The Christmas Kite (19 page)

Frozen with the frightful possibility, Jordan faltered, spitting the words into the dump yard of his mind. He refused to take no for an answer. God had taken his child. Would He dare to take another?

Gooseflesh prickled on his skin, and his heart thudded like a jackhammer against his chest—

“Sir. Sir.”

He pulled his gaze upward. The nurse beckoned him. Dazed, he followed her through the doorway, checking above each cubicle for the number she’d mumbled as he passed.
Seven. Eight.

He paused beside the drawn curtain and peeked through the gap. Meara stood beside Mac’s narrow bed. When Jordan pushed the drape aside, her eyes shifted to his face. Tears glistened along her lashes.

“How is he?” Jordan edged into the cubicle and stood beside Meara. Even with the oxygen attached to his broad button nose, Mac’s gray-tinged coloring had not improved. Jordan frowned at the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled for breath.

“They’re taking him to X-ray,” Meara whispered, her eyes directed at Mac. “Looks like an infection. Probably from aspirating lake water.” She lifted her saddened eyes to Jordan’s. “Better this than drowning.”

Jordan slipped his arm around her waist, touched by her attempt to find something positive amid her fears.

The curtain slid aside and a white-coated attendant crept past them. Jordan stepped back and guided Meara to follow.

The attendant peered at the chart and turned to Meara. “We’re taking him up to X-ray,” he said. “You can relax in the waiting room, and someone will let you know when he’s back.”

“Relax in the waiting room,” Meara repeated, rolling her eyes.

Jordan took her arm and led her from the room, muttering that obviously the man had no concept of being a parent. Except for the seriousness of the situation, Jordan might have grinned.

Time dragged. He located a coffee machine and carried two cups of strong, bitter brew to their seats in the half-empty waiting room.

“How long does an X-ray take?” Meara mumbled, checking her wristwatch for the umpteenth time.

Jordan didn’t bother to answer. No words would soothe her. Or would they? “Meara, take my hand and let’s pray.”

Meara’s eyes widened, and without a word, she took his hand and uttered aloud a mother’s prayer.

Jordan joined in the “Amen,” and before he could say any more, a nurse motioned to them from the doorway.

Meara charged from the chair and reached the hallway before Jordan disposed of the paper cups and followed.

Entering the room first, Meara released a cry. Jordan rushed forward and gazed over her shoulder, his stomach twisting to a tight, aching knot. He assayed the cause of her dismay.

A doctor stepped around the bed and placed a hand on Meara’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayden. The tracheotomy was an emergency. We would have lost him. His lungs were dangerously congested and needed suctioning.”

Meara clung to the bed frame. “But was there no—”

“This was the best way,” he continued. “He’ll breathe much better now that we suctioned some of the infection from his lungs.”

Jordan slid his arm around her, pressing Meara against his shoulder. “He knows best.”

She turned her face from Mac and searched Jordan’s eyes. “They’ve never done this before, and I—”

“This is a serious infection, Mrs. Hayden,” the doctor said. “I assume your boy’s had other respiratory problems. It’s a common disorder of Down syndrome children.”

“Yes, he has, but—”

“We’ll treat him with the appropriate antibiotics, but he’ll have to be admitted until he’s out of danger.”

“Out of danger?” She swayed, and Jordan bolstered her with his arms.

“Are you okay?” Jordan asked, studying her ashen face.

Meara closed her eyes and nodded. “What do you mean?” she asked the doctor. “What kind of danger?”

“This particular bacterial infection causes viscid, stringy mucus. Unless we clear it from the bronchioles, it can be life-threatening.”

“Life-threatening,” Meara repeated.

“And we could have complications. You know any respiratory disorder is very stressful on the heart. You indicated your son has some congenital heart defects.”

Slowly, Meara nodded, a look of resignation on her face. “I understand.”

The doctor attached Mac’s chart to the fastener at the end of his bed. “I’d suggest you go home.”

“Home. No, I can’t go home and leave Mac here. What if he wakes and calls for me?”

Though he spoke to Meara, the doctor’s eyes pinned Jordan’s. “There’s nothing you can do tonight. If things get worse, we’ll call you.”

Jordan pressed Meara closer to his side. “She’s the child’s mother. She wants to stay.”

The physician shrugged and left the room.

Meara buried her face in Jordan’s chest, and tension caught him between the shoulder blades. He could only imagine how she felt, but he longed to insist she go home. Rest would give her strength for tomorrow.

