Wish Me Tomorrow

How could he say no when she said his name like that? He walked over and handed Nurse Smitherson the phone. “Christie Bates for you.”

The woman listened for a moment then smiled up at him. Was Christie making some headway?

“Of course, Christie. If I’d known, I would have kept the gentleman apprised. I’ll have him come back right now.” She handed him the phone and pointed to wooden double doors that separated the waiting area and the emergency room.

A buzzer sounded and the doors opened.

“Follow me.” She led him to a room filled with beeping machines and uniformed professionals. “Dr. Landon, when you have a moment, would you please update Mr. Roberts? He’s Mr. Vaccaro’s health proxy.”

“What’s going on?” Christie’s faint voice sounded. He brought the phone back to his ear.

“How did I become John’s health proxy?” he whispered. “And I’m not sure what’s going on. The doctor’s coming out soon.”

“You take care of John, right?”

“Right.” He dodged a gurney wheeled by a medical technician.

“Then that’s close enough. By a stretch. But we’re desperate here.”

He chuckled. “You are something.”

“I might say the same of you.”

“The doctor’s here. I’ve got to go.”

He punched off the phone and followed a middle-aged woman in a white coat to a nearby alcove.

“We’ve just gotten Mr. Vaccaro’s test results, so your timing is perfect.” The doctor opened a chart and perused its contents. After what felt like an eternity, she looked at him once more, her face grave. His fingers tightened around the rabbit’s foot.

If nothing else, it prevented him from digging holes in his own palm, right?

“I’m afraid Mr. Vaccaro has suffered a thrombotic stroke from a heart arrhythmia. It does not appear related to his cancer nor does it seem to have aggravated it. In fact, the MRI shows tumor shrinkage.”

He rubbed his eyes. Was he hearing good news?

“Although I can’t predict how completely he’ll recover from the stroke, he’s regained seventy percent of his mobility and all of his speech. As for his heart, a pacemaker will control the arrhythmia.” Dr. Landon’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “It seems he’d like a glass of whiskey.”

He could have kissed her. John was a fighter. He would recover from the stroke, and better yet, his cancer was responding to treatment. He squeezed the rabbit’s foot, for real this time, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

He thanked the doctor and strode to John’s room. A nurse removed a blood-pressure cuff and made space for him.

“John. It’s Eli.” He squeezed John’s hand and was relieved to feel the pressure returned. “The doctor says your tumor shrank and the stroke is under control.”

“James,” John murmured, his eyes opening and closing.

“No. It’s Eli.”

John pointed a plastic-encased finger. “Jameson.”

Eli grinned. John’s favorite whiskey. “I’ll bring it when I visit tomorrow.” He lowered John’s hand to the sheet.

“Put it in my IV.” John’s chuckle turned into a cough.

A nurse rushed in. “I’m afraid it’s time to go, sir.” She steered him out of the room.

In the hall, he spotted John’s sons and tensed. They strolled his way in no apparent hurry.

“How’s old Pop doing?” the older son, Brian, asked.

“See for yourself,” he called over his shoulder and sprinted outside. A taxi jerked to a halt at his raised hand.

He had someone much more important with whom to share this good news. And once he’d done that, he told himself sternly, he’d see Christie into a cab and out of his life.

No matter that she was the first woman to make him smile in too long to remember.

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTIE TOSSED ANOTHER magazine on the floor and stepped back to study the effect. She dragged a hand through her hair. Still not messy enough. Eli would know she’d organized his apartment if she’d didn’t put it back to rights—or wrongs—but still. She should have listened to Becca’s warning but hadn’t believed anyone would prefer a messy house. After speaking to Eli, though, she understood she was wrong. It was his home and the way he wanted it. She respected that. In fact, there was a lot about the gruff Mr. Roberts she was starting to admire. He was a loyal friend, protective father and considerate employer.

If only he understood that shielding his children from his cancer did more harm than good. They needed to talk about their feelings, not bottle them up. Becca barely spoke to him. How much longer before Tommy followed suit?

Her gran always said, “There are no unmixed blessings in life.” Eli had regained his health but was losing his family. How could she help him understand? And was it her place to? He hadn’t asked for help, though his children had.

She tugged some books from a shelf and checked her watch—10:00. Why hadn’t Eli called? Surely he had John’s test results by now. Maybe his cell battery had quit? Or he and John were visiting? She scattered pillows on the floor. If only he’d give her a quick call and reassure her.

Without warning, the lights went out, plunging her into complete darkness. The soft hum of the refrigerator quit along with the whirring central air conditioning. She froze, a tingle of alarm running up her spine. The building was old. Had its power failed? Her claustrophobia returned with a vengeance.

Everything felt close, the heavy blackness pressing all around, dragging her down like... She clutched a pillow to her galloping heart, the remembered sound of thudding dirt on a lowered casket echoing faintly in her ears. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. No. She hadn’t had those nightmares in a long time. Why were so many memories resurfacing today? Perhaps John’s close call had shaken them loose.

Christie felt her way to the glass wall and raised the shades. Light glowed softly from covered windows across the street, the overcast sky obscuring the moon. No help there. She sank into a nearby chair and focused. Laura had taught her that if she altered her thoughts they’d change her emotions and behavior. Instead of cowering like a scared mouse, she’d find candles. Yes. Hadn’t she seen some tapers in pewter holders on the mantel? There must be more.

No sense sitting in the cloying murk. She needed to open the windows and strike some matches.

Eli’s home was overdue for some fresh air and light.

* * *

“HERE WE ARE, SIR,” the cabbie announced at the Broome Street address.

“Thanks.” Eli thrust a twenty at the driver and jumped out of the cab.

He peered up at his dark building. What a wild night. He’d attended his first cancer-support-group meeting, met a woman who both frustrated and fascinated him, helped save his best friend’s life, and now this—a building power outage. So much for the promised update to its faulty electrical system.

He shook his head. Christie probably had a fanciful saying about life having some sort of plan. But he knew better. Everything, every single thing, happened by chance without consideration for timing or convenience. Random events could be kind or cruel. And meeting someone who piqued his interest, at this point in his life, felt like a little bit of both.

He unlocked the building’s leaded glass door and shut it behind him. For once he was glad the super refused to update the antiquated entrance. A key in a lock always worked, regardless of an overtaxed electric system. The thought of his children alone in the dark made him take the stairs two at a time.

A sixth-floor penthouse was as safe as you got in a power failure. But still. His kids were all he had. And nothing bad would happen to them as long as he lived. If he lived. His chest tightened.