Disaster Status (14 page)

“That’s horrible. How old were you?”

“Twelve. My sister was barely ten. Some of it’s sort of hazy now. But for some reason I mostly remember the bagpipes at the funeral and the huge line of cars and police motorcycles following our limo. Firefighters and police officers came from all over the state. A hero’s send-off. And I remember how hard it was on my mother. That day and for a long time afterward.”

“Did she remarry?” Erin asked as they started walking again.

“Yes. Fifteen years ago. Things have been good for them, except that my stepfather’s started having trouble with his diabetes. Then last year they had to deal with my sister’s death . . . and now Cody’s situation.”

His throat tightened, and he told himself he should never have started this turn in the conversation. He couldn’t talk about Colleen.
Or how I may have failed her and how Cody’s paying the price.
Erin seemed to sense his hesitation and was quiet.

They walked on toward the darkened pier, with only the sound of waves filling the distance between them. He inhaled the scents of sea-scrubbed wood and brine, trying to dispel the troubling sensation of riding a roller coaster to the top of the first hill, then hanging there endlessly—

“You were close?” Erin asked gently. “You and your sister?”

His stomach dropped like the front car on a coaster.

+++

The pain on Scott’s face broke Erin’s heart. Why had she asked about his sister? It was too new, too raw, and far too soon after the tragedy. She saw that now. She had no right to pry into his private life. Even if they’d shared this wonderful day, worked side by side to save someone’s life, it still didn’t give her the right. Did she think this tough fire captain had some by-the-book policy for reacting to painful personal loss? that it wouldn’t hurt?

“Colleen was my best friend.” The dim lights on the wharf above heightened the strong angles of Scott’s jaw. “My mother used to say that God . . . She said Colleen was sent to help balance the scale for her big brother’s stubborn broodiness. She was joking, but I know it’s true. My sister was everything I’m not—funny, good, and giving.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you to talk about her. I—”

“She shouldn’t have died,” he growled. “She didn’t deserve to be treated the way she was by that guy. It should never have happened. I should have seen it coming. I . . .”

“Oh, Scott.” Tears sprang to Erin’s eyes. She stumbled forward in the sand and wrapped her arms around him, aching to comfort him. “I’m so sorry it happened.” She rested her face against his chest, sighing as his arms closed around her. His heart thudded against her cheek as the sea continued its restless rhythm. Somewhere in the foggy distance a ship’s horn gave a low, mournful blast. They stood there in silence for a long time.

Scott’s hands slid away; then he tenderly brushed his lips across her forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For today.”

When he stepped back, her heart began to move to her throat. “Scott, I think . . . you are.”

“You think I’m . . . ?”

“Good. And giving and funny and—” She stopped when he moved close again. Her pulse quickened as he traced his fingers along her jaw and searched her eyes. She smiled and gave the barest nod.

Scott cradled her face in both hands and touched his lips lightly to her cheek and the corner of her mouth. She held her breath as he drew back ever so slightly, then covered her lips with his own.

+++

“Why are you checking under the bed?”

Sarge bolted to his knees in the darkness, blood surging to his head as he brought the broom’s wooden handle sharply across his chest. He rubbed his head, then groaned as he struggled to stand. Cody’s wispy blond hair was barely visible in the glow of the corner night-light.

“Why, Rich?”

“Dust,” he said, finally settling his weight onto the prosthesis. “You’re supposed to be asleep. It’s past ten. Homework, prayers, teeth brushed. Bedtime.”

“I . . . don’t do that anymore.”

“You should. Or you’ll end up with cavities like I did.”

“No.” The boy struggled to pull himself up in bed, murmuring as he dragged his injured leg under the sheets. “I meant that I don’t say bedtime prayers anymore. I hardly pray at all now.” His eyes looked huge in the dim light. “Do you?”

Sarge grasped the broom handle against a wave of dizziness. The bodies, the children’s faces reappeared. Then the echo of his voice.
“Father God, not the children . . .”

“Do you pray?”

“I have. And you should.” He wondered briefly if it would have made any difference if he’d done that more. “Just do it, Cody. That’s an order.”

“I don’t think my uncle says prayers anymore, either. He doesn’t come to church with us. And—” his voice quavered—“I don’t think he wants to be around me anymore. I don’t know why. But it makes me feel so . . .”

