Love's Healing Touch (4 page)

Only two hours later, Mike was asleep at home when the phone rang. He pulled himself out of bed and dragged his tired body into the living room. Light filtered through curtains, which made it possible for him to find the phone on the coffee table but not before he narrowly avoided falling over a box of clothes.

"Good morning," Francie said. "Will you please drive me to church this morning? Wake your brother up and bring him, too."

Mike glanced at his watch through eyes still blurry with sleep. He groaned. "I've only been asleep for an hour. Why don't you let me sleep a few more?"

"Because church will be over by then. You can take a long nap when you get home. Or you can sleep through the sermon."

"Reverend Miller won't like that."

"But God will be glad you're there. Besides, you said you'd take me wherever I need to go."

"Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?"

"The doctor said church is fine as long as I don't drive."

"What about Brandon?" Could he think of any more reasons to go back to bed? If this one didn't work, he'd have to go, because he could never tell Francie no.

"He's at a training session in Dallas," she explained patiently. "Well?"

"Okay, I'll pick you up at ten."

"Thanks. Bring Tim."

Driving her to church was the least he could do. When he was eighteen, he'd held up a convenience store. He groaned, hating to relive that act and its consequences. To save him, so he could be a doctor, Francie had confessed and was serving time before he could take the blame himself. They were the same height and he'd worn a ski mask and jacket so she looked like the person in the surveillance tape.

He'd made a terrible, stupid mistake, and she'd paid for it. He still struggled to figure out why he'd done it— heredity, Francie would say— and to make it up to her somehow.

Yes, he owed her everything. He could never turn her down.

After a shower, he shook Tim awake. "We're going to church."

Tim threw back the sheet. "Terrific," Tim said as he sat up on the bed, dropped to the floor and stood to stretch. "I've missed church."

"Why didn't you say something?" Mike never knew what his brother was thinking. Of course, Tim never talked about stuff that was important to him. They were a lot alike that way.

"I like sleeping in, too."

At ten forty-five, the cousins were seated together in the sanctuary. Bowing his head, Mike hoped to be filled with the peace this time of silent meditation used to bring him, but it still eluded him. Maybe he was out of practice. Maybe he'd missed too many services. Whatever the reason, the Spirit didn't fill him. He had a feeling it wasn't the Spirit's fault.

He prayed for his family and patients. He knew those requests had been heard, but when he prayed for guidance for himself he felt cold and alone.

Where was God when he needed him so much?

After church, Mike pulled the car into the drive of Francie's house and stopped.

"Why don't you come in?" Francie said as Tim got out of the backseat. "You can make some sandwiches and bring me one." She took Tim's extended hand to get out of the car. Once standing, she went around to the driver's side, opened the door, grabbed Mike's arm and pulled him toward the house.

Once inside, she yawned and said, "I'm going to bed. Would you fix us lunch?" She'd taken a few steps down the hall when she turned to say to Mike, "Before you do that, come with me to look at the baby's room. Brandon painted it last week, and I added a few touches."

Mike followed her down the hall and stopped to look into the bright yellow nursery. On the walls, Francie had hung pictures of whimsical animals in both brilliant and pastel hues. His mother would love this, would want to add a few fanciful ideas of her own.

For a minute, Mike was overwhelmed by the memory of how he and Cynthia had planned to have three children. Their babies could have had a room like this. Well, knowing Cynthia, she wouldn't have liked purple dragons or turquoise birds, but they would have had a nursery. When he noticed Francie studying him, he said, "It's great."

"Hey, Mike, how do you turn on a gas stove?" Tim called.

"Don't do a thing. I'll be right there." Mike pulled himself from his reverie to hustle to the kitchen. If he allowed Tim to light the stove, he might have to explain to Brandon where he'd been when Tim blew up the house.

After he took a tray back to Francie, Mike settled in Brandon's chair in the living room. In no time, he was asleep.

