Finding Hope (15 page)

He wasn't. His hand found hers in the darkness. “I'm here. Do you need anything?”

“How did you know I was awake?”

“Your breathing is different.”

Why was she surprised? He knew her, like nobody ever had. She laced her fingers through his. She knew
him,
too, and he was gripping her hand too tightly. That meant he was worried. “Charlie, what's wrong?”

She could barely see his face in the dim light, but she saw his head move back and forth. He cleared his throat. “I'm just thinking.”

“About what?”

There was a long pause before he spoke. “About taking a job in San Diego.”

She was suddenly wide-awake. “No,” she said sadly, squeezing his hand. “You've already decided.”

His silence confirmed it.

He had seemed preoccupied all evening, and now she knew why. He had already begun pulling back from her, preparing them both for what was to come. Her voice was gravelly. “How soon will you leave?”

“Three weeks.”

She let go of his hand and tried to sit up, but she couldn't find the button to raise her bed. She fought to keep calm. “Is that really what you want?”

“No.” He exhaled the word, stretching the single syllable to convey his frustration. “But it's what I'm going to do. I talked to your mother about it today. She agrees that—”

Outraged, Hope cut him off. “And the two of you decided this? What I want doesn't matter to you at all?” That sounded childish and selfish, but darn it, the man was an unbelievable blockhead and Hope's patience was at an end.

“Hope, what you need is more important to me than what you think you want. It's the right thing to do and you know it.” A note of desperation crept into his voice. “Please don't make this harder than it already is.”

She wanted to turn on the light, but she couldn't reach it. Again she struggled to sit up. Charles felt for the but
ton and she heard the soft mechanical
whirr
as the bed raised her almost to a sitting position.

She drew a shaky breath and let him feel the full force of her anger. “You go ahead and run to San Diego, Charlie Hartman, and I'll be right behind you. I'll get a job scrubbing floors in your hospital, and every time you turn around, you'll trip over me. I won't
let
you run away.”

Hope was gratified by his shocked silence, but her breath was coming in gasps and her heaving chest ached. Disregarding that, she went on. “For a genius doctor, you can be breathtakingly stupid. You're terrified of hurting me, Charlie, but you don't realize that what hurts me more than anything is knowing how much you despise yourself!”

The outburst had cost every particle of her strength and her hot tears were due as much to physical pain as emotional distress.

“No more, Hope,” he pleaded urgently. “Don't do this.” Moving to sit beside her on the bed, he put his hands on her shoulders and leaned towards her. He laid his cheek against hers and tried to quiet her sobs. “Please don't.”

“I can't help it,” she cried pathetically. “It hurts.”

“I know,” he whispered.

He
didn't
know, and that fed her frustration. She shook her head, pushing him away. “I don't—I don't m-mean my chest.”

Again he leaned his cheek against hers. “I know, Hope. I know what you mean, and I'm so sorry. But please be still now.”

Entranced by his nearness and his warm, unsteady breath against her ear, she grew calmer. Her left hand was trapped under the sheet he sat on, but she lifted her right hand to caress the soft hair on the back of his head.

When she touched him, he caught his breath sharply
and started to move away, but her fingers burrowed into his thick, wavy hair and she pulled him back. “No!” she commanded in a fierce whisper.

He relaxed suddenly, and a thrill of delight shot through Hope as his face nestled against the curve of her neck. Then she felt his kiss, just under her ear, so right, and he was still.

She was exhausted and her brain was spinning, but it was so lovely, listening to him breathe against her ear. She forgot everything else and concentrated on breathing with him.

When she awoke, it was daylight and he was gone. Her bed was still raised and she lay unmoving, remembering. As her chest rose and fell, a small, bright flash arrested her attention and she looked down. Against the shoulder of her blue satin nightshirt a small object glittered in the beam of sunlight that fell across the top of her bed.

It was his silver chain with the eagle. Hope was surprised that the sturdy chain had broken, but when she tried to pick it up she felt a tug that told her it was not broken at all. It was securely fastened around her neck.

