Skyward (4 page)

She turned to look at him, her eyes forlorn. “Daddy, you know what I want for Christmas.”

On her pale, thin face he saw the yearning of a lonely child. It near broke his heart. Marion wasn’t by nature a whiner or a complainer. In fact, she rarely asked for anything for herself. He wrapped his arm around her and rested her against his knee as he racked his brain for what to say.

“Honey, you know I can’t get you your mama for Christmas. We talked about this. That’s just silly.”

“No, it isn’t silly.” Her lower lip shot out in a pout.

“I know, I’m sorry. Why don’t you pick out a doll that looks like Mama? Won’t that be fine? Look at those over there. They’re very pretty, just like her.”

When she looked up at him with those large, trusting blue eyes, she looked so much like her mother that his heart wrenched. He kissed her tender cheek. “Go on, now.”

With a resigned sigh, Marion turned and looked again at the row of dolls. After some thought, she raised her arm and pointed toward a Barbie doll dressed in a neon pink ball gown littered with colored glitter. Harris thought it was the gaudiest doll on the shelf—and sadly appropriate. Fannie did like bright colors. He shifted his weight and reached for the chosen Barbie doll.

“That’s a fine choice, honey! It’s real pretty. What are you going to call her?” He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t name the doll Fannie after her mother.

Marion scrunched her face in deliberation, then announced, “Lulu.”

He smiled. “Perfect. Now, you stay put and have fun looking at these dolls while I go buy her,” he told her. “Don’t go anywhere. Promise? Daddy’ll be right back. Okay?”

When she nodded he hurried to the checkout line with the Barbie doll in his hands. He wasn’t the only one doing last-minute shopping, but only two checkout registers were open so the lines were long. He took his place, all the while anxiously looking over his shoulder to keep an eye on Marion in the toy aisle. The line seemed to move to the same slow pace of “White Christmas” blaring from the speakers.

He longed for the quiet peace of his home in the woods and tapped his fingers on the box. Nearing the counter, he picked through the selections of last-minute Christmas items: decorated sugar cookies, a plush red Christmas stocking filled with candy, a small stuffed reindeer and wrapping paper with ribbon. When at last it was his turn, he set his parcels on the belt, pulled a few bills from the worn leather wallet and gave them to the cashier. He fingered the remaining bills in his wallet, mentally tallying up the bill and figuring the cost of dinner.

It was times like these he wondered if he’d made the right choice to dedicate his life to saving birds. Most biologists connected with wildlife conservation understood from the get-go that the job required long hours and endless dedication. They loved their work, couldn’t imagine doing anything else, but the job took its toll on their personal lives, not to mention their bankbooks. He sighed. Putting his wallet back into his pocket, he knew his answer would be yes.

When he looked up again, he saw a minor commotion over at the toy aisle. A few people were bending over something on the floor.

“Marion!” he blurted out, and took off at a run. He pushed through the small cluster of people to find his daughter lying on the floor ashen-faced with her eyes rolled back, jerking uncontrollably. His heart rate zoomed. Kneeling, he scooped his little girl in his arms and began loosening her hood and jacket with shaky fingers.

“She just fell down, like she fainted!” an elderly woman exclaimed. “I saw her.”

A slight trickle of blood oozed from her mouth. Had she bitten her tongue? He tried to wedge open her mouth but her teeth were clamped tight. His mind fought through a horrifying panic as he tried to diagnose Marion’s problem. Epilepsy? Fever? He felt choked and his hands shook. This wasn’t some hawk or an eagle. This was his daughter and he didn’t know what to do.

He looked up at the wall of onlookers, eyes wild, and shouted, “Will someone call an ambulance?”

Accipiters: The Woodland Darters.
Accipiters are agile, determined hunters. Their shorter, rounder wings and long tails are adapted for the quick bursts of speed and weaving through branches and brush needed to hunt other birds. Accipiters include sharp-shinned hawks, Cooper’s hawks and goshawks.

3

HARRIS NEVER REALIZED HOW MERE WEEKS could change an entire life. In less than a month’s time, his hard-won routine was turned upside down. There were times that he could almost hear the gods laughing at his hubris for believing he’d had everything in control.

Still, he was lucky. He knew that, too. Things could always be worse, had been worse.

He stood in the main room of the small Cape Cod house watching his daughter as she lay peacefully on the sofa. She was enveloped in a cocoon of pillows and wrapped in an old yellow-and-brown afghan. Clutched to her chest was the ever-present doll, Gaudy Lulu. Marion’s blue eyes, fringed with pale lashes, stared fixedly at the cartoons on the television. Her wispy blond hair curled behind gently pointed ears that protruded a tad too far. A smattering of faint freckles bloomed over an upturned nose.

To look at her now, she appeared like any other normal five-year-old girl watching television.

But she wasn’t.

Marion had juvenile diabetes.

Diabetes. He still couldn’t reconcile it in his mind. When the doctor had given him the diagnosis that night in the hospital, he’d felt the floor open up to swallow him. He’d stood staring back at the doctor, mouth agape. Of all the possibilities that had spun madly in his worry-crazed mind while pacing in the hospital waiting room, diabetes had never occurred to him. Sure, he knew a little about the disease. Diabetes meant there was too much sugar in the body. People with diabetes needed insulin. But these were adult people, not little children. Not five-year-olds who had never had a serious illness before.

