Loving Care (15 page)

His voice faded again, and Christie finished his sentence in her head—it was hard to stop at friendship. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.”

He rested his palm against her hand. “We’ve shared our lives in such a personal and intimate way. Sure we had bad times. I’ve talked them through until I’m weary, but I remember the good times, too. The times that were special.”

“Perfect times,” she said, feeling a deep yearning to say something she’d never said before. She drew in a deep breath. “Losing you was horrible. It hurt my pride and it hurt me. I felt lonely and empty, but I also felt deep anger.” She turned to face him squarely. “You know why?”

He shrugged. “For all the things you said, I suppose. I ruined your life.”

“You ruined my
perfect
life.
Perfect
is the key. You know how important it has always been to me to have everything orderly, to give the best party, to keep my home the neatest. Perfection. I’ll accept nothing less.”

“And that’s why we have no chance to be more
than we are,” he said, his voice darkening with awareness.

“Not really. I’ve changed a little in the past months.”

His downcast gaze swung upward, a glimmer of hope reflected in his eyes. “Changed?”

“I’m still a nitpicker, I suppose, but I realize that in the Lord all things are perfected. So when things aren’t humanly perfect, we can give them to God who’ll make them better. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense.”

Hearing the word
perfect
again caused her to grin, and it felt good. “I’ve learned a perfect marriage is unrealistic. Anything takes work. Like my business. I try to do my best, but things happen—things outside my control. And I’ve learned not to give up, not to shut the door, but to open it wider and face the problem. I’ve changed that much.”

“Both of us have learned things. Keeping feelings inside gets me nowhere. How can I heal if I keep my problems and fears inside to fester and swell until the molehill has become the mountain. Knowing God has helped with that.”

“You’ve been honest with me, Patrick. I know we were both wrong.”

He reached for her hand, and clasped it in his. “Let’s look to the future,” he said, his face bright with hope. His expression was as warm and gentle as a spring breeze.

“We’re back to a solid friendship,” he said. “I
can handle that for now. If God wills, He’ll direct us into something deeper. That’s what I’ve been praying for.”

“I’ve been praying, too. I care so much about you, but when I think of us going beyond the way we are today, I worry. Could we slip back into our old habits? Could the mistakes we made once have caused too much damage? Can we ever really trust each other again?” She felt tears pool in her eyes. “And Sean. Even though he’s a sweet child, will I ever stop thinking about Sherry when I look at him?”

“He’s my son, Christie. Think of me. Think of us. Think of the children we still could have, endometriosis or not. God’s in charge.”

Patrick was right. God was in charge. Yet knowing that and accepting it were two different things. Since rebuilding her friendship with Patrick, the fear of losing him again had heightened. She didn’t want to return to her empty, lonely life. Instead, she needed to cling to the happiness she felt today, knowing she and Patrick were both in the hands of a caring and loving Lord.

He touched her hand. “I’ve told you Sean and I can get by alone, but a mother is important, Christie. Sean needs a mother really, and that person could be you.”

Sean needs a mother.
The words punched her in the solar plexus. Was this all about Sean needing a mother? Patrick didn’t love her, but he felt so com
fortable with her that he figured she’d be as good as anyone to be a mother to Sean. Was that it? Her heart ached at the thought.

A whimper struck them at the same time. Patrick released her hands and was gone before she moved. His abruptness sent her reeling, but hearing Sean’s cry and rasping cough, she rose and followed Patrick to the bedroom. When she came through the doorway, a new concern filled her thoughts.

Sean’s cheeks were fiery red, and beads of perspiration budded on his nose. She stood beside Patrick, running her hand across the child’s face and feeling the heat.

“He has a fever,” she said.

“I noticed he hasn’t been himself for the past couple of days. I shouldn’t have let him play outside. I could kick myself.”

She grasped his arm. “Playing outside wouldn’t hurt him. You had him bundled up well. This must be a virus or something. I’ll see if Mom has some baby aspirins.” She moved toward the doorway and stopped. “If she has a toy box, she should have some children’s aspirin, I’d hope.” She tried to lighten the tension she was feeling, but it didn’t work. Confusion and worry still knotted her muscles, and strain sullied Patrick’s handsome face.

In moments, Emma had joined them, hovering over the child, wiping his face with a cool cloth and checking his temperature.

“It’s one hundred and two,” she said shaking
down the thermometer. “Kids often have fevers. Just keep an eye on him, but don’t let the temperature get much higher before calling the doctor.”

“I’d better get him home,” Patrick said, “before it gets colder outside.

