Mother's Promise (6 page)

“I have a game on Tuesday,” Sally had reminded him. “I'm pitching.”

“Good thing it's not your pitching arm that's causing you trouble, then,” Ben had teased. The two of them had bantered back and forth in this way from the time Sally had been six or seven. Ben had been the one Sally had come to when she needed to persuade her mother that playing on an all-boy baseball team was not going to be a problem.

“I'm eleven years old—not exactly a baby.” She'd sighed, although at the time she'd been a couple of months shy of that birthday. Still she had a point. As the only child of two well-educated and superactive parents, Sally spent far more time in the company of adults than she did with kids her own age. Being on the baseball team around kids her own age would be good for her.

“Talk to her, please?” she had pleaded.

“I'll talk to your mom,” Ben had promised. “But maybe your dad …”

Sally had rolled her eyes. “Ever so much more of a problem,” she moaned.

The blood tests had come back with the worst possible news. Sally had leukemia and not the
good
kind, if there was such a thing. No, Sally did not have the strain that was 90 percent curable in children her age. Against all the prototypes for the disease, she had been diagnosed with AML—acute myelogenous leukemia. And so their journey had begun with all of its peaks and valleys.

So Sally was no longer the healthiest kid he knew. For more than a year she had spent most of her time in hospitals receiving treatments and living among other children battling childhood illnesses of varying degrees of seriousness. Once the standard treatment regimen of chemotherapy and radiation failed—not once but twice—their only option had been a bone marrow transplant. For the transplant she had gone to a clinic in Tampa that specialized in such procedures. To her credit her spirits had remained high, and she had stayed in touch with friends via Skype and of course, the cell phone that she used incessantly to text back and forth with her friends.

It had been six months now since the transplant and in a few days Sally would head back to school for the first time in over a year.

“I cannot wait to get back to school,” she had announced a couple of days earlier when Ben had stopped at his sister's for lunch. “It seems like forever.”

“You're sure you're ready for that?” Ben didn't need to remind her that for many transplant patients the recovery time was more like a year than the six months it would be for her by the time the school year started. But even he had to admit that her recovery had been remarkable and unquestionable. Her blood tests consistently came back in the normal range and showed that the graft was helping her to recover the healthy cells and immune system that had been so compromised by the disease.

Sally had rolled her eyes and glanced toward the kitchen where her mom was preparing lunch. “Please do not let Mom hear you asking that. If she had her way I'd be kept in isolation until I'm like twenty-five.”

Ben laughed. “She's not that bad, and she worries about you.”

“I know. But you cannot imagine how wonderful
normal
sounds to me right about now.”

“Just don't push it, okay?”

In many ways Sally's illness had pushed them all to make building the new hospital a reality. Now, standing outside the front doors, Ben shook off the memory of that horrifying journey. The construction team hoisted and attached stainless steel letters that spelled out the new hospital's name. He closed his eyes. If he were a man given to prayer, this would no doubt be a good time to offer a silent one for the skill and wisdom to heal the patients—some of them like Sally—that he would treat here. Certainly his sister would encourage that. Her unwavering faith so like their father's had kept her amazingly calm in the face of Sally's diagnosis and everything that followed. But Ben did not share his sister's brand of blind faith.

As the crew secured the last letter into place, a city bus swung onto the circular drive, forcing Ben to take a step back. The first person off the bus was a woman he would guess to be in her mid-to-late thirties. She wore an ankle-length green print dress with three-quarter-length sleeves, the traditional white-starched prayer covering of the Mennonite faith, and in spite of the heat and humidity, a thin black sweater over her shoulders. She paused for a moment while the other passengers made their way around her and on into the hospital. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

Assuming that she had come to visit a patient in the hospital, he moved a step closer and waited for her to finish. “May I help you?” he asked.

He saw her take in his white lab coat, his glasses perched on top of his thick black hair, and his stethoscope jammed in a pocket of the lab coat.

