The Last Detail

by Lisa J. Lickel

  A deep crease appeared between Merit’s brows.

  “Hello, Hudson?”

  She accidentally activated the speaker phone button in her fumble-fingered haste and the sound of agonized groaning filled the Jeep. Merit’s eyes widened and settled on the instrument in her hands.

  “Amalia.” Hudson’s voice wheezed out. “You’ve got to come. Help me. I think I’m dying. It hurts so much. Please.”

  “Hudson, what’s the matter? Did you fall?”

  “I need you, Amalia! The pain.”

  Merit grabbed the phone. “Demarest, this is Merit Campbell. I’m an RN. Can you tell me where you feel pain?”

  “On my…chest. Like something he…avy.”

  “Where are you?”

  “H-home.”

  “Lie down. Help is on the way. Hang on.” Merit flipped the phone shut and threw it back to Amalia. “Call nine-one-one. When I get close, remind me which way to turn to get to his place.” He revved the engine. Amalia hurried to do as he asked.

  When they pulled up to the circle drive in front of the double doors to Demarest’s, Amalia jumped out and ran through the lobby of the funeral home, Merit at her heels. She shoved open the door to his private quarters to see Hudson prone on the floor, still.

  Merit sped past her and immediately knelt and listened intently to his chest, probed under his jaw for a pulse. “He’s not breathing.” Merit checked Hudson’s airway and began administering CPR.

  Amalia watched, trembling and wondering if she could remember the first aid training she’d had last year when the Chamber offered a course. Hudson looked so pale.

  “Why don’t you wait for the ambulance,” he told her during the switch from compressions to breaths.

  She felt nauseated and hustled back to the doors of the funeral home for fresh air, where the flashing lights and siren of the of a Fox Falls Rescue unit brought relief. She beckoned the vehicle to drive under the canopied entrance.

  As she led the team members into Hudson’s apartment, she saw Merit gently guide Hudson’s head to the side as he choked and sputtered, gasping. Hudson’s watery eyes flashed with a helplessness that tore at Amalia’s conscience.

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you, Lord,” Amalia whispered. She watched Merit greet the paramedics and quickly report. Mary Jo, one of Amalia’s neighbors, put a mask over Hudson’s face as they settled him on a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance. “Would you like to go with him?” she asked Amalia.

  One look at Hudson’s pleading eyes over the mask and she agreed. The ride seemed to go by in a flash of blurred high-pitched whine mingled with static and the smell of antiseptic. She jumped out of the way when the door opened, then followed as far as the swinging doors to the emergency room.

  A former bridge partner of her mother’s sat on duty behind the reception desk. She guided Amalia to a seat and thrust a cup of water in her hands before going to answer the phone. Only then did she remember that she had left Merit at the funeral home and hoped he’d hurry to sit with her. Seated at the edge of an orange plastic chair in the dingy waiting room, gripping the edge with tense fingers, she jumped when a hand touched her shoulder. She lifted hers to cover it. “Oh, Merit.”

  Pete sandwiched her hand between his as he stepped into her line of sight. “It’s me, Amalia. Merit told me what happened. Have you heard anything yet?”

  She shook her head, then blinked at the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

  “Merit didn’t say, but I gathered you got to Hudson first? And Merit performed CPR?”

  Amalia took the tissue he held out to her to dab at her eyes. “I couldn’t handle it, but Merit knew what to do.” She babbled on for a few more minutes, grateful for Pete’s calming presence. She finally turned off the flow of garbled words when he asked to pray with her.

  “Father, we ask you to hold Hudson in your hands. Bless the doctors and nurses working on him, spare his life, we pray. Give us strength to accept your good will. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Amalia met Pete’s eyes with a watery sniff and squeezed his hands. “Thank you.” He stayed, making small talk or staying silent until she felt uncomfortable. “Please, Pete. I appreciate your company, but I feel guilty about keeping you from other business. I have your number. How about I call if we need anything?”

