Coffeehouse Angel (17 page)

"It says in here that the third-most common thing people ask for is love." He raised his eyebrows. "Is that what you might be desiring? Love?"

Before I could deny anything, or get defensive, or even laugh, my grandmother appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Katrina!" She held her hand over her chest. "I...I...I--" Her face clenched in pain. She staggered, reaching for the counter.

Malcolm caught her as she fell.

T
hey wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance. There wasn't enough room or something stupid. The paramedic put a mask over my grandmother's face, which was my last image of her before they closed the ambulance doors. I tried to call out, tried to tell her not to be scared, but the words wouldn't come. How do you tell someone it's going to be okay when it doesn't look like it's going to be okay?

Would she die with a horrid plastic mask on her face-- with only a stranger in a uniform at her side?

"You should have a bigger ambulance!" I yelled as it drove away.

I ran into the coffeehouse and grabbed my grandmother's car keys and purse. I felt light-headed. I couldn't breathe fast enough. From far, far away, Ratcatcher meowed, begging for attention. I stumbled for the back door. Nothing mattered, not the magic bean, not Vincent's love life, not the checklist or the Health Department or the unpaid bills. The weight of the moment crushed me as my grandmother lingered between this world and the next. A moment like that puts everything into perspective.

We kept the old Buick in the alley, next to Mr. Darling's hybrid. The starter motor churned as I turned the key. I'd gotten my license three months ago, after lessons from Vincent's dad, but had only driven the car a handful of times. I turned the key again. It didn't start. Why wouldn't it start? The tank was half full. "Start." I turned it, and turned it, and turned it. I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. "START!"

Malcolm slid onto the passenger seat. He closed the door, then wrapped his fingers around my hand as I desperately gripped the key. "Try it again," he said calmly. One more turn and the engine started. His hand lingered for a moment, then he pulled away and looked out the window. It felt right that he was sitting beside me, as if he belonged there. As if I'd always driven with him next to me.

I backed out of the alley, then turned onto Main Street. The nearest hospital was located in Bremerton, a thirty-minute drive from Nordby Harbor. I had only been to the hospital once before, when Irmgaard had slipped in a puddle of spilled coffee and had gashed her leg. During that visit I hadn't felt sick to my stomach--hadn't felt as if my world could disappear as easily as coffee grounds in a windstorm.

Don't let her die,
I repeated in my head, over and over and over. "Malcolm, do you think she's going to die?" He didn't say anything. I nearly drove through a red light. "I don't want her to die. Do you understand? That's what I want more than anything in the world. That's what I most desire."

"I believe you. But I don't have the power of life or death." He pushed back his hair.

"I'm sorry."

My stomach curled into a knot. Something bad was going to happen.

We drove into the city. Store lights and headlights rushed by in an endless river. I turned into a crowded parking lot. This was the only hospital for the entire county.

Emergency Room
glowed in red letters from across the pavement. An ambulance sat outside the automatic doors. I parked crooked, taking up two spaces, then I leaped out of the car and ran as fast as I could.

What is that smell that greets you when you step into a hospital? Cleaner?

Formaldehyde? Vomit? Or is that what fear smells like, leaking out of the pores of the patients and their families? The overhead lights nearly blinded me. I squinted, looking for directions.
Waiting Room. Restrooms. Information Desk.
My anxiety doubled as I hurried toward the desk. A black woman sat there, her hair pulled into dozens of tight braids.

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for my grandmother."

"Her name?"

"Anna Svensen." Tears pooled in my lower lids. Her name had never sounded so small, so delicate.

The woman typed, looked at her monitor, then typed some more. "She's not listed."

"They brought her in an ambulance."

"When?"

"Just now."

"It takes a while for the patient's information to show up on my screen. Please take a seat and I'll call you as soon as it becomes available." She spoke kindly, which struck me as miraculous at one o'clock in the morning.

"But where is she? Is she dead?"

"They're probably assessing her. As soon as her name pops up, I'll call you. Your name?"