The pain in the boy’s voice brought the images of the bodies back again, and cold sweat pricked Sarge’s skin. “I have to go now. Talk to your folks about that.”

“I can’t.”

The tremble in the boy’s voice made Sarge’s heart stall. He tried not to wonder who his own son may have confided in over the years.

“They’re dead,” Cody whispered.

Sarge swore under his breath, stomach roiling as the shaky little voice continued.

“Now I’m afraid my uncle’s going away too. I don’t know what to do.”

He swayed against a vicious wave of dizziness, then checked his lighted watch. Fifteen minutes until the nurses made their next rounds, unless . . . “You didn’t call for medicine or anything, did you?”

“No.”

“So the other nurses aren’t coming in?”

“No.”

Sarge walked to the doorway to check the darkened corridor beyond. Empty. He reached for a visitor’s chair.

“You still there, Rich?”

“Yes,” he answered, dragging the chair toward the bed.

“I’m glad.”

He adjusted his leg and sat down. “I’m listening, Cody.”

Chapter Seventeen

Scott knelt at Colleen’s headstone, a speckled pink granite called Morning Rose, chosen by his grandfather after his grieving mother couldn’t. Scott had mumbled, “Fine. She’d like it,” telling a small lie rather than the larger truth that would rend his heart like the cold spade that opened her grave.
Her favorite flowers are sweet peas, not roses, and any
morning without my sister should never come.
Maybe I could have prevented this.

He drew in a slow breath of sea air made smoky sweet by the cemetery’s aging stands of cypress and waited for the pain in his chest to dull. His gaze shifted. The next stone was gray and taller, its weathered bronze plaque embossed with a firefighter’s hat, shield, and ax. His father and his sister resting side by side. Scott shook his head. He’d talked about them both with Erin on the beach last night. Why? He’d always been more careful than that. But there was something about her . . .

He thought of Erin’s excitement when she’d found the pulse on the woman they’d rescued on the wharf, then her rush of tears and her discreetly bowed head. Praying. He hadn’t missed it. Scott shifted on his knees, glancing at the headstone again.

Colleen had been the one with stronger faith. Somehow it had always been a part of her, way back to when they’d sung together in Sunday school.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”
His chest tightened at the memory of Colleen, strawberry blonde curls and missing front teeth, waving her little finger like a candle flame and swaying to the music, beaming. She did shine. Enough for both of them, or at least that was his excuse. For him, church was a great part of Sunday, like the crispy strips of bacon beside his scrambled eggs. It felt good to know that Jesus loved him . . . almost as good as thinking he’d one day make his father proud. Measure up to the man Gabe McKenna would want him to be. After his death, Scott had prayed for that above all else. But for Colleen, Sunday worship was one day of seven, all filled with unwavering faith. And with trust.

He gritted his teeth. She’d married far too young, trusting her heart to a husband who’d never deserved her. A rage-filled, controlling man who’d battered her emotionally for years, until he’d finally slammed that car into a power pole.

Colleen’s voice mail that afternoon had been nothing out of the ordinary: “Give me a call, big brother. I want to run something by you, okay?” Logic told him that it could have been anything. Any ordinary thing. She’d always valued Scott’s advice—teased him, in fact, that if she were on that game show to win a million dollars and wasn’t sure of an answer, he’d be her lifeline call. His stomach twisted at the irony as he asked himself the question that had haunted him for nearly a year: Was she going to ask his advice about going on that drive with her husband?
I would have stopped her. Saved her life.
If he’d only returned her call.

He checked his watch. Ten thirty. His grandfather, mother, and stepfather, if he was feeling better, would be here soon. After church let out. They’d finally stopped asking Scott to go with them. Even though he could see the need in their eyes, he couldn’t. Couldn’t sit there this past year without Colleen. Missing her and knowing that she’d been the one with the stronger faith. And he was the brother who’d skated by, huddling just close enough to catch a glimmer of his sister’s redeeming light.

But mostly Scott couldn’t sit in church anymore, expecting God to listen, if he’d been responsible for snuffing that beautiful light forever. The gut-wrenching pain of that was what kept him from joining his family at church and from praying. But he was glad that Colleen had passed her faith along to her son. That was what mattered now. Cody would keep her light alive.

