart. Merry walked quietly to the crib.

  “He’s finally asleep,” Charlene whispered from behind her. Her phone beeped a page from the nurses’ station, and she stepped out of the room to avoid disturbing Jayden.

  Air whooshed from Merry’s lungs at the sight of him lying there, in this sterile hospital room, alone. He lay on his back, swaddled snugly and wearing a blue-striped hat, his cheeks flushed bright pink. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths.

  Unbidden, her mind flashed on another baby, swaddled in a similar blanket, his face ashen gray. The pain, as always, slammed into her like a battering ram, and she pressed a fist against her mouth to fight past it.

  Not making a sound, she choked back the memory and checked Jayden’s IV. As she watched, he scrunched his face and let out a high-pitched mewl. His lower lip shook. So tiny, so innocent. He should never have to know the pain of heroin withdrawal.

  “Shhh.” Merry stroked a finger over his cheek, and he nuzzled against it, rooting for his next meal. She pulled her MedLink phone from the front pocket of her scrubs and called Jessie, her aide, to give him his next bottle. She ached to pick him up, snuggle him tight, but she didn’t.

  She’d cared for many infants here, but hadn’t allowed herself to snuggle them, to hold them against her chest and breathe in their sweet scent. Not once.

  And anyway, duty called. Her fourth patient for the day, an eight-year-old with a concussion, would be arriving soon from the ER. An intake could take an hour, easily, maybe longer.

  Jessie entered with a bottle and lifted the tiny newborn into her arms. Merry felt the pressure in her chest ease to see him held, cradled, nurtured.

  Without allowing herself a second glance, she headed down the hall to prepare for the intake of Noah Walton. She pulled up his online record. Eight years old. Concussion. Autistic. Mother was Amy Jameson.

  Merry’s brow furrowed. T.J. had an eight-year-old autistic nephew named Noah. She scrolled to Amy’s emergency contacts. Sure enough, T. J. Jameson was listed.

  What were the chances he’d visit his nephew today?

  “Shit,” she murmured, and pinched at the headache brewing between her eyebrows.

  * * *

  T.J.’s boots ate the scuffed linoleum of the pediatric floor of Dogwood Hospital as he strode toward Room 311. Noah had fallen on the playground at school, hit his head, and lost consciousness. He’d been rushed to the hospital by ambulance.

  That had been two hours ago, and T.J. was no doubt the last to arrive. As much as he hated not being here earlier for his nephew, these things were unavoidable in his profession. He’d been assisting with a complicated calving when Amy called. The calf was breach, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but potentially fatal for both cow and calf without assistance. In the end, the calf was born healthy, and its mother suffered no injuries during birth, which was the best possible outcome.

  T.J. pushed through the door, his chest compressing painfully at the sight of Noah in a hospital bed, eyes closed, his face so pale, and bare of the glasses he usually wore. Amy sat to his left, clutching his hand in hers, her eyes red and puffy. His parents were on the couch along the wall, talking quietly.

  All heads swiveled his way as he walked to his nephew’s bedside. “How is he?”

  “He has a concussion,” Amy said. “They say he’ll be okay. They just want to monitor him for a day or so. They were afraid he wouldn’t be able to tell us how he was feeling, in case there were any complications.”

  “What happened? Where were his teachers?” T.J. reached down and covered his nephew’s small hand in his. Noah’s dad had taken off years ago, as soon as his son had shown the first signs of autism. No-good piece of scum. T.J. had taken it upon himself to make sure Noah never lacked for his father’s absence.

  “They didn’t see him fall. One of the other kids saw him lying on the ground.”

  T.J. rubbed his neck. “That doesn’t make sense. He never climbs on the playground.”

  Amy nodded. “I know. Apparently he did today.”

  “He’ll be okay. He’s a strong boy.” Trace Jameson came to stand by the bed, tall and solid in a white button-down shirt with a bolo tie, jeans, and boots, the leather molded to his feet from years of wear.

  The door opened again, and the nurse who stepped inside fired T.J. up in all the wrong ways. Merry Atwater. Well, how was that for an unfortunate coincidence?

  She glanced at him as she walked to Noah’s bed, looking not at all surprised to see him, or perhaps she just hid it well. “T.J.,” she said with a polite nod, then turned to Amy. “Any change?”

  Amy shook her head. “You two know each other?”