She understood perfectly. She wasn't to have even the three weeks. He was gone already.

O
ne week after her accident, Hope was well enough to leave the hospital. Her mother would take her home in the morning.

“Bob's going crazy without you,” Grace said cheerfully. “He thinks you've abandoned him. I'm afraid he's going to jump all over you, so we'll have to be careful when we get you home. Here, let me do that. It can't be easy for you with those sore ribs.”

Hope relinquished the brush she'd been trying to pull through her long hair. As her mother gently brushed out her tangles, Hope closed her eyes and tried to shut out the memory of how it had felt when Charles had done this for her, just yesterday morning.

Grace kept up her cheerful patter. “It's been a few years since I last did this. Remember how you used to cry when I combed the snarls out of your wet hair?” She chuckled. “I always wanted to cut it, but Daddy and the boys loved your long hair, didn't they? Oh! I forgot to tell you—Matthew called late last night. His flight arrived in L.A. twenty minutes
early,
if you can believe that. He
really wanted to stay longer, but I guess the twins have been giving Megan fits and you know the baby is due any day now.”

Hope nodded, but she wasn't listening. All morning she'd been hoping it would turn out to be a terrible misunderstanding, but the message Charles had left around her neck was painfully clear: Don't waste your prayers on me. Let me go.

Grace ran a loving hand over her daughter's smooth hair and put down the brush. She looked into Hope's eyes and spoke seriously. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

Hope turned her face away. How could she help feeling that her mother had betrayed her?

Grace sighed deeply. “Sweetheart, he's a dear man, but there's no future for the two of you.”

Hope's hands clenched. “You don't understand. I have never dreamed of marrying him. But he needs me, Mom. I can help him in ways that nobody else can.”

Grace put her hand on Hope's shoulder. “Sweetheart,” she said reasonably, “you must realize it's not a good idea to—”

“You don't understand,” Hope repeated, frustration making her fingernails dig into her palms. “There is something in him that I recognize. Something that only I can see. I can't explain it, except to say that from the beginning I've had the strongest sense that God
sent
me to Charlie, to help him find his way.”

Grace was silent, obviously skeptical.

“Mom, Gramps believed it, too. He told me the night before he died.” Hope's eyes misted as she remembered their last conversation.

“Come closer, sweetie-pie.” Gramps placed his gnarled hand on top of her head and said a brief prayer, blessing her.

The lump in her throat made speech impossible. He
knew he was going home and he was telling her goodbye. She wanted to say that she loved him, that she was grateful to him, that she would always remember what he had done for her. But he knew all that, and she would see him again one day.

His hand moved from her head to her cheek, resting there for a moment before he reached for her hand. “I want to talk to you about Dr. Hartman. I believe God has plans for that man, and you will figure in them. Never stop praying for him, Hope. Things are very hard for him and he needs you on his side.”

Hope could no longer hold back her tears. “Oh, please,” she cried piteously. “I'm so tired. Mom, I can't fight Charlie and you, too.”

Her mother patted her arm. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. We really shouldn't talk about this until you've had some rest,” she said. “I'm going downstairs for something to eat. You try to sleep a little and we'll talk later.”

Hope was too torn up to sleep. She leafed through a thick cooking magazine but nothing in it interested her. Frustration gnawed at her and she had to
do
something. She rolled up the magazine, but as she drew back her arm to fire her missile across the room, she was halted by a spasm of pain. She gasped and dropped her arm, still clutching the magazine as her eyes filled with tears.

“Careful, honey!” Tom stood in the doorway, concern furrowing his brow. “Want me to throw that for you?”

Startled, she could only stare at him.

“I guess you're mad at Trey,” he stated as he approached her bed.

She nodded, taken aback by the truth.

“Me, too.” Tom took the magazine from her and rolled it tighter. “What are we going for? His chair?”

Sucking her bottom lip, Hope nodded.