Scott stood, wondering again why he’d talked to Erin about Colleen. And remembered how she’d moved into his arms to comfort him. The warmth in holding her close, kissing her, was unlike anything he’d felt before. Maybe because Erin was different. Passionate, fearless. He pictured her expression as the Giant Dipper’s track dropped away in front of them. She had such gutsy devotion to her career, her grandmother . . . her faith.

There it was again. He’d seen the look in her eyes when she’d asked him about prayer:
“You’re not good with that, either?”
She’d be as forgiving of his doubts about faith—his neglect of his sister—as she was of her reckless and irresponsible father. He’d never be the kind of man she wanted.

The stitches were coming out in a few days; Scott could swim again. Then he’d follow up on his job applications. It was best for everyone.

He set the bouquet of sweet peas in front of the pink headstone and walked away.

+++

“I think Elmer needs a friend.” Iris tapped the tank, smiling as the old goldfish rose toward her fingertip. He stared out at her, his mouth forming a perfect, plaintive O. She glanced toward the bathroom, raising her voice. “He looks lonely.”

“Right.” Erin’s voice echoed through the short hallway. “Or maybe hungry. He ate that last friend you bought him. And all the snails too, remember? Nana, you can’t force relationships.” Her tone was decidedly cynical. “Sometimes alone is better.”

Iris sighed.
That’s our girl, Doug.

She headed back to the couch, shaking her head. She’d bite her tongue, of course, but Erin had no business being pessimistic. Not at thirty-one and not an hour after attending church. Especially when last night she’d seemed so . . . different. Iris lifted the newspaper onto her lap. It was true. Erin had come home from her day at the beach with more than a sunburned nose; there had been a new quality to her voice, breathless and warm, with something in her eyes . . .
Dreamy
was the word Iris would have used to describe it back in her day, though the word would make her granddaughter, the boxer, cringe. Still, she was certain the look in Erin’s eyes had everything to do with Scott McKenna. Even if she’d talked mostly about the roller coaster, a new ride called the Sea Swings, how the clam chowder tasted exactly the same, and about that awful electrocution.

Iris’s gaze fixed on a newspaper photo, and her eyes widened. She studied it again to be sure, then walked toward the bathroom. “Erin?”

“I’m cleaning the tile. Twenty bucks’ worth of Eco Cleaner and this mold is still so stubborn.”

“Oh, heavens.” Iris walked through the doorway, immediately blinded by the glare. She squinted toward where Erin stood in the shower stall. “Why are the lights so bright?”

“Hundred-watt bulbs. Four of ’em.” She pointed her flowered glove at the overhead fixture. “The window’s too small, and mold thrives in darkness, so . . .”

Iris glanced at the bathroom’s solitary window. And the stained-glass sword and shield which obliterated the morning sun. She bit her tongue for a second time. Sometimes the obvious remained elusive. Even in the light of 100-watt bulbs. She lifted the paper. “It looks like you and Scott made the
Sentinel
’s Metro page. At least I think that’s you.” She pointed at the photo washed gray by the too-bright bulbs.

“Really? Let’s see.” Erin stepped out of the shower and took the paper. “Yes, it’s from far away, but that looks like my hair. Probably taken with a camera phone. The foreman tried so hard to keep everybody back.” She scanned the short article and sighed. “Good. No mention of our names. Scott made them promise. He’s had all he can stand with Pacific Point media.”

And Pacific Point itself?
Iris thought of her coffee conversation with Hugh. He’d said his grandson was pulling away, and the paramedic shifts in the Bay Area might evolve into something more permanent. Even as far away as Portland, Oregon. And then Scott would be gone. She fought the image of a heartbreaking Christmas Eve. Six-year-old Erin, sitting on the porch step, waiting for her father. Maybe her granddaughter’s wariness about relationships—as much as Iris hated to see it—was a good thing this time. She couldn’t bear having her disappointed again. Or hurt.

“But I’m sure glad he was there,” Erin said, a hint of last night’s softness returning to her eyes. “We’re good together. I mean, we work well together. I’d thought since he acts mostly as a captain, managing things at the station, that Scott would have been more hesitant with medical procedures. He surprised me.”

“Do you think you’ll be seeing more of him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her tone a touch too casual. “We’re both so busy. I’ve got my work, Faith QD takes time, and I . . .”

Have a grandmother to protect?
Iris reminded herself to avoid the topic of her volunteer work.