"Katrina Svensen."

"And what is your relationship to the..." The woman stopped talking. Her brown eyes widened as she stared over my head. I didn't need to turn around. I knew that Malcolm stood directly behind me, not only because the hellish stench had disappeared, but because the receptionist looked like she might swoon.

"Hello?" I waved my hand until she blinked. "How long do you think I'll have to wait before her name pops up?"

"Not long. Please take a seat in the waiting room."

When a receptionist says "Not long," she actually means "Oh, somewhere between NOW and ETERNITY."

I immediately despised the waiting room, with its plastic blue chairs and cold linoleum floor. Waiting was not what I wanted to do. Waiting accomplished nothing.

Worried people sat in that horrid room, wringing their hands, trying to find distraction in copies of
Field & Stream
and
Good Housekeeping.
An enormous fish tank sat in the corner. Fish tanks are supposed to be soothing with their little
bubble-bubble
noises and their soft colors. But even the languid movements of the fish didn't calm me. The only place that felt safe was next to Malcolm, who stood in front of the aquarium. The tank's light danced across his face. Just a few days ago I had wanted him to go away, but now I was drawn to him, seeking that familiar scent and the aura of warmth that radiated from his body. Seeking the calm that I used to find in Vincent.

I clenched my jaw. Was she okay? Was she in pain? If Malcolm hadn't been there to catch her, she might have broken a hip or worse.

He leaned closer to the tank, his eyes darting with the fish's movements. "I understand this sensation."

"Swimming?"

"No. Captivity."

"You don't like being a...messenger?"

"It's not a matter of liking or disliking. It's what I've been chosen to do." He crouched, nose to nose with a clownfish. "I'm not supposed to feel this way."

"You mean, like you're stuck?"

"Yes." He whispered the word, then turned and looked up at me. Something had changed in his eyes. His gaze had intensified and I couldn't break away. I didn't want to break away.

For the first time since meeting him, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I had never said "Hey, I really want to spend most of my free time working in my grandmother's coffeehouse." But she needed me. So I worked. There was a time when I really enjoyed it, back when the place was crowded. I knew what the regulars wanted without even asking. I could work the phone and the register at the same time and keep all the orders straight. We'd all share stories and town gossip, like it was just a big communal living room. But now I felt imprisoned by a place that no longer fit, like trying to press a growing foot into last year's shoe.

A siren snapped me back to the waiting room. The entry doors opened and a paramedic rushed in, pushing an old man in a wheelchair. Another paramedic held an IV above the old man's head. They disappeared through a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway.
No Admittance.
My grandmother was somewhere behind those doors. Maybe dying. Maybe already dead.

"Katrina Svensen?"

I rushed to the reception desk. The receptionist smiled politely.

"Your grandmother is in intensive care. No visitors are allowed until they've stabilized her."

I clutched my grandmother's purse. She was unstable, like a three-legged chair, like Lars without his cane--like a person teetering between life and death. "Is she going to be okay?"

The woman piled some papers onto her counter. "These need to be filled out. Do you have her insurance card?"

"I'm not sure."

She placed a pen on top of the pile and raised her eyebrows. "Someone has to fill these out. Her insurance information is required."

I shuffled through the papers. So many questions: Social Security number, current medications, primary and secondary insurance. I didn't know any of that stuff.

"Can't I just see her and then fill these out?" I pleaded.

The receptionist shook her head. Her braids jingled. "I can't let you go back there until the nurse or doctor says it's okay."

"But I'm not a visitor. I'm her granddaughter."

"It's policy."

"I just want to know what's happening."

"And you will. Soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know."

Newscasters often use the phrase "something snapped." The guy who walked into the post office and started shooting people, or the woman who ran her husband over with their car--they were both perfectly normal people until
something snapped.
What is that
something?
Is it actually a part of the brain that fills with frustration until it stretches to the point where it explodes?