Emma gave Sean a baby aspirin, then found a heavy blanket to protect him from the cold.

Patrick wrapped Sean like a cocoon, then lifted him into his arms.

“Now you keep us posted, Patrick,” Emma said.

“Should I ride with you?” Christie asked, following him to the doorway, forgetting her upset with what he’d said earlier. Now, she was frightened not by Sean’s fever, but his tight cough and rattling breathing.

“No. It’s not far, and then how would you get back?”

“I could follow you in my car,” she said.

“It’s still cold and slippery. I’ll call you after you get home. Sean’s had a fever before. This one just surprised me.”

Emma waited by the doorway, too, tucking the blanket around Sean’s ears until only his nose peeked out, but Christie couldn’t rid herself of the picture of Sean’s listlessness and his bright red cheeks.

She watched Patrick leave, her thoughts spiraling out of control. She’d settle her upset with Patrick later. Now the child’s illness triggered deepest concern.

Awareness charged through her. No, Sean wasn’t her child, and he never would be where blood was concerned. He belonged to Sherry and Patrick, but if she didn’t love the boy as her own, why did she feel such anxiety? Such profound concern?

C
hristie couldn’t sleep after learning Sean’s fever had risen a degree when he’d gotten home. Although Patrick promised to call if anything else happened, that didn’t help. Waiting and wondering, Christie watched the clock moving slowly, like a dirge.

After tossing and turning for hours, she rose and slipped into jeans and a holiday sweatshirt adorned with a choir of angels hovering in a blue sky. Hard to believe, but Christmas was only weeks away.

She filled the coffeemaker and sat at the table, staring at the telephone. Five o’clock. She hoped Patrick was sleeping, knowing Sean was feeling better. But she wasn’t. Alien sensations filled her mind—her feelings for Sean and the conversation she’d had with Patrick.

At first, she’d felt good about their honest discus
sion, but Patrick’s final statement had thrown her off balance. He’d insinuated he wanted to remarry her. To try again.
Think of the children we still could have,
he’d said. What else could that mean? But in the next breath, he’d let her know he wanted a mother for Sean. What did Patrick want? Did he really love her, or was she a familiar convenience?

She’d begun to think he’d fallen in love with her once more, as she had with him. Yes, she’d been afraid to admit it openly, but the feelings were there, poking her like a nail in her shoe. She’d nearly allowed herself to trust him. One minute their relationship seemed so right. The next, so wrong. Deep hurt pushed against her chest and constricted her breathing.

Christie pressed her face in her hands and prayed.
Lord, I know You said we should rejoice in our sufferings, because suffering produces hope. But my hope has faded, and I can’t sort reality from dreams. I need to trust again. Help me to see clearly. Let me know Your will.

The clock hands inched around the dial. Five-thirty. Five-fifty. Christie wavered between disappointment and worry. At six she could stand it no longer. She rose and headed for the phone. Its ring just as she reached it sent her heart to her throat.

“Patrick?” she said into the receiver.

“Did I wake you?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been awake all night.”

“So have I. I just called and got the doctor’s an
swering service. Now I’m waiting for him to call back.”

She closed her eyes in frustration. “How long? Did she say?”

“I don’t know. It’s a holiday weekend. He’s not in the office until Monday.”

Christie’s heart sank. “I can’t sit here any longer. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Before he could argue, Christie hung up and grabbed her jacket, figuring she’d be there before the doctor returned Patrick’s call.

Patrick put down the receiver and stared at the telephone, waiting. The two people he loved most filled his thoughts—his son and Christie. He’d sensed a problem last night when Christie had suddenly withdrawn. He’d reviewed their conversation and couldn’t understand what had triggered the change.

But he couldn’t concentrate on that now. Christie was on her way. She’d offered to come last night for that matter. His mind whirred with confusion. He couldn’t deal with any of it now. Maybe Sean’s fever was only one of those childhood scares. He knew they happened, but until he knew for sure what it was, he’d never rest.

Patrick had so hoped he and Christie could find a way to mend their wounds and grow together again. Benjamin Franklin’s adage remembered from high school leaped into his thoughts.
A cracked plate
never mends.
Was that true for them? No. He and Christie weren’t a cracked plate. They were two people who had loved and let fears push them apart until they could no longer see each other but only feel the deep abyss between them. He’d thought they’d begun to build a bridge, a sturdy bridge to bring them back together, but something had removed a spike from the span. Once again they stood on shaky ground. Would it ever change?

