Hannah's List. Debbie Macomber
without Hannah, Friday nights seemed especially bleak and lonely. That was the reason I’d started volunteering Friday evenings at a health clinic in Seattle’s Central District. I usually arrived around six and stayed until eight or nine and went home exhausted. Not only did working those long hours help me get through what had once been a special night for my wife and me, but afterward I could almost guarantee that I’d be able to sleep.
Aside from the benefits I received, deep down I knew Hannah would approve of my volunteering.
I sat at my desk and it seemed that pink message slip with Winter’s phone number wouldn’t let me be. It might as well have been a flashing neon light the way my gaze kept returning to it. I felt as though Hannah herself was reminding me that calling these three women was the last thing she’d ever ask me to do.
“Oh, all right,” I muttered. I grabbed the slip and glanced at the ceiling. “I hope you’re happy.”
As I may have mentioned, I often spoke to Hannah. That was our secret, mine and hers. I didn’t admit this to other people, even Ritchie, because I was afraid they’d suggest I stop conversing with my dead wife. They’d say it was time I got on with my life and accepted the fact that Hannah was dead. Well, I did accept it, but I wasn’t about to give up talking to her when I found such comfort in it. In more ways than I could count, I felt she was still with me.
Sighing, I picked up the phone. I didn’t know what I’d say when Winter answered. Apparently, she had the same problem because she hadn’t contacted me again, either. I wondered if she felt as ill at ease as I did and assumed that was probably the case.
I exhaled when the call connected, and closed my eyes, praying for inspiration.
“The French Café,” a pleasant-sounding woman announced.
“Oh, hi,” I managed to say. “This is Dr. Michael Everett. May I speak to Winter Adams?”
“Hi, I’m Alix. Winter said you’d be phoning.”
That was encouraging.
“Unfortunately she isn’t here at the moment.”
“Oh.” So I was to receive a second reprieve. I smiled. I’d done my duty; Hannah couldn’t fault me for not making the effort.
“Winter left instructions that if you called I was to give you her cell number.”
I clenched my teeth. No reprieve, after all. It’d taken me three days to respond to her message and now the situation was going to drag on even longer. “Okay,” I said. “Give me the number.”
Alix recited it, I wrote it down and then repeated it. “Correct?” I asked.
“Yes,” Alix confirmed. “I know Winter’s anxious to speak to you.”
Oh, good, now pressure had been added to the mix. Winter expected to hear from me. “I’ll call her right away,” I said and disconnected.
I knew I should follow through immediately, or else I’d leave the number sitting on my desk over the weekend. Another three or four days would pass, making it harder than ever. I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair.
Folding my hands behind my head I analyzed my options. I could call Winter now, as I’d said I would, but I’d have to be quick, since I needed to leave for the clinic in ten minutes. Still, a lot could be said in that length of time.
The exchange of chitchat wouldn’t take more than a minute, two at the most. I’d ask how she was and she’d say fine, and then she’d ask how I was getting along and I’d lie and tell her everything was going well. She’d express her condolences and then—what? Silence?
I wasn’t going to mention Hannah’s letter. I supposed I could ask about the café. That might take another minute or so. Eventually I’d need to get around to the reason I’d phoned her. It’d been almost a week since Ritchie had given me the letter and I felt as much at a loss now as when I’d first read it. The down-and-dirty truth was that I had no desire to remarry and resented being forced into confronting something I didn’t even want to consider. Hannah was the only woman on earth for whom I’d do anything as crazy as this.
I stared at Winter’s cell number so long that when I happened to look at my watch I realized I’d wasted my remaining ten minutes debating what I’d say. It was too late to call now. A sense of relief settled over me as I headed out of the office to the clinic.
The clinic provided free parking behind the five-story brick structure. A couple of the doctors’ vehicles had been broken into so I preferred to take my chances on the street. Low income and high crime seemed to go hand in hand. Never mind that I was volunteering my time; I was putting my safety and my vehicle at risk.
The Central District Health Clinic waiting area was filled to capacity when I stepped inside. The volunteer staff sorted the order in which cases were to be seen based on the severity of need. As much as possible, they steered the children to me, although I saw my fair share of adults.
My first patient was a young woman named Shamika Wilson, who had a badly swollen right eye. She’d come to the clinic because she thought her arm was broken. I read over the chart and saw that she claimed her injuries had occurred as a result of falling down the stairs. An instant red flag went up. Apparently, Shamika Wilson made a habit of “falling down the stairs” because this was her third visit to the clinic with possible fractures in as many months.
The young woman refused to look my way as I started asking her questions.
“You fell down the stairs?” I pressed.
She nodded.
I refrained from mentioning the number of times this had happened. “When was the…accident?”
“Wednesday night.”
Two days earlier. “Why did you wait so long to come to the clinic?” I asked, noting the pain she was in.
Shamika stared at the floor. “I thought it would get better on its own…but the pain just seemed to get worse.”
Seeing that her arm was badly swollen and how she screamed at the mere touch of my fingers, I could only imagine the agony she’d endured for the past two days. “I’m ordering an X-ray,” I said.
She bit her lip and nodded. Shamika knew as well as I did that the technician would need to move her arm to do the X-ray. It would cause her excruciating pain, but I had to know what I was dealing with before we could progress any further.
“Did someone bring you to the clinic?” I asked.
“My…husband.”
“Is he in the waiting room now?” I asked. My anger was close to the surface and I struggled to hold it back. I wasn’t entirely sure who was the object of this fury. The young woman must’ve seen that she wasn’t fooling me with this tale of tripping on the stairs. She’d avoided eye contact when she referred to her husband, another telltale sign. The husband was some loser who used his wife as a punching bag to take out his own frustrations.
“Yeah, Kenny’s waiting for me,” Shamika said, again without meeting my gaze.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I told her and left the room. I asked for a volunteer to escort Shamika to X-ray. Once she was out of earshot, I went to the waiting area. I asked to speak to Kenny.
A skinny, wiry man stepped forward. “How’s Shamika?” he asked.
I stood in the doorway and looked him in the eye. “I’ve ordered an X-ray, but I’m fairly sure the arm’s broken. It’ll need to be set.”
He sighed. “How long is that going to take?”
“I won’t know until I see the X-rays.” I glanced out at the crowded waiting room. “Shamika insists she fell down the stairs. I find that interesting because she’s fallen down the stairs three times in the past few months.”
Her husband