Disaster Status (25 page)

He set the journal down and reached for the phone. In moments, he had the chief on the line.

“Scott, what can I do for you?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’m going to take off. I can be available by phone, but things look good here.”

“Of course. I understand. Don’t know why you came in the first place, after what happened with your nephew. Family takes priority, and—”

“Thank you,” Scott said, cutting him off.
“Family takes priority.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, battling defensive anger . . . and something far worse. “I’ll go, then.”

“No problem. Your family’s in our prayers.”

Scott hung up the phone and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. Cody was fine. He’d checked. He was asleep at his grandparents’ house. There was nothing more Scott could do. He was available as backup, the way he always was. Besides, he had to fly to Portland on Sunday. He’d tell his family all about that soon, and they’d understand. They always did. Meanwhile . . .

His gaze moved to the framed photo. And over Colleen’s face, her hopeful smile. The same smile as when she was a little girl. At Sunday school. Waving her finger and singing.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”

Scott strode to the door. He needed to get out of here. Get some air. He yanked open the door, then stopped, went back, and grabbed Sarge Gunther’s journal.

+++

Erin rubbed steam from the bathroom mirror, squinting against 400 watts of glare. Two o’clock in the afternoon, broad daylight, and The Home Depot’s brightest bulbs, yet somehow it still felt dim and dank, and—she glanced at the shower tile—
moldy
. In all the months she’d lived here, nothing she’d tried had ever fixed it. And now . . . Her throat squeezed as she tugged a comb through her wet hair. Now everything felt that way. Dim, unfixable.

She forced her sleep-deprived brain to concentrate on what she had to do. Finish her peanut butter sandwich, find Nana’s Bible, get dressed and back to the hospital. Coffee would help. No reason to fix a pot here; she’d stop at Arlo’s. She didn’t want to waste time. Leigh was standing watch in the ICU and had practically forced Erin to take a break. But her grandmother would need her when she fully awakened.
If she wakens . . .
No, she would be okay. She’d come out of anesthesia successfully. She hadn’t talked and had drifted off to sleep again, but she’d known Erin was there. Erin felt sure of it. The surgeon said it would be several days until they could be certain of her prognosis, but that he was very optimistic. There’d been no evidence of brain damage, and her vital signs remained stable.

Erin cinched the belt of her robe and padded barefoot through the living room. She caught sight of Elmer’s tank, empty in its space below her punching bag, then realized that she had no idea where the old goldfish was. She’d only heard that his bowl had been shattered in Cody’s room when . . .

Tears she’d fought all day welled in her eyes.
Oh, Lord, how could this have happened?
Yesterday morning they’d fixed pancakes right here; she’d told her grandmother about her date with Scott. And afterward, she’d walked down the beach and right into his arms. She’d finally dared to hope. What had her grandmother said? Yes, that she was proud of Erin. Because it had seemed as though with Scott she was lowering her boxing gloves a few inches. It had felt that way to Erin too. That she could trust him enough to . . . She told herself to stop thinking about it. She’d raise her fists back up before she made another awful mistake. That was smart. And now all that mattered was her grandmother. Doing what she’d asked.

She walked into the bedroom, tugged at the old dresser drawer, and lifted the worn Bible from where it lay. She held it close, letting her gaze drift to the photo atop the dresser. Her grandparents dancing at her sister’s wedding. Dressed in a lacy gown and white tuxedo, but the happiness on their faces was exactly the same as when they’d waltzed barefoot in the kitchen of this beach house.

She’d started to close the drawer when she spotted a gilded frame tucked toward the back. Beautiful calligraphy verses, with a tiny gift card from Little Mercies Gift Shop tucked along its edge. Nana’s handwriting:
“Happy birthday, darling. This reminded me of you.”
She lifted the frame, read the first lines, and her eyes filled.

She carried them both, Bible and birthday gift, to the porch. Sat on Nana’s bench, read for a moment . . . and cried.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Scott shifted his position on the rock and gazed out across the waves. The first twenty minutes of his swim, he’d felt better. Icy water, gritty sand, salt stinging his eyes, the relentless need to fight the current, muscles straining, and lungs heaving. It had been exactly what he’d needed this past year . . . since Colleen. And what he was certain he needed today, when the walls of his office began closing in and suffocating him.

So he’d pulled on his wet suit and waded out into the sea to drag his body through the surf, stroke by stroke. For the challenge, the striving, and the solitude. And as a balm to ease the edginess he’d felt these last few days, from new whispers deep inside that said he’d abandoned his family. That he’d taken the easy way out. Used his grief as an excuse to stay away. The whispers became an ugly, angry shout when he’d held Sarge Gunther’s journal in his hands. When he’d read the man’s scrawled words:
“The boy says he knows he can count on me to be here.”