The telephone’s ring sent his pulse on a sprint, and he grasped the receiver, feeling relief when he heard the doctor’s voice asking about Sean.

“His temperature is nearly one hundred and five, and I’ve given him children’s ibuprofen as often as it’s allowed, but it’s not dropping.”

“Any other symptoms?” the doctor asked.

“A tight cough, raspy breathing, and he started vomiting this morning.”

The line hung with silence, and Patrick clung to the telephone, his palms moist. “What do you think?” he asked, unable to wait for the doctor’s response.

“We’d better not take any chances,” the man said. “Take him to emergency. I’ll call to let them know you’re on your way.”

“Emergency?” Disappointment struck Patrick’s heart. He’d preferred the doctor’s office where Sean had been before, not an unfamiliar hospital to frighten him.

“If it’s nothing serious, they’ll send him back
home, and you can bring him in on Monday. If he’s admitted, I’ll see him there.”

Patrick stared at the mouthpiece, wondering about devotion to patients and concern for little children. Shouldn’t a pediatric doctor be more caring? He pushed the thought aside. The physician received calls from frightened parents morning and night. The man deserved a day off.

When Patrick put down the receiver, he headed toward Sean’s room, but before he made it, the doorbell rang. Christie stood on the threshold, her face pinched with alarm.

“Did you hear anything?” she asked, stepping inside.

“He told me to take him to emergency.”

Without asking questions, she hurried past him, dropping her shoulder bag onto a nearby chair. “What can I do?”

In moments, they had Sean ready to go while Patrick’s father stood by, his face riddled with concern. Outside, Patrick climbed into his car after settling Christie in the back seat with Sean. Once strapped in, they were on their way.

The traffic was light early in the morning, and when they arrived, Patrick got out with Sean and let Christie park the car in the emergency area. She found them, her jacket smelling of winter air and her face mottled from the cold and, he knew, worry.

Patrick turned to follow as they swept Sean away on a gurney.

“I’ll be in the waiting room,” Christie said, backing toward the area.

He caught her arm. “No. Come with me.”

She drew back, but he pulled her along, wanting her there for his own reasons. No matter what she said, he knew her feelings were strong for his son and he wouldn’t allow her to wait alone at a time like this.

They entered the cubicle and stood aside while the orderly situated Sean. A nurse arrived, and when she took Sean’s temperature, Patrick leaned forward trying to read the numbers she’d written, but the woman had covered them too quickly. Before he could ask, she whipped through the doorway.

Patrick pulled the lone chair toward Christie and gestured for her to sit. She sank into it while he stood over Sean, listening to his ragged breathing. Guilt filled him. What could he have done to keep his son safe?

Hearing the curtain slide back, Patrick turned as the physician entered.

“I’m Dr. Kedar,” he said, extending his hand.

Patrick shook it, his own cold and trembling. “Dr. Minkin sent us here.” He gestured helplessly. “My son—”

“Yes, I know. He said your boy has a high fever, difficulty breathing and has been vomiting since yesterday.”

Patrick shook his head. “The vomiting started today.”

“When did you notice the fever?” the doctor asked, pulling a stethoscope from his lab coat pocket and listening to Sean’s lungs.

“After Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. We’d been playing in the snow earlier so I thought his rosy cheeks were from that. I should have known—”

Christie put his hand on her arm and shook her head. He heeded her warning. No sense dragging out “what ifs” and “should haves.” The concern was for Sean, not his own ineptness as a father.

Sean’s listless form looked limp and unaware as the doctor moved him up and back to listen to his breathing.

“What is it?” Patrick asked.

The physician gave him a cursory glance, continuing to check Sean’s pulse and scrutinize Sean’s nose and ears. He put the instruments back onto the tray before he answered. “I’ll need a chest X-ray and a culture before I can be certain.”

“Is it an infection?”

“The body uses fever to kill bacteria and viruses that cause infection…so yes, it’s most probable he has an infection. The culture will help pinpoint what we’re dealing with.”

Patrick stood behind Christie and gripped the chair back. “Is this serious?”

“If the bacteria is meningococcus. Yes. Your son has the symptoms—high fever, difficulty breathing,
and vomiting. Has he had painful joints or a stiff neck and back?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t complain about that.” Patrick studied the doctor’s face, looking for a sign.

“That’s good news. We’ll know what it is soon.” He moved toward the door. “Someone will be in to do the culture, and then we’ll take him to X-ray. We’ll let you know when he’s back.”

“Should we wait here?” Patrick asked, hating to leave Sean in case he awakened.