But later, once he began reading about the disease, he recognized all the symptoms that had been there all along if only he’d really paid attention. The excessive thirst, increased urination, weight loss, irritability—they were all warning signs of Type 1 diabetes, the rarest and most severe form of the disease.

That was when the guilt set in. A gnawing, insidious, ever-present self-loathing that he could have let her condition get so bad that her sugar dropped low enough to cause convulsions. He felt like the world’s worst and most pathetic father.

Only he didn’t have time for guilt. Living with diabetes was all-consuming. Nothing was easy. He couldn’t even make Marion a snack without worrying about what calories she was taking in and watching for reactions. For the first time since becoming a father, Harris was afraid to take care of his own child.

He looked again at his daughter curled up on the couch watching TV. How sweet and innocent she appeared. And how deceiving it was. He shook his head, took a deep breath and braced himself for what was coming.

“Marion? It’s time to do the test.”

Instantly, all sweetness fled from her face as she jackknifed her knees to her chest, locking her arms tight around them.

“No!” she shouted.

“Come on, honey. You know we’ve got to do this.”

“No!”

Harris released a ragged sigh. So, it was going to be another fight. As he walked toward her, she backed up against the armrest and cowered in the corner of the sofa, her hands up, nails out, toward him off. She looked just like one of the wild, terrified birds when he reached to grab them—all glaring eyes and talons ready to attack.

As with his birds, he moved toward her in slow strides, murmuring assurances in low tones. Then, swiftly, he grabbed hold. Marion reacted instantly, shrieking and kicking at him as viciously as any wild bird.

“No! I don’t wanna. No, no, no!”

Her screams ricocheted from the walls to reverberate in his head. She was an amazingly strong child for such a skinny thing—and wily. When he tried to pick her up, her legs sprang straight out and she began kicking and pummeling with bunched fists even as she began sliding from the sofa.

“What in heaven’s name is going on in here?”

Harris recognized Maggie’s voice over the shrieks. So did Marion. She paused for just a second, then renewed her fight with even more vigor. He tightened his grip as she tried to wriggle away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said to his daughter as he hoisted her back up onto the sofa.

“It sounds like you’re committing bloody murder in here,” said Maggie, entering the house.

“That’d be easier than this,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve got to prick her finger for a blood sample. Ouch! Marion, stop kicking me.”

Maggie chuckled and came forward. “It might help if you took off her shoes.”

“Be my guest.”

Maggie reached out and, with the same skill she employed with birds, quickly took hold of Marion’s feet and in seconds had both shoes removed. She kept her grip on Marion’s legs. This seemed to make Marion even madder and she tried all the harder to kick and wiggle her way free, her face turning beet red.

“Lord, she’s stronger than a great horned owl.”

“She bites like one, too. Quick, grab hold of her left hand.”

Once Maggie took hold of her hand, Marion’s screams heightened in pitch to near hysteria.

“She’s holding her breath. Quick!”

Harris wiped the sweat from his brow with his elbow, took aim, quickly pricked the finger, then with split-second timing, dabbed the test strip against the bright red drop of blood on her fingertip.

“Got it,” he said with triumph.

The fight seemed to flee from Marion’s little body as she exhaled a defiant cry, then slumped, defeated and sobbing, against the pillows.

“There’s got to be an easier way,” Maggie said, checking her arm for bruises.

“If there is, I’d like to know what it is.” He reached over to pat his daughter’s head but she slapped his hand away.

“I hate you!” she cried, scrambling from the sofa and running off to her bedroom like someone escaping an inquisition.

Harris ran his hand through his hair when the bedroom door slammed shut between them.

Maggie raised her eyes to heaven. “How often do you have to do this?”

“I have to check the blood sugar six times a day, then I get to give her a shot of insulin three times a day. At least. That’s six to nine pokes with a needle each day.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“Yeah. Mercy on me. She tried being brave at first, now it’s just total war.”

“I hate to say it, but it looks like you’re losing.”

His face fell. “That’s the problem. I can’t lose. Her life depends on it.” He reached for the container, checked the test strip against the model, then set it down on the table, satisfied with the result.

“The first week home I screwed up and didn’t check her blood. She was carrying on like this, so I thought I could skip just one. Next thing I knew she was weak and sweaty and her hands started shaking. Thank God for glucose tablets. But I can tell you, it scared the hell out of me.”

“But she’s all right now. That’s what matters.”

“You’re right. And I’m going to keep her all right.” He glanced up at her, the better to gauge her reaction to his news. “I’ve hired someone to live in and take care of Marion full-time.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Live in? Here? But, Harris, this house is so small. Where will she sleep?”

“She can have my room. I’ll bunk in my office.”

“You’ll find that awfully cramped. And I’m not talking about just the layout of furniture.”