“Scott’s schedule’s really demanding,” Erin continued. “Plus, he’s part of the Ocean Rescue Team. And then there are the problems with his nephew, Cody.”

Iris caught herself before she could nod. Erin had no idea she’d met Cody Sorenson. Guilt prodded her. Lying . . . within an hour of attending church
.
And she’d asked Hugh McKenna to cover for her. She was a fine one to point a pious finger.

“He’s ten, and he’s a patient at Pacific Mercy. It’s fairly serious. The whole family’s had some . . .” Erin hesitated, and Iris knew it was out of respect for their privacy. She felt a rush of pride for her granddaughter’s integrity. “Anyway, it’s been a tough time for Scott.”

Erin inspected the shower one last time and frowned, then removed her cleaning gloves before switching off the glaring lights. “Besides, I’m not sure if it would work out. We’re different in a lot of ways.”

Iris’s eyes adjusted as she entered the hallway. “I think God planned it that way, darling. Difference can be a good thing.”

Erin followed her into the kitchen, and Iris was fairly certain she’d grumbled something under her breath, probably about her father. There’d been another e-mail from him this morning. Along with a conciliatory plea from her mother. Both immediately deleted, of course. And just as quickly added to Iris’s prayers.
Gracious Lord, help our little fighter learn that forgiveness shows strength, not weakness.

Erin folded her arms across her chest. Then she chuckled. “It’s your fault, of course.”

Iris turned, brows raised.

“My pathetic lack of a love life.” Erin sighed, her expression as wistful as a six-year-old’s. “I’m holding out for what you and Grandy had. I can’t settle for less.” She rested her palms on the chipped Formica counter, gazing around the small space. “You used to dance right here in this room. Start out washing dishes, end up dancing. Or arguing about politics.”

“Discussing.” Iris shook her head. “Your grandfather and his convictions—stubbornly loyal no matter how the wind blew.”

“Exactly. That’s what made it so great. You were both that way—about your relationship most of all. Solid, always there for each other no matter what happened.”

Iris looked away, her stomach beginning to sink.

“Faithful and honest. That’s why I know it’s possible. That’s why I can’t accept—” Erin touched Iris’s shoulder. “Is something wrong? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone on and on about Grandy.”

“No. It’s not that.” Iris pressed her fingers to her chest. “Really, I was just thinking I should make another pot of coffee.” She reached for the bag of beans. “And shouldn’t Annie Popp have some of those triple chocolate . . . ?”

“Brownies.” Erin glanced at the wall clock. “You’re right, and she just opened. I’ll walk down there and get some.”

Iris exhaled, relief making her shoulders sag. “Good.”

Erin tugged her sweatshirt over her head, grabbed her purse, and opened the door. She looked over her shoulder. “We’ll sit outside. It’s gorgeous out. I’ll water your hollyhocks; then you can tell me how things are going with the volunteers. I want to hear everything.”

“All right then.”

Iris ground the coffee, filled the coffeemaker, then waited while the pungent brew streamed through the brown paper filter. Erin’s words repeated over and over in her head.
“It’s your fault, of course.”

Was it? Her intelligent and compassionate granddaughter had become cynical, defensive, untrusting . . . and lonely. Erin was so quick to blame her father. Frank Calloway was an easy target. And Brad, that last boyfriend, had been so appallingly dishonest. But if Erin was basing her faith in successful relationships solely upon . . .
Is it my fault?

Iris walked over to the fish tank and knelt down beside it, watching Elmer root through the pink gravel, always searching for something better than his food pellets. Nearly two decades since that day Doug pitched all those Ping-Pong balls in an attempt to win so much more than a goldfish.

Tears welled. Erin would soon be home with a sack of Annie’s brownies, and she’d want to hear all about Iris’s volunteer work. Which was worse: hiding the fact she’d been spending afternoons sitting with Scott’s nephew or that her perfect marriage to Erin’s beloved grandfather would never stand up to inspection under 100-watt bulbs?

+++

The Sunday surfers were out in force, at least a dozen straddling their boards in the cove below Arlo’s Bait & Moor. Kids scurried along the sand chasing skimboards, dodging an older man as he tossed a stick for his tireless black Lab. Alongside parked vans, groups of young people stood talking and listening to music, women wearing smocked dresses and skirts in hibiscus prints and tie-dye, men in sunglasses and neon wet-suit jackets over plaid shorts, sand clinging to their tanned legs.