Wish Me Tomorrow

With his hair no longer plastered to his face, the youngster looked familiar. She took a moment to recall how she knew him. Since her meeting was so off track, she couldn’t see the point in forcing the group back into meditation anytime soon. Besides, Elizabeth was smiling and happy, clearly enjoying their energetic visitor.

Eli’s face tightened once more. “You know Ms. Bates?”

The towheaded dynamo wriggled off his father’s lap and scampered over to her. “She gave me an oatmeal bar with raisins.” He scanned the treat table and turned from his father to Christie, face bright and expectant. “Can I have one?”

“If your father says so.” Why hadn’t she recognized the adorable imp earlier? A couple of months ago, he’d burst into their meeting and wolfed down half the pan. She matched Tommy’s grin. “But be careful—last time you almost took out a tray of Jell-O.”

“You stopped me before I crashed.” Tommy flapped the sides of his towel and jumped up and down. “But that lady with the blue hair was mad. She said I had to leave.”

Christie stifled a laugh. Tommy had a point. The former receptionist had been a bit of a grump. “Not to worry. She was angry at everything.”

Tommy’s blue eyes grew round. “Even Jell-O?” He lowered his terry-cloth wings. “But it wiggles.”

Elizabeth’s tracheotomy made a humming sound, her warm smile about to steal Christie’s heart. No way she was letting Tommy out the door yet. Kids had a more positive effect on people than a whole book full of inspirational quotes.

“Exactly.” She nodded solemnly. “Now hold on to one end of the towel. I’m going to show you something grand before you get your dessert.” She sent Eli a questioning look. Tommy had been very patient waiting for his answer.

“How did you two meet?” His light tone held an undercurrent of tension. “And, yes, Tommy, you can have the oatmeal-raisin bar.” He held up his index finger. “Just one, though.”

Christie pulled the other end of the towel, spinning Tommy free of the absorbent cloth.

“Again!” Tommy shouted when he rewrapped himself.

“Answer your father first, Tommy.” She turned him to face his parent.

“I ran away from Mary ’cause I wanted to show Becca my drawing of Scout. Only I got lost and came here instead.” Tommy scratched his freckled nose before turning back to her. “Please spin me, Miss—” He shook his small head, brow furrowed. “Miss—”

“It’s Christie. Hey, everyone.” A preteen girl with brown hair in a tight bun wandered into the room and returned the group’s waves. She wore jeans over a black leotard and had a bag embroidered with sequined ballet shoes slung across her shoulder. “I met her when we picked you up, remember? So why did you run away? Again. You know how much it upsets Dad and Mary.” Despite her admonishment, her tone was mild.

“Becca!” The boy wrapped his arms around his sister’s legs. “Did you see me swim without my floaties? Do you want an oatmeal bar? It’s healthy and Dad said we could.”

“I didn’t see you because I was still in dance. But that’s awesome, Little Man.” Becca fist bumped Tommy. “And, yeah. I’ll have a snack. So starved.”

“How was dance, Becca-Bell?” Eli’s arms opened wide, his gaze expectant.

Some members of the support group began speaking in low-pitched voices, the word Yankees punctuating their discussion. No doubt they were debating the team’s chances tonight. It was a crucial game that Christie was interested in herself. Yet this family fascinated her, as well.

“The same,” Becca mumbled, fidgeting with the latch on her bag. “And please don’t call me that anymore. Remember?”

He slowly lowered his arms, a crease appearing between his brows. “Does that fastener need to be fixed?”

Becca shrugged before she turned away.

Christie glanced between the two; their tension was palpable. Although it could be a teenage thing, it seemed deeper than that.

Elizabeth stood and brought treats, another member following with Dixie cups of juice. After taking the proffered snacks, Becca said, “Thank you,” nudging Tommy to do the same.

“All right, kids.” Eli rose to his imposing height. “Time to go.”

He held out his arms once more. Tommy flew into them while Becca hung back and tightened her shoelaces. “I’ll be home in a little bit,” he promised.

“Sure,” Becca replied, her voice flat. She gave Christie and the smiling support group a small wave, wrapped a protective arm around her brother and followed Mary through the exit.

“That was nice, Mr. Roberts.” Christie’s smile faded at his glower. She cleared her throat. “Does anyone have something they’d like to share?”

She looked pointedly at Eli, who stared back, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Why the sour mood? Even though there didn’t appear to be a woman in his life, and his relationship with Becca seemed strained, he still had what was most important—his health and family. But his bleak expression made her wonder.

Perhaps he didn’t have everything after all.

* * *

ELI FORCED HIS eyes away from Ms. Christie Bates as everyone in the group took turns recounting their week. He knew his staring bordered on rude, but something about her fascinated the photographer in him.

She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her nose had a slight upward tilt that spoiled its classic lines. Her green eyes, his favorite color, were set too deep, the dark circles under them belying her carefree attitude. Her forehead was a finger’s breadth too high and her delicate, pointed chin reminded him of old-time movie stars, not modern-day bombshells. Her hair, a shimmering auburn waterfall, would meet the fashion industry’s standards, though.

Despite the imperfections, or perhaps because of them, her face captivated him. Even the splatter of freckles across her nose made him long for his Nikon, something he hadn’t picked up since— He forced his mind away from that memory. It was one he wanted buried, cremated, even.

He peeked at Christie once more and met her jewel-toned eyes. Busted. But the quick glance confirmed his instincts. All her flaws added up to an arresting face. It was a shame her personality was so over the top. All that phony stuff about cancer making you stronger, giving people false hope. It bordered on criminal. He hated to call her out on it, but these people needed to know the truth, to be prepared.

“Elizabeth, that is a lovely scarf. Is it new?” he heard her ask the woman beside her. Her soft voice had a unique, musical lilt. Where had he heard that accent before?

The woman lowered the silk paisley covering her tracheotomy and reminded Christie she had bought the scarf for her last Christmas. Christie laughed, her bowed lips curling. He dragged his gaze away and bolted down a cup of lukewarm juice. Why was this woman getting under his skin?

“Well, then, that was grand of me, wasn’t it?” Christie asked.

His mind clicked. Irish. The accent was subtle, as though she’d grown up around people from the old country. No wonder she bought into all that hope and faith stuff. Maybe she believed in rainbows with pots of gold, as well.

Her white teeth flashed at a man with an oxygen tube. “That’s wonderful,” she responded to something he’d said. “You’ve nearly doubled your white-blood-cell count.”

Eli glanced at the clock, glad to see that there were only twenty minutes left. With any luck, they’d get a cab and be home in plenty of time to relieve Mary. She’d been a loyal friend and employee through these difficult three years.

No matter how much John nagged him to go to the White Horse Tavern, he’d be home by eight. Mary had been telling him for the past two weeks that she and her husband had reservations at one of Manhattan’s best restaurants to celebrate their anniversary.

“And, John, I’ve noticed you’ve got some new equipment. How is that going?” asked Christie. Eli glanced down at his buddy. John’s head rested sideways and back against the chair, his eyes closed. That figured. John dragged him to this meeting, made him promise not to leave—as if he would—and then fell asleep.

Christie rushed toward them, her face creased in concern. She grabbed John’s wrist and held up her watch, checking his pulse with a medical professional’s efficiency.

“Someone get Anne,” she called, all business. “Everyone else, stay seated.”

Eli dashed out into the hall, his heart thudding. Why had he assumed John was sleeping?

He skidded to a stop before a woman whose desk nameplate read Anne Cartwright.

“Come quick,” he urged. “Christie needs you.”

Despite his long strides, the diminutive woman kept up with him.