Tom moved back, wound up, lifted his right leg and
stepped into the pitch. The magazine hit the back of the chair with a resounding
thwack,
pushing the chair several inches across the floor.

Hope blinked at Tom and a tear rolled down her cheek. “I didn't know you were a lefty,” she said in a husky voice.

“Yeah. But I bat right-handed,” he informed her. He started to say something else, but his mouth closed on the words and he merely watched her, his eyes darkening with compassion.

She moved her legs and patted the space she'd made for him on the bed. He sat next to her.

“I love you, Tom,” she said softly.

He nodded, not looking at her. “I love you right back, Hope.”

Her bottom lip quivered. “He's gone, you know. He won't come to see me ever again.”

Tom's chin dropped to his chest. “I know. This morning he told me he'd decided to take the San Diego job. I understand he won't be leaving for three weeks, but I guess he thought it would be easier to just…” Tom didn't finish the sentence, didn't need to.

Pain ripped through Hope's chest as a sob escaped her. Tom sighed and carefully put an arm around her shoulders.

“Oh, Tom—what's wrong with him?” she wailed. “Why does he make himself so unhappy? Why won't he let us love him?” Her chest ached and she no longer cared.

“Hope, I'm so sorry!” The anguish in Tom's voice tore at her heart, so she pushed him away. He handed her some tissues and poured her a glass of water.

“No,
I'm
sorry,” she said dully. “I won't do that again.”

“Yes, you will,” he corrected. “And when you do,
I'll be right here. Just think of me as your great big handkerchief.”

She gave him a weak smile.

He patted her hand and rose from the bed. “Try to rest now. I'll come back later, okay?”

At the door he turned. “Hope? You won't forget him, will you?” His eyes begged for her reassurance. “What I mean is, you won't stop praying for him. Right?”

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, but her voice was firm. “As long as I'm breathing, Tom, I'll be praying for him.”

 

Charles needed to see a patient on the fourth floor, but when he got on the elevator he pressed “three” out of habit. He groaned softly, then pressed “four” and waited.

When the elevator opened on the third floor his body leaned forwards, wanting, but he set his jaw firmly and pressed the Close Door button. At the last second he saw Tom in the hall, pacing in front of the elevators. His hand shot out and the door reopened. He approached his brother. “What's up, Tom? You look like thunder.”

“That's exactly how I feel,” Tom growled.

Charles's mouth fell open. Tom was eternally, often even annoyingly, good-natured. What had gotten into him?

“You're not going in there,” Tom said firmly. “You're not to see her again, do you understand?”

“What's happened?” Charles demanded, panic rising in him.

“I don't want you to see her,” Tom repeated stubbornly. “Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Clear enough?”

Charles gulped, stunned by his brother's angry defiance. Well, Hope couldn't ask for a better champion than faithful Tom. Charles had lost his brother's unquestioning
devotion, but Hope had gained it, and he was glad. Perhaps Hope's friendship with Tom would ripen into something more. He would try to be glad about that, too.

Tom's eyes flashed fire. “You have no idea what you've done to that sweet girl!”

“I know exactly what I've done.”

Tom gave his head an angry shake. “She didn't ask you for the moon, Trey,” he spat. “She's not the kind to chase after you, begging you to marry her. All she wanted was for you to be her friend. Was that so impossible?”

More impossible than Tom would ever understand. Charles shook his head and stared at his shoes.

“I'm finished making excuses for you. You've nurtured your bitterness for so long, you've finally managed to turn yourself into an unfeeling monster!”

Charles nodded slowly, soberly. “I've always been an unfeeling monster,” he said quietly. He looked up. “So you finally got a good look, did you, Tom?”

The elevator bell sounded behind them. A door opened and three people got off.

“Get out of here,” Tom said evenly. “Leave her alone.”

Without a word Charles turned and stepped onto the empty elevator. He pushed the button for the fourth floor, avoiding his brother's angry eyes as the door closed between them.

The elevator started, but it was going down, not up. As he touched the panel again, Charles saw what he had missed before—the button was lit for B2, the lowest floor of the hospital.