  He nodded. “Shall I have Cherie or somebody else come here to wait with you? Did you call Jordyn?”

  “Thanks. I’ll call Jordyn in a little while. I just want to be alone for now.”

  Pete patted her hands. “Okay. Please call me right away if you need anything at all.”

  “I will.” Numb, Amalia watched him leave. She wandered into the restroom and splashed water on her face. She looked at her reflection in the rusty mirror. Too pale. She pinched her cheeks and stared. Amalia ran her fingers along her cheek where Merit had touched her last, then her lips where he would have kissed her.

  He had spoken of love. But not necessarily for her.

  Merit had worked hard to save Hudson. She assumed he’d come right behind her. He should be here, with her, if he loved her. Waiting felt like torture. Merit must not have meant he loved her, only that… Oh, stop it! Get a grip.

  Amalia returned to the waiting room and checked her cell phone. A message from Cherie. She called Hudson’s answering service. Dealing with business helped settle her emotions. She even felt proud of the firmness of her voice when she told Hudson’s back-up what had happened. Other funeral providers in the community helped each other out during times of vacation or workshops. They would all step in for Hudson now.

  Half an hour later Dr. Brenquist, the same doctor who had cared for Amalia’s mother, came to talk to her. “I don’t plan on surgery at this point,” the middle-aged woman said. Amalia gave her a shaky, relieved smile. “He had two blockages. We put in stents. He’s conscious, but I’d like him to rest. I’ll take you to see him if you promise not to stay long.” Brenquist pressed her hand then guided Amalia to the ICU. “You can both thank Mr. Campbell for his quick actions. He probably saved Hudson’s life. Or at least a good portion of his heart function.”

  Hudson looked deflated in the bed, somehow smaller in the pale blue gown. A monitor ticked away in the background, and clear oxygen tubes crossed his gray cheeks to his nose. She gently brushed his forehead and his eyes opened. They looked foggy, nothing like his usual crisp gaze.

  “’Malia.”

  “I’m here, Hudson. Shh.”

  He moved his hand to weakly grasp hers. “Please. Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Stay.”

  “I will. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

  “I’ll always need you, my darling. I missed you so. I don’t think I can go on without you.”

  “Shh. I’m here.”

  “For how long?’

  “Shh.”

  “I’ll die without you. I know I will.”

  “Hush, now. No, you won’t. The doctor says you’re okay, Hudson. She’s not even going to operate.”

  “It hurt so much.”

  “I know.”

  “If it happens again, I’ll die. Please, stay with me.”

  “I will.”

  “Always. Marry me. Right away.”

  “Hudson.”

  “Say you will.”

  “Shh. Rest now.”

  “Not until you say you will.”

  The machine behind Hudson’s bed began an angry pinging. Amalia stood, frightened. “I will, Hudson, I will. Try to relax.” She would tell him anything to quiet the machine. Anything. Even if she never meant to follow through.

  A nurse came rushing in to check on the monitor and adjust the oxygen flow. Amalia stepped out of the way.

  The nurse sent Amalia a stern but curious look. “He should rest.”

  “I know,” Amalia told her. “I’m leaving.” Amalia reached to touch Hudson’s shoulder. “I’ll be back later.” She straightened and stepped through the door, stopped up sh
ort by the solidness of Merit.

  His eyes appeared enormous in his white face. He held his folded arms across his chest almost as though hugging himself. “He looks better.”

  Amalia didn’t trust her voice yet. Her lips trembled and she clamped them tight. He followed her back to the waiting room where she took a deep breath. She looked into his face and forced herself to speak calmly. “Doctor Brenquist said you saved his life. I’m—we’re both so grateful. I don’t know what I would have—”

  “You would have been fine.”

  Amalia couldn’t help flinching at the coldness of his fingers when he touched her arm. His indrawn breath, one of pain, made Amalia close her eyes. When she swayed, she opened them. “I’m so sor—”

  “Me, too. I have to go. You’ll be all right.”