“
Nein, danke,
” she said then shook her head and smiled. “Sorry. No thank you, Doctor. It's pretty clear that I have come to the right place.” She indicated the stainless steel letters of the sign glimmering in the sunlight. “If you would please excuse me, I don't want to be late for my first day.”

He could not help noticing that while her smile was certainly sincere, there was something about the way it didn't quite light up her features that made him reluctant to let her go. He knew that look. He had seen it in the eyes of his sister and brother-in-law and countless others when he'd given them a difficult diagnosis and again over the long months as treatment after treatment had failed. It was a look of deep sadness.

“You work here?” he asked.

“I am to be part of the spiritual care department,” she said. “I am Rachel Kaufmann.”

Ben grinned, remembering the voice over the telephone, the way her speech had been slightly formal, her tone soft and yet confident. “We've met,” he told her. He noted that her eyes were a remarkable shade of violet, like Elizabeth Taylor's. They widened in surprise.

“I believe you are mistaken,” she said politely. “I just arrived in Sarasota on Friday.”

“Ben Booker.” Ben extended his hand and then wondered if her culture would permit her to shake it. He saw her hesitation and instead waved his hand toward the entrance. “I was part of the committee that interviewed you by phone.”

“Oh, you were the late one,” she blurted and then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I am so sorry,” she murmured.

“Never apologize for being right. I was running late that day as it appears you are today.” He glanced at his watch. “How about I show you the way to the chaplain's office? You're going to enjoy working with Paul Cox—the man is quite something.”

He started toward the entrance. After a few seconds she caught up to him. “I can ask for directions inside,” she said. “You must be busy.”

“I'm scheduled to start rounds with the pediatric residents in ten minutes. Come on. Pastor Cox's office is on my way.” He waited for her to enter ahead of him and knew the exact moment when she realized that although they had moved inside she was standing in a tropical garden. She took a moment to appreciate the ferns and bromeliads and orchids surrounding the waterfall that cascaded over boulders and then settled into a calm pool featuring several large koi fish.

“Our design team may have gotten a little carried away,” he said, aware that for a woman of her faith such opulence might be troubling

“Oh no,” she said, her voice barely audible against the noise of the splashing water. “The children will love it. Are those real butterflies?”

“They are,” Ben assured her, and this time when she smiled at him, that smile reached her eyes, softening them into violet pools. Flustered to have had such a poetic thought, he pretended interest in the design of the hospital's reception area. “It's pretty neat, isn't it?”

“It's wonderful,” she replied. “And such a welcoming place for the children—and other patients—to begin their journey if they must travel this road.” She smiled at him. “It's certainly going to be a pleasure coming to work every day.”

“My feelings exactly. Now let's get you to Pastor Paul's office.”

He led the way down a wide corridor, greeting other members of the staff and nodding to patients and their families along the way. Rachel matched him step for step, her sensible shoes a far cry from the platform heels or wedged sandals his sister wore. He was aware that those they passed were curious about this woman in her plain dress complete with the traditional prayer covering of her faith. But Rachel seemed not to notice, and he wondered if she had simply grown used to being stared at.

“Have you found a place to live yet?” he asked as they turned a corner and started down another long corridor.

“Right now we're staying with my friends Hester and John Steiner. After I finish work today Hester is going to take us to see the guesthouse on Mr. Shepherd's property. It would be convenient—an easy walk or bus ride to the hospital.”

“Malcolm is married to my sister,” Ben told her. “Want me to put in a good word for you?” He grinned to let her know he was teasing her and was charmed by the way her cheeks turned a shade rosier than their normal pink. But he also saw the shadow of a frown furrow her brow. “Hey, I was kidding.”

“I know. It's just …” She shook off the thought. “You must have much better things to do than play the role of tour guide for me, Dr. Booker.”

“Ben,” he corrected. “We're a pretty casual group here. No standing on ceremony, at least behind the scenes.”

