Ties That Bind (8 page)

B
y the time I finished my talk on the history of New Bern Community Church, a history I'd only acquainted myself with the night before, the twelve people in the newcomers class were looking a little glazed.

“Let's take a few minutes to stretch our legs and get something to eat. Coffee and cookies are on the table in the corner.”

I filled a paper cup and held it out to Paul Collier, who was standing next to me at the refreshment table.

“Decaf?” he asked.

“I'm not sure. The hospitality committee set everything up.”

“Better not,” he said, taking a chocolate cookie instead. “Can't risk losing my beauty sleep. I need all the help I can get.”

He was joking, of course. Paul Collier wasn't a handsome man, but he wasn't unattractive either. He was about forty-five and had a nice smile but, other than his height, which I guessed to be six-three or maybe six-four, his physical appearance was in the solidly average range. But he seemed easy to talk to and had a good, somewhat self-deprecating sense of humor. Earlier in the evening, during the introductions, I'd learned he was a lawyer, specializing in family law, and was a single parent to a twelve-year-old son, James. They had just moved to New Bern from Chicago.

“So,” Paul said as we moved to the center of the room, “what's it like to teach a new member class when you're a new member yourself?”

I grinned. “You may have noticed there were a few holes in my recitation of the church's history.”

“Seemed fine to me. Very interesting.” He yawned.

“Yes, I can tell.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I was up late last night reading case files.”

“So? Chicago to New Bern. You in culture shock?”

“It's going to take a little adjusting, but it seems like a nice enough town. Not that I've had much chance to investigate. I'm still trying to get the boxes unpacked. You haven't heard of any jazz clubs in the area, have you?”

“Jazz clubs?”

“I play baritone sax. Back in Chicago I was in a combo with some of my old high school buddies. We played in a neighborhood club a couple times a month—just for fun. Mostly we got paid in cheeseburgers and pitchers of beer. I was hoping to find someplace nearby where I could find some people to jam with once in a while.”

“Sorry. I don't know of any place in New Bern with live music. But we could consider starting a jazz service on Sunday mornings.”

Paul grinned; he knew I was teasing him. “Yeah? Think the town is ready for that?”

“Uh. Probably not.”

Paul popped the last piece of cookie into his mouth and smiled. “So, speaking of culture shock—how are you? New Bern is a little different from Boston. How is your daughter adjusting to the move?”

“My daughter?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Clementine?”

I laughed. Paul had arrived late, in the middle of my introduction. “Clementine is my dog, a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound English mastiff. I don't have any children.”

“Ah. That's a relief. When you told the story about ripping the heads off the stuffed animals she got for Christmas and pulling out the fluff, I was concerned. Thought she might have some sort of deep-seated emotional problems.”

“Not Clementine. Aside from her tendency to decapitate her toys, she's the sweetest dog in the world. What about your boy? How does he like New Bern?”

“It's early days yet.” Paul looked down into his cup of water. “I think things will be easier when he makes new friends. James is a good kid, but when you're twelve …”

“The world revolves around you and your friends,” I said with a nod. “I was a school social worker before I was a minister. Twelve is a tough age to make a move, but whether he realizes it or not, James would have missed his mother more than his friends.”

“What else could I do?” Paul said.

Earlier Paul had explained that his ex-wife, James's mother, had been admitted to Yale Law School. That was what had precipitated the move.

“Melanie was a court reporter when we met, hadn't even been to college, but she was already talking about law school. What with the baby and then our marriage and divorce and … well, a lot of stuff … it wasn't easy, but she did it. And, hey! She got into Yale. That's a big deal. I got my degree from Chuck's Good Enough Law School.”

“Sure you did.”

“Michigan State. It's a good school, but it ain't Yale. Yale doesn't admit just anybody. Certainly not guys like me.”

“If you go around saying ‘ain't' all the time, I'm not surprised.”

“You think? Maybe that's what went wrong with my application.” He smiled. I liked Paul Collier. I liked his modesty and his sense of humor.

“According to our custody agreement, I could have stopped her from moving out of state, but,” he shrugged, indicating that the idea had never really been worth considering, “after she worked so hard, that wouldn't have been fair. And it wouldn't have been right to have James so far away from his mom either. So, here we are.” He tossed back the rest of his water.

I'd only just met Paul, but his decision to move for the sake of his son and ex-wife said a lot about his character.

“Say, I'm hosting a little New Year's Eve party for the junior high youth group. Seven o'clock. We'll have pizza, games, even set off a few fireworks. Do you think James would like to come? Tell him it'll be my first time meeting the kids too.”

“That's nice of you, but … I don't know if I'll be able to talk him into it. He's been kind of a pain since the move.”

“Tell him about Clementine. No twelve-year-old boy is going to pass up the chance to meet a dog the size of a horse.”

