Wish Me Tomorrow

“What kind of dog? Is he big like Scout?” Tommy and Becca seated themselves in beige leather stools at the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space.

“He is actually a she and her name’s Sweet Pea.” She handed Tommy the slobber-free T. rex. Scout trotted over at the toy’s reappearance but scuttled back at her stern look. She glanced at a stainless-steel microwave over a matching cooktop. It was 8:15. How much longer until Eli called again?

“Sweet Pea.” Becca spun in her seat. “That’s such a cute name. What kind of dog is she?”

She smiled, picturing her small, white-and-tan dog. On her way to the apartment, she’d phoned Laura, who’d agreed to walk Sweet Pea. How lucky to have such an amazing roommate. She’d pick up Laura’s favorite frozen yogurt, Pinkberry’s chocolate with honey-almond granola topping, on her way home.

“She’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.” She thumbed to a photo of Sweet Pea on her iPhone and passed it to the kids. She headed to the fridge. “How do grilled-cheese sandwiches sound?”

“Are they the healthy kind?” Tommy’s fingers traced Sweet Pea’s long ears and their curly fur.

Christie paused on her way back to the counter, organic cheese and butter in hand. “Do you have whole-wheat bread?”

Becca grimaced. “That’s the only kind we have. Dad’s been a complete health-food nut ever since—” Her face froze and she fell silent.

Christie located the bread behind a stack of unopened mail while her mind turned over the possibilities of Becca’s unfinished sentence. Although Eli had sounded annoyed at the cancer-support-group meeting, she’d glimpsed pain, too. Was his decision to be more health conscious related to that?

“This is seriously the cutest dog ever.” Becca held up the iPhone, Sweet Pea’s tilted head and tiny snout on display.

“Is she a puppy?” Tommy got to his knees and stretched toward an overhead pot rack. “Here.” He handed her a frying pan as Becca steadied his stool.

“Thanks.” Christie hunted for a spatula and a butter knife. “Sweet Pea’s almost ten, which is old for a diabetic dog.”

Becca came around the counter, pulled open a couple of drawers and located the utensils. “Need a hand?”

“Sure. Would you turn on the cooktop while I butter the bread?”

“What’s tiabetic mean?” Tommy hopped off his stool and stood next to Christie. “I can help, too.”

“It’s diabetic, Little Man.” Becca grabbed a buttered sandwich. “It means she needs shots.” The frying pan hissed as she placed it inside. “Insulin, right?”

Christie nodded, impressed. “Twice a day, breakfast and dinner.” She handed Tommy two cheese slices, which he lined up with careful precision, tongue sticking out between his teeth. “Becca, I’ll take over the frying, okay?”

“Why do you do that?” Tommy placed the last piece of bread on top and followed her to the range. “Shots hurt.”

Becca pulled Tommy away from the hot pan and wrapped her arms around him. “Because if she didn’t, Sweet Pea would die. We learned that in health class.”

“Die?” Tommy looked stricken. He ran back to his stool and picked up the iPhone.

Christie turned from the stove and gave Tommy a reassuring look. “Not until it’s her time, Tommy. Her medicine keeps her healthy and I make sure she gets it every day.”

Tommy’s quivering lip stilled and Christie flipped the browned sandwich.

Why had Becca said that? The bluntness of teenagers. Her veterinarian had advised her to euthanize Sweet Pea years ago, saying that she’d go blind (she hadn’t) and that it would be difficult to keep up with the shots (it wasn’t). Sweet Pea’s life expectancy was shorter than other dogs, but it only made their time together more precious. She would rather have ten years with Sweet Pea than fifteen with another dog.

“My daddy got medicine so he wouldn’t die,” Tommy blurted.

Christie nearly dropped the cooked sandwich as she slid it onto a plate. Was he saying his father had been treated for a terminal illness? Her insides clenched.

“Tommy!” Becca scowled and passed him the dish. “Eat.”

“Well, it’s true.” Tommy ignored the steaming food. “And Christie understands ’cause she helps other people with cancer, like Mr. Vaccaro.”

“Yes, I do.” The spatula slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. She bent down and rested her forehead against a lower cabinet, hiding her surprise. So it was true. Eli was recovering from cancer. Her stomach twisted in empathy for him and his children. What they must be going through, and by the look of things, without a wife or mother to help. No wonder he sounded bitter. She grabbed the utensil and rose, her face as composed as possible.

She turned off the stove and handed a scowling Becca the last grilled cheese. “Becca, eat something.”

“Dad doesn’t want people knowing.” Becca pushed the plate away. “He won’t let us talk about it with anyone. Even each other. Ever.”

Becca’s frustration touched a chord, her distant behavior toward her father suddenly making sense. Becca didn’t ignore him out of anger—she avoided him out of fear. And Christie should know; she’d done it to her own brother.

She hated thinking about that painful time in her life. But Becca’s reaction to her father’s illness reminded Christie so much of herself at that age. Confused, hurt and lost.

She waved the grilled cheese under Becca’s nose until the girl gave her a reluctant smile and grabbed the sandwich. “Please don’t worry,” she said. “Everything will work itself out.”

“So you can help Daddy!” Tommy’s blue eyes were wide and bright.

“I can’t promise you that.” She looked from a crestfallen Tommy to a narrow-eyed Becca. “But if he gives his permission, you can call me anytime to talk.”

“Anytime?” Becca looked at her intently. “Even really late?”

Her heart squeezed tight at the thought of Becca—scarcely more than a child herself—scared for her father with nowhere to turn.

“As late as you need,” she promised, hoping she wasn’t getting too involved in Eli’s personal life.

Then again, helping kids deal with cancer was her job. If only Eli could see how much his kids needed to talk through their fear, she’d be happy to help. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was getting involved with him. His handsome, anguished face came to mind. Now that was a risk she didn’t trust her heart to take.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. Becca grabbed the cordless. “Hello?” She listened for a moment then shoved the handset to Christie. “It’s Dad,” she said, her voice hollow.

“Thanks, Becca. Hello?” She clutched the phone and paced. The children’s eyes followed her.

“Ms. Bates, it’s Eli. How are the kids doing?”

“They’re great.” She grinned at Tommy as he polished off his sandwich. His gap-toothed smile was really too precious, especially with cheese squirting out of it. “They’re eating sandwiches, and then I think we’ll watch a little TV before bed.”

Becca finished her last bite and carried the dirty plates to the dishwasher. When she returned to the counter, she helped Tommy climb onto her back and carried him to the living room.

“That sounds perfect.” A feeling of lightness overcame her at the husky cadence of his voice. “But bedtime’s at nine, so not too much TV, okay?”

“Nine o’clock. Got it.” She heard cartoon voices from the living room, where Tommy and Becca sat watching a talking sponge on a flat-screen TV.

“How’s John?” She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and began cleaning the countertop.

“The same. Stable, but still critical. We’re waiting for some test results. How much longer can you stay?”

She eyed the snuggling siblings, grateful for the company they’d given her tonight. “As long as you need.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bates, for everything—helping with the kids, letting me stay with John.” His voice thickened. “Saving his life. I think I gave you a hard time tonight, and I’m sorry.”