“So it will be Dr. Booker when we're with patients and Ben when we're with other staff,” she said. “Very well. And I am Rachel.”

“Before when you mentioned my sister's guesthouse, you said ‘we.' It's none of my business of course,” he hurried to add.

“Not at all. I have a twelve-year-old son, Justin.”

“That's right. You mentioned him on the phone.” He recalled that she had also mentioned the death of her husband. “How's your son doing with this big change?”

The sad wariness he'd first noticed in her eyes was back. “He'll be fine. He needs some time.” She glanced at the nameplate next to Paul Cox's closed door. “Ah, this must be the place. Thank you, Ben, for making me feel so welcome.”

“My pleasure.” He reached around to open the door for her. “Hello, Eileen,” he said to the woman who looked up from her work as they entered. “Eileen, this is Rachel Kaufmann. Rachel, Eileen Walls.”

“Oh, hello, dear,” Eileen gushed as she came around the desk and took Rachel's hand between both of hers. She was shorter than Rachel and dressed in an orange knit pantsuit that strained across her ample bosom and hips. She had always reminded Ben of his grandmother. “We have so been looking forward to meeting you in person. Pastor Cox is especially delighted to have you on staff.”

“Thank you,” Rachel replied.

“Is Paul in?” Ben asked.

Eileen glanced at a large wall clock. “He should be completing his morning rounds.” She turned her attention to Rachel. “He likes to see those patients facing surgery or procedures first thing.”

She took hold of Rachel's hand and patted it. “Oh, it is going to be so nice having you here with us. You're going to fit in just fine.”

Eileen had nothing to base that statement on, and yet Ben could see that Rachel understood that this sweet matronly woman was trying to put her at ease. “I hope so,” Rachel replied.

“Well, I'll leave you in Eileen's capable hands,” Ben said as he turned to go. “I'm looking forward to working with you, Rachel.”

“Danke—I mean, thank you for everything.”

Ben smiled. “You're welcome.”

He had retraced his steps down the hall when he saw Darcy Meekins coming his way. She was walking fast in spite of her three-inch heels, her cell phone to her ear as she balanced a notebook filled with papers that she was shuffling through.

“Well, I don't have it, Mark,” she said curtly. “Never mind.” She pulled a single sheet from the stack. “Got it.” She ended the call and glanced up. When she saw Ben, her demeanor changed. She smiled and slowed her pace, clutching her binder of papers to her chest. “Are you lost, Dr. Booker?” she teased.

Ben chuckled. “That wouldn't be hard in this place. How about you?”

“Oh, I'm running fifteen minutes behind schedule. Paul wanted me to come down so we could go over everything with the new hire.”

“You're in luck. Paul's also running behind. I left Rachel with Eileen.”

“So what did you think of her?”

Ben shrugged. “She's nice.”

“Well, I mean, no one has actually seen her,” Darcy said.

“Oh, you want to know what she
looks
like? Well, let's see, other than the two heads and the single eye in the center of her forehead …”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really. I'd say the adage ‘what you see'—or in her case, ‘heard over the phone'—is pretty much what you get.”

Darcy frowned. Of everyone on the search committee she had been the only one to express strong doubts about hiring Rachel Kaufmann. Even when Paul Cox had pointed out that, of all the applicants they were considering, Rachel's background and years working as a nurse and even her limited counseling experience topped the other two candidates who were fresh out of college, Darcy had insisted they offer the position to another person. Only after that candidate had turned it down, citing the fact that he had already accepted another job, did Darcy agree to make the offer to Rachel.

“Hey, give her a chance. It's her first day and frankly—”

“She's different in so many ways. I mean she's not from here, and she's Mennonite—as in
serious
Mennonite. I looked it up—the different groups, and she's from what's called
Old Order
—very conservative and strict. We have to keep in mind that our patients run the gamut of the religious spectrum.”