Malcolm stood staring at the fish, lost in their watery world. I couldn't stand it one second longer. I ran for the double doors, burst right through them, my head whipping left and right. Where was she? The old guy in the wheelchair sat in the first room. He was moaning as someone in scrubs examined him. I gripped my grandmother's purse, scurrying down the hall like an escaped lunatic in my bathrobe and slippers. I found a pregnant woman who was breathing really fast. A doctor told her that they were going to take her to surgery for a C-section. The next two rooms stood empty. I found a supply closet and some blinking machines. WHERE WAS SHE? The hallway seemed to stretch on and on forever, reflecting the overhead lights like a nightmarish house of mirrors.

"Young lady, you're not supposed to be in here." A security guard grabbed my arm.

"You'll have to wait in the waiting room."

"But..." I considered hitting him with the purse, but it was too light and flimsy to knock him out. I'd probably get arrested. "I just want to tell her that I'm here."

"We have rules." With a firm grip, he led me back through the double doors.

As we emerged into the lobby, I yanked my arm from his grip, totally humiliated and frustrated. A stress headache erupted in my temples. The magazine readers looked up from their magazines. The receptionist frowned. The security man pointed to a chair.

Its blue plastic creaked as I sat.

The receptionist walked over and handed me the pile of papers, but as she did this, Malcolm slipped through the double doors, unnoticed. The receptionist and the security guy went back to the information desk and started talking about some new restaurant that had just opened. I stayed in that chair, quiet and obedient so as not to raise suspicion. I pretended to fill in the paperwork, but my peripheral gaze never left those doors. Malcolm would find her. I had failed, but I knew that he wouldn't.

Five minutes later, while the security guy and the receptionist blatantly flirted, Malcolm emerged. He sat next to me.

"Well?" Some of the papers slid from my lap.

"She had a wee heart attack."

"Oh my God." I let the rest of the papers fall away. "Is she...?"

"She's alive." He placed his hand on my arm and my heartbeat slowed. "It's not her time, Katrina. She won't be leaving you."

That was the best thing that anyone had ever said to me. A wave of relief rolled down my body, then I burst into tears, disrupting all the important magazine reading.

Malcolm reached out, hesitated, then scratched his head, clearly unsure what to do.

"Are you unhappy?" he asked with a frown.

"I'm happy." I rubbed my eyes. "Very happy. Thanks for finding her. And thanks for catching her."

"You're most welcome. I wish I could do more for you, Katrina." He sat back in the chair and stretched out his legs, propping his sandaled feet on the coffee table.

That's when I saw it. Right behind his left ankle. It appeared for just a moment and then disappeared. It had nothing to do with the fact that my eyes were still blurry with tears. I saw it. A tiny white wing.

And that's the moment when I truly let myself believe.

C
alling Irmgaard was always an odd experience. I knew she was there because she had picked up the phone and I could hear her breathing. I tried to remember exactly what the doctor had said. My grandmother had suffered a moderate heart attack and needed to stay a few more days for tests and observation. Irmgaard caught her breath a few times. Despite what little I knew about her, I knew that she cared deeply for my grandmother. Otherwise, why would she work such long hours and fill in whenever grandmother's arthritis acted up? Why would she bring in those little bouquets in the summer or make Grandma's favorite carrot soup on dark winter afternoons? Without ever exchanging a word, she had become part of our family. But while she shared our moments, we never seemed to share hers. She didn't let us into her life outside the coffeehouse.

I waited for her to hang up first, so I could be sure she had heard everything. Then I called Vincent. He'd want to know. Vincent and my grandmother had always been close.

When we were little, she used to plan his birthday parties, since his dad was always exhausted from his night shift at the marina. She'd make the cake and drive us to the swimming pool or the bowling alley. She was there when Vincent got chicken pox, when he crashed his bike and needed stitches, and when he swam in his first meet.

"Sorry to call so late but Grandma's had a heart attack," I told Vincent's message machine. "She's at Bremerton General." Someone picked up the phone.