Until Today (2 page)

Chapter Three

I rush along, trying to put as much distance between Greg and me as I can. Thank goodness Sarah ran upstairs to use the bathroom when she did. Greg's hand had slid away from my shoulder when the thunder of Sarah's footsteps rang through the house.

“This isn't over,” he whispered, before he strolled away. Even in the heat of the afternoon, his words chase chills through me.

The sight of the large, red hospital building brings relief. Stepping through the main entrance is like a final door slamming in Greg's face.

A little girl waves at me in the lobby. Melanie was admitted with pneumonia four days ago. Her eyes are clear now, no longer sunken, and her cheeks have a healthy flush. She lights up when she sees me.

“Hi, Kat. I'm going home!”

I crouch in front of her, smiling at her excitement. “That's great, Melly. Think of me the next time you read
Peter Rabbit
, okay?”

Melanie nods. “Okay. I'm having a birthday party. I'm going to be five. Mommy said I can have a new Peter Rabbit book.” She glances at her mother. “If I'm good, right Mommy?”

“That's right, Sweetheart.” Her mother rests her hand on Melanie's head and looks at me. “Thanks for spending time with her, Kat. She loved your stories. You do a wonderful job cheering up the kids while they're here.”

My steps are lighter as I walk to the children's ward. My Aunt Sheila is a doctor in Pediatrics and arranged this volunteer position for me. Some kids like me to watch television with them, while others want somebody to play or read with them. The visits can be pretty tough, depending on the moods of the kids and how serious their illnesses or injuries are. Smiles like Melanie's and words of appreciation from the parents make it all worthwhile.

“Kat, you're finally here.” Aunt Sheila rushes down the hall, glancing at a chart.

“Sorry. Jared got a late start. He wasn't very organized, as usual.”

Aunt Sheila smiles, an absent look in her eyes. The dark, seemingly permanent circles under them are proof of many hours spent at the hospital. She even smells like the hospital,
with that weird mix of stale air, medicine, antiseptics, disinfectants, and cleaning solutions that lingers in the hallways.

With an arm linked in mine, she steers me toward the nurse's station. “Kat, we had an eight-year-old girl come in through the night. She's a bit special.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, her mother claims that she fell down the stairs, but I just have a weird feeling with this one. She has a broken arm. They're waiting for the swelling to go down today before they cast it, and we're waiting for some blood work results to come back. Could you spend some time with her? The mom is watching over her like a guard dog, and the girl seems agitated by her mother's presence. Just read to her, talk to her, play with her.”

A page for Doctor Williams over the intercom has Aunt Sheila dashing away.

“Aunt Sheila, what's her name?” I shout at her retreating back.

“Taylor. Taylor Bradford. She's in room two fifty-six,” Aunt Sheila yells over her shoulder, before disappearing into a room.

Taylor Bradford. Steph had mentioned a family named Bradford that moved to town over the summer. Mrs. Bradford works with Steph's mom at the grocery store. They also have a son, Darren, who's our age. Nobody really knows much about them, and Mrs. Bradford keeps to herself. Steph has a deep love for gossip and has made it her mission to find out more
about this mysterious family. Too bad I'm bound by patient confidentiality and can't share this newest tidbit with her.

Pausing outside Taylor's partially closed door, I hear a woman talking in a hushed tone. A child whimpers at something the woman says. I knock lightly and peek in.

The little girl stares at me from the hospital bed with sad, brown eyes. Her hair falls behind her shoulders. She looks small and fragile.

“Hi Taylor, my name's Kat. I was hoping you'd like to play a game with me.”

Taylor glances toward her mother. I'm sure her mother narrows her eyes at the little girl before Taylor looks back at me, eyes downcast, and shakes her head. It is impossible to misinterpret the look of disapproval on her mother's pinched face.

Normally, with this type of response, I'd leave the patient alone and move on, but Aunt Sheila seems to really want me to spend time with Taylor. Feeling nervous, I step into the room and head to the corner cupboard where the books are kept. The familiar, musty smell of books and crayons in the cupboard calms me with its promise of escape into other worlds that only books can provide.

