Ties That Bind. Marie Bostwick
tender heart, sighed. “I tried to convince her to go home and get a little sleep, but it was no good. Can you talk to her? She looks just awful.”
“I’ll do what I can. How is Olivia? Any change?”
“You know I can’t discuss a patient’s condition,” she scolded, “not even with you.”
A buzzer rang. Trina looked up and down the hall, searching for a white-uniformed subordinate. “What’s the point in being the charge nurse if there’s nobody to be in charge of?” she grumbled, getting to her feet.
“I can tell you one thing,” she said, looking over her shoulder before walking quickly down the corridor. “Three days ago, nobody would have given you odds on Olivia lasting out the night. But she’s still here. She’s a little fighter, that one. She just might end up surprising everybody.”
Margot was asleep on a vinyl sofa. She lay on her back with one arm crossed over her face to block out the fluorescent glare of the overhead light and the other drooped limply off the sofa cushion, dangling near the floor next to an empty bag of cheese puffs and a paper cup half-filled with cold coffee.
“Margot?” I whispered.
She jumped at the sound, her arms jerking as if she’d received an electric shock.
“I’m awake!” She sat up, blinking her eyes several times. “What is it? Is something wrong? How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t somebody wake me up?”
“It’s okay. Olivia’s fine. I brought you clean clothes and something to eat. Charlie baked you some cookies and made me promise to make you promise to eat them.” I lifted the paper grocery bag I was carrying.
“Thanks,” she said, blinking again. “I’m not hungry right now. What time is it?”
“Four-thirty.”
She really did look awful. Her hair was flat on one side and poufed out on the other. There were mascara smears under her eyes and a coffee stain on her sweater.
“Margot, go home for a few hours. You need to get some sleep.”
“I did get some sleep,” she said defensively, glancing down at her watch. “I just slept for three hours. I feel fine.”
I doubted she’d been asleep anywhere near that long, but I wasn’t there to start an argument. I tried another tack. “Your parents called me from the road. They’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
I had offered to arrange a service for Mari at the church, but the family didn’t want that. Instead, Werner and Lillian accompanied Mari’s remains on the seven-hour drive to Buffalo, where they had made arrangements for interment in a local cemetery and a brief private graveside service conducted by their hometown minister. Margot stayed in New Bern to watch over Olivia. Given the circumstances and the seriousness of Olivia’s condition, I suppose it made sense. However, I was concerned that Margot didn’t have a means of saying her farewells to her sister. Funerals aren’t for the dead, but for those who are left behind.
“When your parents get here, why don’t you go home for a little while? They could call if there is any change. You could be back here in ten minutes. I’m teaching a new members class tonight, but if it’d make you feel better, I could come to the hospital after.”
Margot shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks, but no. I’d never forgive myself if Olivia suddenly woke up and I wasn’t here. Or if she …” Margot stopped, refusing to give voice to her worst fears. “I’m not leaving.”
“Margot, you’re stubborn.”
“I never used to be, but when it comes to Olivia …” She shrugged, unable to explain this sudden personality shift.
“Maybe your maternal instincts are kicking in.”
“Maybe.”
15
Philippa
By 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