He’d swum for the twenty minutes, then stopped, buoyed by the water. Remembering a demented man’s words . . . and feeling the truth in his soul. Colder than the ocean. And far, far deeper. Then he’d hauled himself out the water, returned to this big rock.

Scott forced himself to reread the journal entry. He inhaled slowly, feeling the choking sensation again despite the sea breeze.

Asked boy if he’d done homework and said his prayers. Told me he sits in church but hardly ever prays anymore. That his uncle doesn’t, either. Thinks he’s causing problems for his family. That his uncle doesn’t want to be around him anymore. Cried hard. Kid has nobody he can talk to. Now he’ll lose his leg. Must get him out.

Scott traced his finger down the page, past what looked like a shopping list—
“jerky, water, comics for boy.”
Then found the entry he was looking for.

Boy calls me a superhero. Counts on me now. Must save him.

As Scott shoved the journal into his swim bag, his grandfather’s words—impossibly, only this morning—echoed in his mind. What he’d said, after Scott told him about that last conversation with Erin. How she’d said he couldn’t be counted on and implied he didn’t measure up to the kind of man she could care for. He’d asked his grandfather if he thought she was right, and he’d answered with questions of his own:
“How do you see yourself measuring up? And more importantly what do you measure yourself against? That’s where you’ll find your answer.”

Scott shivered as the breeze moved over his damp skin. The truth was that he’d been measuring himself against Gabe McKenna’s legacy for as long as he could remember. A legend, a hero . . . the man lying in a grave next to his sister. So he’d chased a career and basked in the light of his sister’s faith and her goodness. Without ever completely stepping up. For Colleen, when she smiled bravely despite her heartaches, for his parents in this long, stressful year since her death, and for Cody, who’d been heartsick and lonely. And now he suddenly measured his success by a job in Portland?

He started shaking. The ugly truth was that Sarge Gunther stepped up . . .
when I failed.
Erin was right. About so many things. He needed to finally get it right. With his family, his life . . . and with God. If he didn’t do that, his life would be worthless.

He bowed his head, tears sliding down his face as he whispered against the soft rush of the waves, “Lord, I hear you now. I’ve had it all wrong. I want to measure up to be the kind of man you’re asking me to be. Please help me do that.”

+++

Leigh set her knitting in her lap and raised her arms, stretching in the chair beside the ICU bed. Iris had slept since they’d moved her from the recovery room. Erin had been there to see her grandmother open her eye—one was still swollen shut—and follow a few simple commands. She’d stood by when they took the endotracheal tube out of her throat before moving her to ICU. But then Leigh had insisted she go home to get that Bible and take her time.

She glanced at the clock. Two thirty. Erin had made it almost twenty minutes without calling. Hopefully, that meant she’d taken a nap; the woman was running on fumes. Or prayers, more likely. That was Erin. And that was fine, but she still needed food and sleep. People couldn’t function without those bases covered. Leigh knew—she’d tried it last year. And very nearly came undone.

She picked up the baby cap she’d been knitting, worked for a minute, dropped a stitch, and set it back down. Why had Nick called? The message had said that it was urgent he talk with her. She’d wrestled with whether to ignore it, then tried his numbers, home and cell, twice in the hours since she’d received his message. No answer. There had been something in his voice . . .

Iris moaned softly beside her.

Leigh stood and touched the woman’s shoulder; she was still asleep. Leigh checked the monitors: BP normal, heart rhythm, pulse, and oxygen level . . .
better than mine, probably.
She glanced at Erin’s grandmother, her heart tugging for this elegant and courageous former nurse, missionary, recent widow, and faith-filled firecracker just like her granddaughter. Now lying with her head wrapped in bandages, bruised and swollen.

Leigh looked up as someone called her name from the doorway. “Judy. Hi. How’s my ER doing without me?”

“Fine. But there’s someone here to see you.”

Leigh shook her head. “Well, I can’t leave now. I promised Erin I’d stay. Who is it?”

“He says he’s your husband.”

+++

Erin read the words a second time, her heart crowding into her throat.

A strong woman works out every day . . .

but a woman of strength kneels to pray, keeping her soul in shape . . .

A strong woman isn’t afraid of anything . . .

but a woman of strength shows courage in the midst of her fear . . .

A strong woman won’t let anyone get the best of her . . .

yet a woman of strength gives her best to everyone . . .

A strong woman makes mistakes and avoids the same for tomorrow . . .

a woman of strength realizes life’s mistakes . . . thanking God for the blessings as she capitalizes on them . . .

A strong woman walks headfirst with no doubt in her mind . . .

but a woman of strength knows God will catch her when she falls . . .

A strong woman wears the look of confidence on her face . . .

but a woman of strength wears grace . . .

A strong woman has faith that for the journey she’ll have enough . . .

but a woman of strength knows it’s in the journey she will become strong.