"Hey, Fuller." Dr. Ramírez caught him in the hall outside the E.R. the next evening. "Sorry if I intruded yesterday. I didn't mean to invade your privacy, but…" She bit her lip. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

"Thank you." It was hard to hold a grudge against her. Mike figured she'd be angry if he told her she was so attractive any man would forgive her for anything. And that lip-biting part was distracting. Very distracting.

When Mike moved back toward Trauma 3, he saw Mitchelson watching Dr. Ramírez as she walked away.

"How'd the cup of coffee go?" the nurse asked with a grin. "Was that all? Just a cup of coffee?"

"Just a cup of coffee. She wanted to talk about my work as an orderly."

"Did she tell you that you should be a doctor or nurse?"

Mike glared at Mitchelson. "How did you know she said that?"

"Because we all think so. Can't figure out why you're not in med school, but we're glad we got you in the E.R. and hope you won't leave anytime soon." When his beeper went off, Mitchelson hurried away before Mike could say a word.

"Thank you," he shouted down the hall. Mitchelson waved back.

"Fuller," Dr. Ramírez called in her doctor voice. "Transfer, please."

Back to normal. No more compliments, only a lot of lifting and hard work.

Three days later his mother's bus arrived at 10:00 a.m. which gave Mike plenty of time to clean up after his shift and drive to the bus station.

Before she went to prison, Mom had looked like her paintings: full of life and sparkle, happiness shining from her. She'd changed during those years. Hard to remain vibrant in prison, she'd explained on his frequent visits, as if he couldn't guess that.

He waited on the platform, surrounded by the noise and the strong fumes from diesel engines.

When she got off the bus, he hugged her, noticing she was thinner than he'd remembered.

She pulled away to study him and put her hand on his cheek. "It's so good, so absolutely marvelous to be here," she whispered. "I can't believe I'm out of prison and back with my boys."

"I'm glad, too, Mom."

She still had an innocent face, which had helped her market her forgeries but hadn't fooled the judge. Now her skin bore lines and wrinkles, but the beauty remained.

After she pointed out her one shabby suitcase, Mike handed the baggage claim to the bus driver and carried it to the car.

"I'm so tired of wearing trousers." His mother smoothed her jeans. "Boring, boring, boring, my dear, and not at all feminine." She glared at her white shirt. "Do you still have my dresses?"

"Yes, Francie stored everything while you were gone." Mike started the car and backed out of the parking place. "But it's been eight years. They're probably out of style."

"Good clothing never goes out of style."

He grinned as her sudden air of certainty and confidence. Yes, it was great to have her home.

After he stopped at several lights, she said, "My, my, the traffic is even worse than before." She chattered on about how things had changed in Austin while he drove.

When he pulled up in front of the small house, she said, "What's this? We aren't living here, are we?"

"I know it's not very big, but it's what I can afford."

The shrubbery needed to be trimmed, but the house appeared neat enough on the outside. With white paint that flaked only in a few areas, black shutters, and a porch the size of a postage stamp, it had a homey aspect. But it was small, a fact even more evident when his mother opened the front door and stepped inside.

The living room held a short sofa, two folding chairs and a television on an ugly metal stand. "It came furnished," he explained.

But she didn't notice the furniture when she saw the paintings she'd forged, the ones Francie had saved for her, covering the walls. His mother had loved the impressionists and these glowed with the brilliance of color and light, illuminating the room. She turned to take them in, reaching out her arms to bathe in the beauty. Then she walked slowly toward one and touched her fingers to the rough surface.

"Oh, thank you," she said. "I'd forgotten how much I love these."

After a few minutes, she shook herself and walked through the rest of the house. First, she wandered back to the kitchen which had maybe five feet of counter space, a few cabinets and a card table with three wobbly chairs.

"I fix most of the meals in the microwave," Mike said.

"Then I'll do the cooking," Mom said.

"I gave you the master— well, the larger— bedroom." He led her toward the door, shoved it open and followed her in to put the suitcase on the bed.

She turned to consider the double bed, one dresser and bare walls. "White," she said. "All the walls are white."

"Tim and I can paint them. You choose the color."