But I'm going even lower than that,
he thought bitterly.
And I just can't seem to help myself.

 

It was useless. Exhausted as he was, he wasn't going to sleep tonight. Charles sat on the side of his bed and stared into the darkness.

He'd never been able to refuse her anything. She could make him spit sunflower seeds and drink ginger ale. She could make him bite his tongue when he wanted to lash someone with it. He'd all but stopped swearing, even when she wasn't around to hear. He went to church and Bible study just to please her, and he'd even learned a verse of Scripture. But what she wanted now—for him to stick around, to act as if nothing had changed—was simply impossible.

She wanted him to be her friend. But he honestly didn't know whether his affection for her was strong enough to withstand his growing desire. All he knew was that by loving him she had dramatically increased her risk. Their friendship was impossible now because he was afraid he could make her want the same things he had begun to want.

A broken heart was something Hope could recover from, just as long as she had nothing to reproach herself for. Charles was willing to go to San Diego or to the moon to ensure that she would never know that kind of regret.

In the darkness he groped for his pants. He pulled them on and padded across the cold hardwood floor of his bedroom. He wrenched open the French doors and stepped onto his balcony.

The night air was cool and he shivered, taking fierce pleasure in the gooseflesh on his arms. He wished he could be even colder, that this small suffering would take his mind off the great one.

He dropped to the chaise lounge and put his hands behind his head, lying back to watch a full moon. There really was a man's face there, and it was a sad one. The trees below him whooshed softly in the night breeze, a lonely sound.

Hope. Her name used to comfort, but now it mocked him. Now he'd given up Hope, lost Hope. He wanted to cry, the way Tom had when Susan died. Stunned and silent, Charles had held his brother in his arms, knowing he could do nothing, say nothing to heal Tom. That realization had seared him with pain.

Now he felt it again, much worse than before. He was as angry as a man could be, but his rage was impotent, because it was directed at an unseen God.

Not long ago, he'd begged God to spare Hope the pain of loving a man who had a chunk of granite where his heart should be. But either God had no real power or He just didn't care about Hope Evans. Either way, there wasn't much to recommend him, Charles thought savagely.

Still, he had some questions.

What made Hope so sure of her God? She was an intelligent young woman, not easily fooled. One of the many things Charles admired about her was the way she filtered everything through that remarkable common sense of hers.

Yet she believed. And she believed Charles's salvation was even more important than whether he returned her love or not. Hope refused to let go because she was certain Charles was marked for God.

Could it be true?

“We can't prove God to you,” she had said once. “But if you ask Him to, he will prove Himself.”

“All right—I'm asking,” Charles said aloud. He sat up suddenly, still gazing at the face in the moon, his fists tightly clenched at his sides. “I'm asking!” he shouted. His anguished plea splintered the quiet night, echoing across the bare floor of the empty bedroom behind him. “Please make me believe it!”

Somewhere in the distance he heard a police siren and a barking dog, but there was no other answer. He trembled more from fear now than from cold as a swiftly moving cloud covered the moon, blotting out its light.

 

It was raining hard on Saturday morning when Hope's mother arrived to take her home from the hospital. In her room, Hope sat in a wheelchair in front of the window. As the dark sky opened in another vicious summer storm, Hope turned a stricken face to her mother and insisted she couldn't possibly get into the rental car. Not in the rain.

It had been a miserable night. Twice she'd been awakened by the nightmare, and both times she'd cried herself to sleep because Charles wasn't there to comfort her. Now her chest heaved painfully and she was exhausted and frightened and heartsick. She tried to talk to her Heavenly Father, but her prayers were nothing more than silent screams of agony.

Hope realized her mother was beside herself with worry, but she couldn't stop trembling. Quiet tears coursed down her cheeks as she watched the rain beat against her window.

Grace took her daughter's hand. “You're so pale,” she murmured distractedly. “It can't be right for them to send you home today.” She hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “I'm going to call Charles.”