She set the framed poem down, the bittersweet irony making her eyes fill again. She’d hinted she needed a new punching bag—after nearly slamming the one she had to smithereens—and instead her grandmother planned to gift her with a lesson for her soul.
“A strong woman won’t let anyone get the best of her . . . but a woman of strength gives her best to everyone . . .”

Her grandmother had listened patiently to her angry rant last night. About Scott, how he’d abandoned Cody, how he was like every other man she’d ever known, the same as all the weak and flawed men who’d lied to her. Hurt her. Nana hadn’t judged her, and then this morning she packed up her goldfish to go visit a boy who needed comfort.

Erin hunched forward, hugging her arms around her stomach, remembering how she’d stalked off this morning when her grandmother tried to explain what happened in her marriage. She’d refused to listen. Because it hurt to hear it, because . . . She groaned, recalling her own selfish words:
“How can you do this to me . . . ?” To me.
She’d made it about herself.

She squeezed her eyes shut against a painful rush of memories seen in new light. She’d run to her grandparents—to this house—all these years, expecting them to bandage her wounds. And to validate her angry disappointment in her father’s repeated betrayals, in what she saw as her mother’s weakness in always, always offering him another chance. Loving him . . . forgiving him.

And all the while, her grandparents had their own troubles, their own private pain. Such heartbreaking pain that summer Erin was fourteen. They were trying to save their marriage during those very weeks she was chipping away at the stained glass right here at the beach house. Cutting her fingers, cursing the unfairness of life while piecing together that soldered testament to her all-consuming anger. The sword and shield that still hung in bathroom window, shadowy and dark, and—

The truth hit home again.
Dark . . .
She stood, legs weak, and walked back through the living room, past Elmer’s empty tank and her punching bag. She grabbed her grandmother’s step stool and carried it into the bathroom with the moldy tile she’d been fighting against for six long months. She set the stool in front of the window, stepped up, and lifted the stained glass away . . . letting the sunlight flood in.

Erin paused just long enough in the living room to take down the punching bag, then went back to her grandmother’s bench and sat, eyes closed and palms up. She took a breath of sea air and let it out slowly, lifting her face toward the heavens, the way she’d seen her grandmother do for as long as she could remember.

“Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “please give me the strength . . . to finally hear you.”

+++

Nick Stathos stood with his back to her, in worn jeans and an old leather flight jacket, and the sight of him made Leigh’s breath catch. It had been that way the first time she’d met him, but now—after what he’d done to her heart,
her life
—the reaction seemed like sacrilege. As if her very senses were taking his side. Anger, as effective as a Kevlar vest, rose to protect her as she strode through the door of the chapel, arms crossed over her white coat.

“I’m here,” she said, voice curt, “but only to tell you that I have nothing to say, so—” He turned, and her heart climbed her throat, choking the words.
Nick
. He’d lost some weight, his hair was a little too long, but he was the same. So much the same.
Please go away.

“Leigh . . .” He took a step toward her, then stopped, arms dropping awkwardly to his sides as if he’d forgotten everything for a moment and had almost wrapped them around her. His eyes, dark as his leather jacket, met hers. “Thank you for seeing me. I didn’t think you would.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, glancing at her watch, more to avoid his eyes than check the time. “I’m not staying to talk. I have a patient in the ICU. And . . .” She looked back at him, willing herself to find the right words, summon the anger, and remind herself she had an appointment with a divorce lawyer Monday. “There’s nothing to discuss. I won’t talk about us. I don’t even
think
about us anymore. Nothing you can say will change my mind, so don’t—”

“Stop. I’m not here to harass you about your decision. You don’t have to threaten me with a restraining order again.” Nick regarded her as if he were negotiating a hostage situation. “I came here as a favor. Period. It’s Caroline. She’s in a mess again. She got arrested.”

Leigh’s stomach sank. “No . . . when? Why?”

“Last night.” He sighed, his concern obvious. “A DUI. And she sideswiped a parked car. So . . .”

“You mean she’s in jail?” Leigh gripped the neckline of her scrub top, her mind whirling. This couldn’t be happening.

“She was. They kept her overnight. I picked her up this morning. She made me promise that I wouldn’t tell her parents. Or you. But there’ll be a hearing. And I think you should be there.” His eyes filled with compassion. He cared for her sister. Leigh knew that.

“She’s being reckless again,” Nick continued. “She needs treatment, not jail time. Maybe even inpatient for a while. I think, between us, we have the influence and the resources to make that happen.”

“Where is she now?”

“At our house. Her nurse friend—you remember Angela—she’s with her. But she needs you. I’ll go . . . somewhere else. If you’ll come back.”

Come back?
Leigh stared at him, the protective anger replaced by stunned confusion at what Nick had just proposed. All of it. That they try to have her sister admitted for substance abuse treatment, that Leigh return to San Francisco and live in their house, and that Nick would go somewhere else.
Somewhere else?
With . . . ?
Her heart gave a dull thud. She wasn’t sure which of those things sickened her most.