“You know, that might just do the trick. I'll give it a try.”

He grinned, which made him almost handsome, but maybe that was just his personality. He seemed like a sweet guy. He said he'd been divorced for six years. I wondered why he was still single. Clearly I wasn't the only one who was wondering about him. Jeannine Baskins and Andrea Rizolli were standing together in the corner, whispering and casting furtive glances in our direction.

“Well,” I said, looking at my watch. “We'd better get back to it. Nice chatting with you, Paul.”

“Thanks. Me too,” he said as the group started moving back toward the circle of chairs. “I'll see you Friday.”

“Friday?”

“When I drop James off for the party?”

“Oh, right. Drop him off at eight.” I nodded quickly, feeling stupid. “And you can pick him up just after midnight.”

 

By the time I stowed the folding chairs, wrapped up the leftover cookies, washed out the coffeepot, turned off the lights, locked up, and drove to the hospital, it was almost nine o'clock. At that hour, the hospital corridors were nearly empty, but as I hustled down the hallway, I heard the sound of familiar voices and tears, tears that turned to sobs. Fighting back a sensation of sickness tinged with panic, I quickened my pace. It couldn't be Olivia, could it? Only four hours had passed since I'd left, and everything had seemed fine then. Olivia was a fighter, just like Trina said.

The sound of my steps rang off the linoleum floors and in my ears, mixing with the sound of sobbing that grew louder as I approached the end of the hall, rounded the corner, and entered the waiting room.

My heart sank, seeing exactly what I had most feared—Dr. Bledsoe, looking exhausted and at a loss as he watched the Matthews family crying and clinging to one another like shipwrecked mariners hanging on to rocky cliffs in a stormy sea, hanging on for the hope of life and the fear of death.

“What happened?” I asked quietly, addressing the doctor.

Margot answered for him, lifting her head from her father's shoulder, her nose red and running, her eyes shimmering with tears. “She's awake! She's going to live!”

T
he doctor cleared his throat and said, “I'm not trying to rush things, but I've got an aneurysm that I need to check on.”

Dr. Bledsoe could learn a few things about bedside manner, beginning with his tendency to refer to patients as ailments, but he saved Olivia's life, so I was willing to overlook that.

“Yes, of course. We're just so happy,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “Thank you so much. I just …I wish I had words—”

He held up one hand, cutting me off. His face was grim. “Don't thank me yet. This is a very encouraging development, but we're still not out of the woods.”

My mother clutched my hand so hard I could feel her nails digging into my palm. “But … you said Olivia is going to live.”

The doctor shook his head. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to imply anything else. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, Olivia will live. When I first examined her, I didn't think she had a prayer of regaining consciousness.”

“She did have prayers,” Dad said firmly. “Hundreds of them. And they've been answered.”

“Well, I certainly respect your beliefs, Mr. Matthews,” the weary physician said dispassionately. “I've been a physician long enough to know there is always hope, even in seemingly hopeless cases. But at the moment, our concerns must turn to the quality of life Olivia may have. Her injuries were severe. It's too soon to know, but there may have been damage to the brain. In any case, we're looking at a long period of recovery and no guarantees as to the outcome.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

The doctor cleared his throat and motioned for everyone to take a seat. Philippa glanced at me with raised eyebrows, not sure if she should stay. I pointed to a nearby chair. Anything that the doctor was going to say, Philippa could hear too. My parents took a spot on the sofa, Dad's arm draped protectively over Mom's shoulder.

“It means,” the doctor said soberly, “that we are going to do everything possible to help Olivia breathe, eat, talk, walk, think, and do all the things that a normal six-year-old should be able to do but, at the moment, there is no certainty that we'll succeed.”

“Speak plainly. What are her chances of living a normal life?” Mom asked in a sharp voice that was so unlike the patient, soft-spoken woman who raised me.

The doctor didn't seem at all offended by my mother's tone. He was undoubtedly used to dealing with families under stress. “We're looking at weeks, and probably months, of treatment and therapy, but it is impossible to predict how effective those treatments will be. It's possible Olivia will make a full recovery, but,” he said, turning toward me, “it is more likely that she won't. I'm not trying to be negative, Miss Matthews. I just want you to have a realistic picture of what you're facing.”

I took a moment to collect myself, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, suddenly aware of the complicated and miraculous nature of that seemingly simple act, an act my niece, whose life my sister had entrusted to me, could not perform on her own. This was not the time to give in to my emotions. For Olivia's sake, I needed to be strong and think clearly.

“I understand. Thank you for being so up front, Doctor. What happens now?”

“We'll need a thorough neurological evaluation. That will give us a better idea of her cognitive function. And we need to wean her off the ventilator, see if she can breathe on her own and for how long. That's the benchmark that will determine whether we continue rehabilitation or begin searching for a long-term care facility.”