Grabbing the book on the top of the pile, I take a deep breath and turn to face Taylor and her mother. “How about we read a story, Taylor? I used to love Peter Rabbit when I was your age.”

“I think Taylor needs to sleep right now,” her mother says. She's perched in a chair beside the bed, as if guarding Taylor from something.

Defeated, I decide not to push the situation any further, until Taylor looks at me with sad, pleading eyes. There's something about her expression that makes me want to help her.

“I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Bradford,” I say, more determined than ever. “I always loved a great bedtime story before going to sleep. What do you think, Taylor? Would a story help you go to sleep?”

Taylor smiles shyly when I approach the bed so I can sit down beside her. I'm close enough to see the ugly blue and purple bruise on her cheek and the gash on her forehead. Her right arm is in a sling against her chest. The sleeve of her hospital gown has slid up to reveal another bruise, the size of my fist, on her left arm. I suspect there are more bruises on her legs, hidden under the white sheets.

“I'm going to sit on the bed with you, Taylor. You let me know if it hurts when the mattress shifts with my weight. Okay?”

Taylor nods. She winces once as I position myself on the bed, but never says a word.

“I don't think this is a good time. Taylor really needs to sleep right now.” Mrs. Bradford fidgets with the blanket on the bed and glances toward the door. She isn't as sour when her lips aren't pinched in disapproval. She almost looks afraid of something or someone. I can understand why my aunt has a funny feeling about something not being right.

“Mommy, please—” Taylor's plea is cut off as Aunt Sheila enters the room.

“Mrs. Bradford, would you come with me for a minute? I'd like to speak to you about Taylor's care and medication before she leaves to have her cast put on.”

“Why can't you speak to me here?” Mrs. Bradford asks.

“It's best we have a bit of privacy while Kat entertains your daughter with stories. Kat always does such a wonderful job with the children.”

Mrs. Bradford casts a reluctant look toward her daughter. It's obvious she doesn't want to leave me alone with her. “Taylor, I'll be right back,” she says. The words are forceful and seem to carry hidden messages.

Mrs. Bradford rises from the chair and glances back at us. Aunt Sheila uses the opportunity to wink at me before she escorts Taylor's mom out the door. Thank goodness for Aunt Sheila.

“Okay, Taylor. Let's read this story. Do you like Peter Rabbit?”

The little girl shrugs. “I don't know. I don't read many books.”

“Books are full of magical stories. I have a little sister about your age and she loves it when I read to her.”

Taylor looks surprised. “You read to your sister?”

I nod. “Of course. Sometimes we do other things. We play or watch a movie together, but my favorite thing is reading a book.”
Well, we used to do those things together, but not as much lately.

“I wish I had a big sister. I bet that's better than having a brother.” Taylor looks down at the bed sheets.

“Oh, I don't know. I have a big brother and we have lots of fun together.”

Taylor is quiet for a moment before she whispers, “I think a sister would be better.” She looks back up at me. “Could you read to me like you do to your sister? I could pretend we're sisters.”

Suddenly I want to hug Taylor and never let go. I've just met her, yet I feel so many different emotions – sympathy, sorrow, protectiveness, and a strange connection I can't explain. She continues staring at me with the only sign of hope in her eyes that I've seen since entering the room.

“That's a great idea. Let's get started.”

While I read the story to Taylor, she slips her hand onto my lap. When she awards me with her first smile and asks for another book, I'm all hers.

“Sure. Let's see what's here.” Rummaging in the cupboard, I talk to Taylor, hoping she'll confide in me. “Does your arm hurt very much, Taylor?”

“When I move, it does.”

“Did you fall? Is that how you hurt yourself?”

Taylor looks away from me. “Down the stairs,” she whispers.

“Ouch. Once I slipped on something on the stairs and fell. Is that what happened to you?”

Still looking toward the wall, Taylor shakes her head. “No, I just fell.”

Taylor's fingers on her free hand twist in the blanket. Instinct tells me not to push her too hard. “Okay, I found another book.”