“You can until they take him to X-ray.” The doctor left, and Patrick moved to Sean’s side.

Christie joined him, running her hands along the child’s arm and petting his hairline where moisture beaded from the fever. “I’d do anything to be here in his place.”

Patrick wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Me, too,” he said, touched by her concern.

The curtain glided back, and an orderly stepped in. “I need to move your son to X-ray.”

Patrick shifted aside, but Christie lingered, her hand on Sean’s cheek.

“He’ll be okay, Mom,” the young man said, sliding in beside her.

Christie shifted, her mouth opening as if to explain his error. She moved aside without comment, an uneasy look on her face, and Patrick took her arm, guiding her away from the cubicle.

“The waiting room is to the left when you go through the double doors,” the young man said.

Patrick placed his arm around her shoulder as they headed through the door. His mind juggled his thoughts— Christie’s and his deep concern for Sean, but, as well, Christie’s unintended admission. She loved Sean, whether she acknowledged it or not.

In the waiting room, the doctor’s comment flew into his mind. He didn’t like the sound. “Do you know anything about mengi-something-coccus, whatever the doctor said?”

Christie sat a moment and gnawed on the corner of her lip. “
Meninges
has to do with the brain. I think it’s the tissue around it. Something like that.”

“That doesn’t sound good. I know
coccus
refers to bacteria, so that must mean—”

Christie grasped his arm and gave it a squeeze. “Please don’t try to guess what it is, Patrick. You’ll scare us both. Let’s just wait until we hear from the doctor.”

Patrick nodded, and though he didn’t speak his concern, it weighed on his mind and heart. The possibility of Sean having a bacteria in the brain, like meningitis, frightened him.

Time dragged. Though he and Christie talked about other things, nothing they addressed seemed important to Patrick. The longer they waited, the more each tried to second guess what had happened. Christie blamed herself. She needed a quarantine room at the center. Patrick feared he’d let Sean play in the snow too long.

The conversation faded, and they sat in stony si
lence with their own thoughts. Patrick wanted to ask Christie about yesterday. Why she’d withdrawn and what he’d done to cause it. They seemed to walk on eggshells with each other, both afraid to do or say something that might cause stress between them. Only God could make a difference, and he’d prayed for the Lord’s help daily.

When Dr. Kedar came through the doorway, Patrick shot from his chair like an arrow taut in the bow. He beckoned to Christie.

She rose but remained near her chair.

Patrick’s chest tightened as he waited for the physician to speak.

“We won’t have the culture results for a while yet, but the X-ray indicates it’s probably not meningitis. From what we can tell now, your son has pneumonia.”

The physician’s words sent Patrick on a spiral of both relief and worry. “Pneumonia? That’s serious.”

“Better than meningitis,” the doctor said. “Pneumonia is a good guess. What kind of infection we’ll know later. I’m afraid he’s already dehydrated from the vomiting and fever. You understand, he’ll have to be admitted.”

“Admitted, but…”

“He’s better off here, Patrick,” Christie said, stepping to his side and wrapping her hand around his forearm. “Even though it’s difficult.”

“Your wife is right,” the man said. “We’ll start
him on antibiotics. Does he have allergies to penicillin?”

“Not that I know of,” Patrick said.

“Good. We’ll start with that. He’ll be feeling better as soon as we begin treatment.”

Christie gestured toward the waiting-room doorway. “Can we—”

“Certainly,” the doctor said, not waiting for her to finish. “He’s back in the same cubicle. We’ll have him in a room shortly.”

Patrick eyed Christie, amazed that she’d never flinched when the doctor had called her his wife. Her only focus was Sean. He sent God a thank-you for the amazing turn of events.

“I keep picturing Sean looking so helpless,” Christie said, resting her back against her kitchen chair. She pushed her plate away. “I’m not really hungry. I’m sorry.” Lifting her hand, she rubbed the tension in the cords of her neck.

Patrick placed his fork on the edge of his plate and closed his eyes. “I can barely swallow either.”

Christie fiddled with the napkin she’d dropped beside her plate. “All we can do is pray.”

“I’ve been praying all day. I didn’t want to leave him there.”

“You had no choice, and you know he’s better off.”

He reached across the table and rested his palm
on Christie’s hand. “Thanks for being here. It means a lot to me.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Patrick.” He couldn’t have kept her away, she had realized as she had waited by his side. Her thoughts drifted now to the small cherub face, the cheeks rosy with fever, his eyes closed or glazed with confusion. The sight squeezed her heart.