Dad frowned and sat up taller in his seat. “If you can get her off the ventilator, how long would it be before she could be transferred to a hospital in Buffalo?”

The doctor looked at me cautiously before answering. “I assumed, since the mother named Miss Matthews as guardian, that any program of rehabilitation would take place in New Bern. Is that not the case?”

He addressed the question to me, but Dad didn't give me a chance to answer, interrupting with questions of his own.

“Named her guardian? A note scribbled on a bit of paper when my daughter was dying? Out of her senses with pain and fear? Under the influence of drugs?”

My cheeks went hot. I hadn't told Philippa about the results of Mari's toxicology report. There hadn't been any reason to.

Mari had made a lot of mistakes in her life and, yes, abusing drugs and alcohol had been among them. But all that changed after Olivia was born. Mari wasn't high when her car slid off that icy road, and though I'd been raised never to contradict my elders, especially my father, I couldn't sit by and let him imply otherwise. Somebody had to stand up for my sister.

“Not drugs, Daddy. Anxiety medication. They found the prescription in her purse. And the toxicology report showed that she hadn't taken more than the recommended dose.”

The prescription had been filled only recently. My sister was anxious about seeing my parents, but the medication wouldn't have impaired her driving or her ability to think clearly. Why was Dad implying otherwise?

“Prescription or not, it was still a drug.” Dad crossed his arms over his chest. “A note scribbled out on a slip of paper while she was dying,” he repeated flatly. “In pain, in fear, under the influence, and not witnessed by anyone. That hardly qualifies as a legal last will and testament. It'd never hold up in court.”

Words like “legal” and “court” clearly made the doctor nervous. He cleared his throat and gave Philippa a sideways glance, as if hoping she would interject something.

“Mr. Matthews,” Philippa said, picking up on the doctor's signal, “you didn't raise objections to Margot's guardianship before. When the hospital said that Margot, as guardian, was the only one who could visit Olivia in the ICU, you went along with it.”

“Well, yes,” Mom said, giving Philippa a curious look, as if she didn't understand what she was getting at. “At the time, we were just happy to have someone by her side. We didn't want to raise a fuss about who was in the room, as long as Olivia wasn't alone. That was the important thing. We assumed that once Olivia was better, if she got better, Werner and I would take over as guardians. Buffalo is a wonderful place to raise children.”

“So is New Bern!” I said defensively and then stopped myself, surprised by my tone. “What I mean is … New Bern is a very nice community. The schools are good. It's quiet here, very safe. And …” I looked at my parents, who were looking at me, blankly, as if they couldn't quite grasp what I was driving at.

“Mom, Dad … Olivia is six years old. By the time she graduates from college, you'll be eighty.”

Now it was my father's turn to be defensive. “So what? I'm in great shape for my age. So is your mother. We'll be around for Olivia's graduation. My father lived to ninety-eight. Never retired. Never gave up driving. Helped me pour the foundation for our new garage the month before he died. Remember?”

I did. Grandpa Matthews was a bear of a man, strong of opinion and body, and active right up to his death. Dad was very much his father's son. But that wasn't the point.

“I remember. But Mari named me as guardian. She wanted
me
to raise Olivia.”

Dad walked across the room and perched on the arm of my chair.

“Bunny,” he said gently, laying his heavy arm across my shoulders and squeezing my forearm, “I know how much you love children. And I know how much you've wanted a family of your own, but you're not in a position to take care of Olivia.”

I pushed myself sideways in my chair, moving from under his grasp, so I could look my father in the eye.

Until that moment, I don't recall ever having disagreed with him—not out loud—that was my sister's job. Mari was the pot-stirrer. I was the peacemaker. But there is a price to keeping the peace and, sometimes, it's too high.

“Why would you say that? I own my own home. I have a job, a savings account. And I'm forty years old. I'm an adult, Dad. I have been for a long time. I haven't borrowed a dime from you since the day I graduated, not even when I was laid off. I've always taken care of myself and I can take care of Olivia too.”

My mother leaned forward in her chair. “Margot, Dad isn't saying that you can't take care of yourself. We're very proud of you. It's just that—”

“Just that what?”

“Don't interrupt your mother. And don't speak to her in that tone!”

“I'm sorry,” I said, purposely modulating my voice and opening my hands, trying to adopt a less defensive posture. “I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but … you can't have it both ways. You can't say you're proud of me in one breath and say I'm unfit for motherhood in the next. It's not fair,” I said, swallowing hard as I felt my eyes begin to tear. “And it's not true.”

His expression of anger replaced by sympathy, my father reached out and touched my shoulder again.

“That's not what I meant. You'd be a wonderful mother, but a child needs two parents. That's what Olivia should have had all along, a real family, with a mother
and
a father. Now she can.” He squeezed my shoulder. “You see that. Don't you, Bunny?”