By the time Mrs. Bradford rushes back into the room, we're on our fourth book. Taylor has actually giggled at the silliness of a Dr. Seuss story. Her hand is now resting comfortably on my lap and she's no longer fidgeting with the blanket.

“Okay Taylor, it's time for you to take a nap. We're going to go for your cast shortly.” Mrs. Bradford sounds slightly breathless. She looks at me. “I'm sure other children would love to hear one of your stories.”

Tears gather in Taylor's eyes. “But Mommy, I'm not tired. I want to hear more stories.”

Mrs. Bradford's voice becomes sharp and agitated. “I'll read you a story, Taylor. Kat has other little boys and girls to visit now.”

Taylor looks at me. “Do you really have to go, Kat?”

Mrs. Bradford cuts off my reply. “Taylor, don't question me.”

Not wanting to cause more trouble for the poor little girl, I squeeze her hand. “Your Mommy's right. I have to go see the other kids. I had so much fun with you that I forgot all about them.”

Tears slide down Taylor's cheeks. “Okay, I guess.” Taylor glances at her mother and then back at me. “Will it hurt when they fix my arm?”

I smile at her. “No, it won't hurt. Your friends will be able to sign their name and draw on your cast when you get home.”

The little girl frowns. “My friends can't come to my house.”

“Taylor, that's enough,” her mother cuts in. “It's time for Kat to go.”

With a final squeeze of Taylor's hand, I rise from the bed. At the door, I turn to say good-bye. She looks even sadder than she did when I entered the room. All the smiles are gone.

Taylor, I know exactly how you feel. I promise you are not alone.

The knot in my stomach throbs with a life of its own while I walk down the hall, reminding me that I, too, am not alone.

Chapter Four

“Sit up straight, Kat. You'll be a hunchback by the time you're thirty.”

I snort in response. “I'm not one of your precious students, Mom.”

“That's enough,” Dad cuts in. “Can't we finish breakfast in peace? I know it's the first day of school and everybody's on edge, but I don't want to listen to this.”

“Sorry, David. I'm just anxious about taking on my new class and the new principal.” Mom shuffles papers together and puts them into her briefcase. Here we go again. Dad snaps a command and Mom begs for forgiveness.

Dad turns to me. “Kat, what time is your last class? I need you home with Sarah. I have an important meeting at
four o'clock that I can't miss and your mother will be late tonight.”

“Dad, I'm working after school. My schedule has been up on the fridge for a week.”

“Your mom will give Sheila a call. She'll understand if you can't make it.” Dad glances at Mom and she nods her head like a well-trained puppy.

“No, don't call Aunt Sheila. I'm not staying home to watch Sarah. I'm not your live-in babysitter.”

“Kat, please,” Mom interrupts, trying to be the peacekeeper. “Sarah's already caught her bus, so it's too late to make arrangements for her to go to a friend's. Maybe Amy can come over later. I'm not sure if she's working at the bank today or not.”

“Great idea, Maria. Call her.” Dad sets down his newspaper and sips his coffee, while Mom walks away to call Amy.

“Yes,
sir
,” I mumble.

“What was that?” Dad snaps. “Why do you have to mouth back all the time? We never got half the lip from Jared that we get from you. Even Sarah is better behaved.”

I roll my eyes. Great way to start the school year – listening to one of Dad's lectures about why I can't be more like Jared or a little princess like precious Sarah. I hate the way he barks his commands and tries to control every situation. Sometimes he reminds me so much of Greg that it's eerie. They played football in high school, went to university together, and now they're partners in their own law firm.

Mom comes back to the table and sits down. “Amy said she isn't working today, so she can come over to stay with Sarah. I don't know what we'd do without her and Greg.”

Dad grunts and buries his nose in the newspaper again.

“It's a shame they couldn't have children.” Mom pours milk into her coffee and looks at me. “They've always been so wonderful with you kids. They love children.”

I choke on my milk. It gushes from my mouth, into my cereal, and onto the table.
Did I hear her right?