“Maybe. But it’ll have to do. At least for now.” When Maggie opened her mouth to voice another objection, Harris held up his palm. “It’s all arranged, Maggie. I placed an ad in the paper and she’s agreed to come. Please. I don’t need a lecture. Right now, I need support. Marion and I both do.”

Maggie’s mouth clamped tight against the torrent of words. She nodded her head, then leaned forward to wrap her ample arms around him in a hug of support. In the five years that they’d worked side by side, they’d shared a need for peace and quiet on the job. When they spoke, it was in spurts, mostly about the patient birds and what tasks needed doing. Though Maggie was the mother hen of the organization and gave opinions often and loudly, rarely did she probe into his personal life. Important bits of information they announced plainly, more like bulletins.
Bob’s been laid off. Marion’s got the flu. The kids are home from school today. The washing machine’s on the fritz again.
Their loyalty and friendship was deep, and though not discussed, it was never questioned.

“You just call if you need me,” she said.

“I always do.”

Harris knocked lightly on Marion’s bedroom door. There was no reply. He put his ear to the door, relieved to hear silence instead of the hiccupping sobs and mutterings of how mean her daddy was. He opened the door slowly, lest she be asleep. He stuck his head in to see her lying on her bed playing with Gaudy Lulu. Her head darted up when she heard him, her blue eyes widening with surprise, then quickly changing to a scowl.

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m coming in, anyway.” He walked to her side, picking up dirty clothes from the floor en route, and sat on the bed beside her. “So, do you still hate me?”

She pouted, stroking the doll’s hair. “I hate the shots.”

“I know you do. But you need the shots for your diabetes.”

“I hate ’betes.”

His smile was bittersweet. Harris leaned over to kiss the soft hair on the top of her head. “Ah, my favorite perfume,” he said, inhaling the scent of her.

“I’m not wearing perfume, Daddy,” she replied as she always did when he said this to her. It was a little game they played and her response told him the storm was over.

“I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

She kept her eyes on the doll while she maneuvered the tight bodice of the pearly gown over the doll’s impressive breasts. He waited patiently for her to finish the snap at the tiny waist and set the doll aside. When she raised her eyes to him, he began in a calm voice.

“We have a problem. Or, rather, I have a problem. I’m not doing a very good job taking care of you.”

Marion’s eyes rounded in surprise. Clearly she’d not expected this.

“You need someone who can give you your medicine and watch over your diet.”

“
You
can do that.”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t. We both know it’s not working out.”

“I won’t kick—”

“Honey, it’s not just that. Well, it
is,
in part,” he said teasingly, wrapping an arm around her and tucking her close. Marion rested her head against his chest. “I work long hours. I’m gone a lot. You need someone to keep an eye on you all the time.”

“Why can’t Maggie take care of me?”

“Maggie works at the clinic, honey. With the birds.”

“How come the birds get everything?” she asked, sitting up to face him with a scowl on her face. “
I’m
sick now, too.”

Harris wondered at the level of resentment she had to feel to make that comparison. “The birds are my job, honey. But you’re my heart.”

That seemed to appease her somewhat. She sighed raggedly and leaned back against her father’s chest. “You mean I’m going to get a new baby-sitter, right? Like Katie?”

“Sort of. You know how Katie went home to her own house every night? Well, I’ve hired a lady to stay here with us.”

“You mean, she’s going to live here? In our house?”

“Yes.”

Marion turned in his arms to look into his face. Her own was alert with interest. “Is she gonna be like a
mother?
”

“Heavens no,” he said with a light chuckle. Then, seeing the light dim in her eyes, he said more tenderly, “Well, maybe a little. She’ll read to you, cook your meals and help you get dressed in the morning. Most important, she’ll make sure you get your medicine.”

“You mean my shots?”

“Yep. Those, too.”

Marion scrunched up her face. “I don’t want her to come.

She’s
not
my mama. This is
our
house.”

“Hold on, now. That’s not the right attitude. It’s her job to help you and it’s your job to be cooperative. You have to help us take care of you.” He reached into his shirt pocket to pull out a folded white paper. He opened it and held it up to the bedside light.

“I put an ad in the newspaper and I got a few replies. Miss Majors is the one I chose to be your caretaker,” he replied. “She’s a nurse, so she knows a lot about diabetes and how to take care of you. A lot better than I can.”

“I want
you
to do it.” Her voice was more frightened than belligerent.

“Would you like me to read her letter?”

“I don’t care.”

Harris cleared his throat and began to read.

Dear Mr. Henderson,

I am replying to your ad for child care in the Charleston Post and Courier. The ad was very timely as I’ve just arrived in town and am looking for a position. I am from Rutland, Vermont, where I worked for the past decade as a pediatric nurse.

You are probably wondering why I would seek out a position in child care instead of nursing. I have had offers. Please rest assured that I have not lost my license or committed some violation or crime. You will find my complete résumé attached, along with multiple references. Please contact them if you feel the need. I know I would if it were my child.

To be frank, I have worked for many years in an emergency room and I feel the need for a respite from my career. I moved to the south for a change in climate as well as a change in lifestyle. When I saw your ad, it seemed a perfect solution. I am very familiar with the treatment of juvenile diabetes and welcome the chance to care for one child rather than many.