"Thank you. I'd like that." She left the room and looked into the bathroom and the other bedroom. "You and Mike both sleep in here?"

"We'll be fine, Mom. We're brothers. We'll get to know each other better after the years apart."

She nodded again as he followed her back to her bedroom.

"This is a nice part of town. There's an H-E-B grocery store only a block from here. It's an easy walk. And there's a park nearby."

She placed her hand on his arm and patted it. "Mike, this is fine. I appreciate you opening your house to us. We've been apart so long. I'm glad we're together." She smiled and for a moment it was her old smile. "You're a good brother and a fine son." She dropped her hand. Opening the suitcase, she placed her things in a small pile on the bed before she opened the closet.

When she saw what was inside, she pulled out one dress, sat on the end of the bed and stared into the closet. In her lap she held a gown of brilliant green with a shimmering pattern of gold. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"My clothes," she said. "All of my favorite things are here. Thank you." She stood and embraced Mike.

When Mike opened a drawer in the dresser to show her the jewelry Francie had kept and a small bottle of his mother's favorite perfume he'd bought for her, she cried harder.

"Thank you, son. You've given me a wonderful homecoming."

Oh, boy. Too much emotion for him. When the phone rang, he gave his mother an awkward pat on her back. "I'll get that." He pulled away but touched her shoulder, which seemed to satisfy her. Then he ran into the living room and grabbed the receiver.

"Yes, I can come in early today," he said as he checked his watch. "I'll be in by three."

He hung up the phone, placed his hand on one of the paintings and closed his eyes. With his mother here, the house was filled with turbulence. He could feel it— the tingle of her strong personality, the scent of her musky perfume, the rough swipes of paint in the painting under his fingers.

Yes, Hurricane Tessie had hit. As calm as she seemed today, his mother was always a force to be reckoned with.

He'd let her settle in today, but tomorrow he'd have to talk to her about getting a job to satisfy the conditions of her parole and because they just plain needed that income.

He thought how tired and how much older she'd looked when she got off the bus, about her joy at seeing her clothes and her art. Then he shook his head as he remembered her tears. His mother never cried.

Maybe he'd wait a few days before he suggested she find work.

A
lmost midnight a few days later, and a moment of quiet during a long shift in the E.R.

Mike headed outside and leaned back against the wall of the hospital. He took a deep breath, held it and let it out. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by the smell and the stress of the E.R. Tonight it was more than he could handle. After a few minutes and more cleansing breaths, he turned to go inside, walking back through the waiting room and the door into the E.R.

"When did you come in today?" Williams, the big orderly, asked as he pushed an empty gurney.

Stretching, Mike answered, "Three."

"Double shift, huh? You must need the money."

"Don't we all?" He covered a yawn before he went back into Exam 5 to clean the empty room.

"Why are you doing that?" Williams said. "Housekeeping's supposed to do that."

"Because they're running behind and I don't have anything else to do."

"You make us all look bad." Williams headed toward the central desk.

As he dumped the paper bed cover in the trash, Mike realized how beat he was after nine hours of the double shift. With his mother back home, Mike could work longer hours because he didn't have to worry about Tim. Before her arrival, Mike had covered only the night shift, eleven to seven. That way he could get his brother dinner, make sure Tim got up in the morning, and push him out to look for a job. Hard to do all that between a couple of naps.

Now Mike could work more hours to cover his mother's expenses until she got work. Maybe earn enough to catch up with the bills.

"You said last week your mother was coming back to Austin. How's that going?" Mitchelson came into the room.

"Okay. She got here Wednesday and is settling in." He pulled on a new pair of gloves and began disinfecting the counters.

"Where was she?"

"The women's prison in Burnet." When he turned to throw a paper towel into the bin, he saw Dr. Ramírez standing next to the curtain. Her mouth was open a little. She had obviously heard what he'd said.

Actually, it was a good thing she'd caught the conversation. She might as well know he wasn't the man she thought he was. Maybe she'd stop nagging him and leave him alone. A mother in prison wouldn't fit into her idea of what a doctor should be or the kind of man she'd date.