  “We met yesterday,” Merry said. She moved efficiently, checking Noah’s IV, his pulse, and his blood pressure.

  Today her scrubs were blue with colorful balloons all over them. Noah loved balloons. He willed his nephew to open his eyes and see them.

  “Do you have livestock?” Amy asked.

  Merry glanced at her. “No, why?”

  “Oh, well, T.J.’s a large animal vet. I assumed that was how you met.”

  “Actually we were talking about the summer camp he’s organizing.”

  Amy’s eyes brightened, and she opened her mouth to continue the conversation.

  “So, how is Noah?” T.J. interrupted. “Has he been unconscious since the fall?”

  Merry shook her head. “He’s asleep, not unconscious. He became agitated by all the activity down in the ER and wore himself out. He fell asleep after he was moved here to pediatrics.”

  Those eyes. Though her tone remained polite and friendly, her big hazel eyes gave him the inexplicable urge to apologize for turning her down yesterday. But that was ridiculous, because he didn’t owe her an apology.

  He just needed to find someone who could provide therapy dogs for his camp.

  “So are you going to be helping with T.J.’s camp?” Amy asked, undeterred.

  “No,” Merry answered. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on Noah. Press the button if you need me before then, okay?”

  Amy nodded, and Merry left the room.

  Once she was gone, his sister gave him a funny look. “What was that about?”

  “I had her out to the farm to talk about helping with the camp, but it didn’t work out. I heard she has a therapy dog, but she runs an animal rescue. She wanted to bring some of her shelter dogs out and have the kids help train them.”

  “Oh,” Amy said. “That sounds perfect, actually. So what happened?”

  “I don’t want the kids hanging around with a bunch of untrained mutts from the shelter.” That was an accident waiting to happen, a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

  “She works with kids all day. I can’t imagine she’d do anything to endanger them. I think Noah would really love helping to train a dog.”

  “Dog?” The small voice came from the bed, where Noah squinted at them through heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Hey, Bud. How’s your head?” T.J. leaned against the bed. The mattress sagged next to him as his mom sat, reaching for her grandson’s hand.

  Noah shrugged, his eyes focused on the sunny yellow wall behind them.

  “Hurts, huh?”

  The boy nodded. He picked at the blanket tucked around him. He wasn’t much of a talker, especially when he was upset. T.J. could respect that. He wasn’t one to waste words himself, although it worried him when Noah withdrew within himself and quit speaking altogether.

  “You know, I got a
concussion when I was about your age,” T.J. told him. “After I bugged him about it for weeks, your granddaddy finally let me ride King, and he tossed me like a sack of potatoes. Hit my head on the fence.”

  “That’s right,” Trace said, coming to stand by the bed. “Stubborn little boy, your uncle. Your momma too. Guess it runs in the family.”

  Noah ran a finger across his blanket. “Did it hurt?”

  “So much I cried,” T.J. told him.

  Noah lay back against the pillow and looked away, still picking at the edge of the blanket.

  EmmyLou reached around T.J. and bent over her grandson. “We’re just so glad you’re all right, sweetie. You rest that sweet noggin of yours and concentrate on getting better, okay?”

  Noah nodded and closed his eyes. He thrived on routine and became agitated in new situations, so this had to be hard on him. The fact that he wasn’t more upset about his surroundings spoke to how poorly he must feel.

  While Noah slept, T.J. ushered Amy downstairs to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. She’d worked the late shift at Finnegan’s Pub last night and usually slept most of the morning while Noah was at school.

  “A concussion? It doesn’t make any sense.” She rubbed her eyes and sipped gratefully from her coffee.

  “I agree,” T.J. said. Noah struggled with his coordination and tended to avoid any sort of climbing or swinging activity that made him feel out of balance. “Do you think some of the other kids put him up to it?”

  “No, why?”

  “He mentioned something to me a few weeks ago about a couple of the other boys in class. I got the feeling he was trying to impress them, and call me cynical, but I’d hate to think anyone was taking advantage of him.”

  Amy shook her head. “I don’t think so. In fact, he’s actually made a friend from school who lives right in our neighborhood.”

  “Really?” This was news. Noah didn’t have friends. He tended to be withdrawn and quiet in class because of his autism. Still, while he struggled socially, he excelled academically and was holding his own in a mainstream second-grade classroom at East Dogwood Elementary.