“For Pete's sake, Kat, what's wrong with you today?” Mom demands. She gets up from the table and throws the dishcloth at me. Dad glances up from his newspaper, annoyance flickering across his stern features while I cough.

Like a fool, I sputter, “Love children? I'll say he loves children – he loves them a little too much! You should be grateful he doesn't have kids of his own.”

“I don't want to hear another word from you this morning. I've had enough.” Dad slaps down his paper and stands up, his eyes narrowing.

“Fine!” I throw the dishcloth on the table, and stomp across the kitchen to my knapsack. “And don't worry…I'll have a great day. Thanks for your concern. Better yet, thanks for nothing!”

Fighting to hold back the tears, I march down our long, winding driveway to catch the school bus.

Steph and Scott are already standing at the side of the road. They live across from us, so we always catch the bus together. I try to compose myself before they see me.

“Gads, girl, couldn't you have found a new outfit to wear for our first day?” Steph yells, shaking her head in obvious disgust.

Can't anybody give me a break today?
I shrug. “At least I'm comfortable.”

I eye Steph's skin-tight white pants and fancy sandals. I would be limping by the end of the day in those shoes and wouldn't be able to breathe in the pants.

“The guys'll never notice you dressed like that. I could probably fit into that shirt with you!”

I shrug again. This is my favorite red T-shirt and I like my baggy, cut-off jeans. Attracting attention from the guys at school is the last thing on my mind. Actually, I'd prefer that they just leave me alone.

“Lay off, Steph,” Scott interrupts. “She looks fine.”

Steph glares at her brother. “What do you know?”

“I know lots. Just because—”

I cut in to stop the arguing. “Okay, you guys. Let's talk about something else. I've already had enough fighting for the day with my parents.”

Scott grimaces and Steph pouts. She hates not having the last word in any discussion. Before she can say anything else, I tell them about Taylor and my Aunt's suspicions. I'm careful not to mention any names so that I don't breach my patient confidentiality agreement.

“No way,” says Steph, obviously taken with this newest bit of gossip. I can picture the wheels spinning in her head as she tries to figure out who the family could be.

“Oh, guess who's the new principal at your mom's school,” Steph says, changing the subject.

Shrugging, I try to remember if Mom has mentioned a name.

Grinning, Steph announces, “It's that new guy in town, Mr. Bradford. Mom finally managed to get that bit of information at work the other day from his weird wife. Mom said they're calling her Mrs. Clamford because when anybody tries to talk to her, she clams right up.”

My heart drops to my stomach. How could Mr. Bradford be a principal and be beating up his own kid? Would he do that to other kids at school? Maybe Aunt Sheila's funny feeling is wrong this time.

“Hey, do you think principals have to go through some kind of screening process to make sure they're all right around kids?” I ask.

“Don't know,” Scott says, looking down the road.

“What if a principal abuses kids?” I ask, unwilling to let the subject drop.

“Gads, I'd hope he doesn't hurt kids if he's a principal,” Steph says.

Hearing Steph say
Gads
takes me back. When we were seven or eight years old, we made up the word to bug Scott and Jared. They could never figure out what it meant because we had different meanings for it all the time. Our favorites were “Guys Are Disgusting Snakes” and “Girls Are Dreadfully Smart.” Later it just became our way of saying “Gosh Almighty,
Do be Serious.” Silly as it is, we have stuck to using it over the years.

“How could that happen?” Scott asks, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “How could a guy hide something like that if he worked with kids all the time? People would know and the kids would tell.”

“Yeah, for once I guess you're right.” Steph shrugs.

I'm suddenly angry. How can people be so naïve? Do they think jerks who like to hurt kids walk around with a neon sign on their foreheads or something? Do they think it's easy for kids to come forward and tell the truth?

“Don't be so sure,” I snap, unable to suppress my anger. “You'd be surprised how much people can hide. You never know someone as well as you think.”

The bus pulls up. I walk past Scott and Steph and climb into the bus. The three of us are quiet during the ride to school.