  She watched Merit’s back disappear around a corner. He couldn’t have heard her tell Hudson that…that… Could he? Her foolish and rash words to Hudson. Of course she hadn’t meant them. She had already told Hudson she would not marry him. Once he recovered, he’d realize he didn’t need her. But why would Merit care? It’s not like he wanted to marry her.

  What a mess, what a mess, what a mess. Where had he gone?

  Unable to face any more questions from anyone, Amalia called Sam and his taxi to take her home.

  Cherie barged right into the house about seven that night, not bothering to knock. She sat next to Amalia on the sofa and rocked her like a child.

  “Cherie, what have I done? What have I done?”

  * * *

  Amalia drove Hudson home the next day. The next week, Amalia took him into the nearby city of Peru to the cardio rehabilitation unit at the bigger hospital there. Since he had no family close by and told his parents not to come, she checked on him daily. She took notes during the meeting with the dietician. As time went on, she was the one who badgered him to do the exercises that the therapist taught, urged him to take his vitamins and his medicine, and watched his eating habits. For the life of her, she could not come up with even one close male friend whom they could both rely on to see to his needs. By the second week, Amalia tired of his complaints of weakness and loss of appetite. The doctor called his progress normal.

  One afternoon when he groused over lunch about missing work, then whined about being too upset to take a nap, Amalia lost patience. “It’s time to consider a home health aide.”

  Hudson wrapped his silk jacket tighter around him, reminding her of a character in a 1940s stage play. “Really, that’s not necessary. You’re doing a commendable job.”

  “But I have to spend more time on my own business. You know I can’t continue to wait on you every minute. I think it will be better for you.”

  “I don’t want anyone else but you. Besides, when we’re married, everything will be all right.”

  Amalia sighed. “Hudson, you know I’m not really going to marry you, right? We talked about it.”

  “My dear, I think you ought to reconsider. We have a history. And now I’m so weak. You’re the only one who knows how to care for me, how to help me during my time of need.”

  “You can’t manipulate a woman into marrying you.”

  “I just think we should take our time thinking this through.”

  Amalia wouldn’t give in to Hudson’s way of thinking, yet she had apparently had no other pressing suitors for her hand. Merit had all but vanished from her life. “I’ll give you another week, and that’s it.”

  Over the next few days Hudson seemed determined not to change his ways. He complained about her suggestion to take a walk around the block for exercise and continued to eat whatever he pleased. She curled her lip at his one concession. “See, my dear. I’ve started to use light sour cream,” he said, as he slathered his baked potato with spread from a plastic container during one of their rare dinners.

  Fat lot of good that would do.

  They also argued over her trips to Chicago to see the Nehrangese families she had met earlier in the summer. Hudson insisted that she leave the refugees alone, to the point that she stopped mentioning the results of the funds raised at the farmer’s market, or the amount of goods gathered for her next trip.

  “My final word on the subject is that their own country should be responsible for them,” he said during coffee hour one Sunday at church. A table full of his cronies listened politely. “You feed them, and they’ll never learn to do for themselves. We must cease enabling them.”

  She laughed inwardly. And what did he call their current relationship? Amalia blithely ignored him. He did not have any business telling her what to do, after all. The Nehrangesi needed her. Working with the refugees satisfied her desire to practice her faith in a way that serving the people of her home town couldn’t meet. Yet Amalia had to admit they were also a tie to Merit, one that she didn’t want to give up even if the two of them would never be more than acquaintances.

  The families were scheduled to be moved quite soon so the dorm could be readied for the return of students at the end of summer, so she set aside the day for one more visit. Jordyn had helped stockpile several crates, including a selection of children’s books and cooking utensils and dry goods. They packed Amalia’s car.

  In Chicago, Marianne Friese greeted her with open arms. “It’s so good to see you again, Amalia. Thank you for your faithfulness.”

  Picking up crates of canned goods, she and Marianne chatted as they walked into the lobby of the building. “How is Jancin’s baby this week? Any better?”

  “Oh, yes. And little Bunty’s been asking you to read to him.”

  “I can’t wait to see him again, Marianne.”

  “The good news is we’ve found a building. It’s on the south side—”

  “Closer to me.”

  Marianne laughed. “Yes. Still temporary. The Ripe Harvest Ministry has taken an interest and leased a floor in one of their buildings.”

  “Thank the Lord. I have several crates of supplies that should go right there, I believe. I’ll make certain to get directions from you before I go.”

  Noise of their arrival brought several people who eagerly helped unload the food and medical supplies that were needed immediately.

  Amalia enjoyed watching them, speaking haltingly in her atrocious accent. She had learned some vocabulary, but the syntax defeated her. The word order of the sentences made little sense to her, as the people put the most important information at the beginning of their conversation. Used to structured nouns and verbs and subjects, Amalia’s word choice constantly made them laugh. Only Bunty took her in hand and tried to help her understand. He wanted to learn English even more than she wanted to know his language.

  Gradually Amalia pieced his story together. He had seen the bodies of his parents and baby sister under the house that fell on them when the ground shook. He made her understand through words and sign language and help from Marianne that he had been pulled out by a neighbor and left in the yard, and had not seen any of them since. His young female cousin plucked him from the mud and took him with her.

  “Bunty. Hello,” Amalia greeted the youngster, who stopped short of giving her a great big hug. Bunty eyed some older boys who had gathered near the door. He offered a tight-lipped sober smile.

  Amalia stepped out of the way of men carrying a large cooking pot outside in preparation for the evening meal. Amalia realized the little boy’s dilemma in a flash. He could not allow himself to be seen as weak in front of the others. Talking to a woman, or needing a hug, would be a sign of childishness. Her heart ached to hold him, to not let him to be influenced by older, tougher boys who might make fun of him. Neither could she ask him to help her with anything that might be deemed feminine, like cooking or carrying something for her. A man walked past, carrying one of the boxes of books. She took a step forward to stop him, as those were things she would take to the new building. She glanced at Bunty. It would be worth moving the books again, if he could help sort them.

  “Bunty, since you are so advanced in l
anguage skills, I wonder if you would honor me by sorting books,” Amalia said slowly and loudly, so that her voice carried to the group nearby.

  “Yes, madam. I would be honor-ful. Help-ful.” With a glance in the direction of the older boys, he stuck his chin in the air and led the way into the building past the others, Amalia a step behind to show her respect. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the boys nudge each other and nod. She heaved an inward sigh of relief. But who championed the little boy when she could not be here?

  As Bunty helped make stacks of picture books and chapter books, Amalia dreamed of motherhood, especially with a child like Bunty. She smiled at his curly dark hair, his brilliant eyes shining with joy at the simple task. A child of her own…one she could read to, cuddle with, tuck in bed and teach prayers. A little girl or a little boy who would play ball…with who? His father? Someone like—

  A bell jingled in the lobby, accompanied by Marianne’s call to dinner. Amalia shook herself, and urged Bunty out the door. Hudson wanted a son.

  Hudson? Why did she think about him?

  Merit had not spoken to her since that day in the hospital. While she felt sure that a fragile beginning to a deeper relationship between them would never have a chance to play out now, she still did not plan to marry Hudson. But could she be a mother anyway? A single mother to a child like Bunty? Amalia allowed the thought to take root. Hudson thought she would soon be too old to be a mother. He had a point.

  Careful, Amalia, you don’t know anything about parenting.

  Amalia took up the other side of the internal argument. But Cherie did. Cherie would help her, guide her. And Bunty could go to school. But could she adopt? Where did she find the information? Details were her specialty. And Marianne would know about these things, too.

  Another Nehrangesi family hustled across her path on the way outside. Taking refuge behind the lobby desk, Amalia put her elbows down and leaned over. When she realized she mussed the papers, she straightened. She did not want to pry, of course, but a bold signature caught her eye. “J Campbell” scrawled along the bottom of a memo.

  J Campbell.