She lifted her face from his shirt. “I know what you’re thinking, Jordan. But I can’t leave. I really can’t. But I’d like you to go home. I’ll be fine.”

“Meara, I won’t leave you alone here.”

“Please, you need to call Otis in the morning and tell him what’s happened. I’m supposed to work in the afternoon. You’ll help me more by calling him and stopping by the apartment. You can pick up a few things I’ll need.”

Jordan opened his mouth, then closed it. A helpless, empty feeling charged through him. How could he leave her? But she’d asked, and he had no choice. “I’ll go, but come back as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be fine. Really.” She moved away from his arms and stood above Mac’s bed. The child’s chest rose and fell in uneven tremors.

Red-hot anger flared through Jordan’s body.
God, if You take this child…
A threat was absurd. Once again he was God’s pitiful pawn. Mentally he beat his fists against heaven.

In the middle of the night, Meara slipped from Mac’s room and wandered toward the waiting room. Silence echoed in the wide corridors, and she felt more alone than she had since the spring when she and Mac rented the rustic cabin.

Her body ached with stress and worry. She’d heard Mac’s hacking cough before, and had always lived in fear, waiting, wondering if this might be the time God chose to take Mac home.

Home.
A deep longing seeped through her. She’d so wanted to give Mac a secure, comfortable home. Not that the apartment didn’t meet their needs, but Mac deserved so much more. He’d given her joy. He’d filled her with delight at his unique ways. He was a
special
child in every meaning of the word. Jordan had tried to tell her that.

Jordan. If only…She let the thought die. Why drag up wishes and dreams at a time like this. Her son’s life hung on the edge. A respiratory infection meant danger to a boy like Mac. One day she’d have to face it. She couldn’t hide.
Life expectancy.
The words tore through her.

She stood in the doorway of the empty waiting room and eyed the leatherlike upholstery. Cold and uncomfortable. Still, she needed rest. Her eyelids drooped with the want of sleep. Just for a minute, she thought.

Meara slipped off her shoes and curled up on the hard sofa. No pillow. No blanket. But at least a chance to rest…

“Mrs. Hayden.”

Meara opened her eyes and, in the haze of sleep, saw a woman leaning above her.

“Mrs. Hayden, the doctor needs to see you. Your son’s had a setback.”

H
er heart thudding, Meara flung her legs over the edge of the hospital waiting room sofa and focused on the nurse. “Setback? Please, don’t tell me…” Meara slipped on her shoes and dashed on unsteady legs behind the nurse. “He’s not—”

“Oh, no,” the woman said, her eyes filled with understanding, “but he’s having complications.”

Meara’s hand flew to her heart and pressed against the pounding, hammering ache there.
Please, God, please.
She didn’t complete the prayer. God knew her unspoken words.

Darting through the hospital room doorway, Meara saw a group huddled above Mac. A doctor dressed in surgical garb stepped to her side. “His lung has collapsed, Mrs. Hayden. We need to insert a chest tube to aid his breathing.”

Mac’s whimpers jarred her attention. She squeezed between the two technicians at the child’s side and grasped his hand. “Mama’s here, Mac. Don’t be afraid. Talk to God, sweetheart. He’s right by your side.”

She clung to his hand until a nurse guided her out of the way and they rolled Mac’s bed through the doorway. Meara followed them into the hall, but the nurse pressed her arm, holding her back.

“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Hayden. We do this procedure often.”

“Not to my son,” Meara snapped, and was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry—”

“No need,” the woman said, patting her shoulder. “All parents feel like you. Have a seat in the waiting room and let me bring you some coffee. I’ll let you know as soon as the procedure is completed.”

With little recourse, she nodded and pushed her shaking legs along the corridor to the waiting room. She sank into a chair and gazed at the wall clock. Four-thirty. The darkness through the window pane indicated she’d only slept an hour before being wakened. And Jordan? Where was he?

She missed his strong, protective presence. Still amazed at her feelings, Meara recalled their first meeting. Jordan’s abrupt, unfriendly manner. Hers not much better. Then she believed she would never trust a man again, let alone give one her heart. But time and God had changed all of that.

She longed for Jordan’s company, for his support and for his reminders that Mac was in God’s hands. How easily she let the fact slip from her awareness. What kind of a Christian was she?

Cringing at her question, Meara raised her hands and massaged her throbbing temples. Silently, the nurse appeared, slipped the strong, fragrant coffee into her hands and disappeared. Meara settled back and sipped the hot liquid.

Gazing again at the clock, she noted the time—4:42. Only twelve minutes had passed. She checked her wristwatch. The same. Anxious for Jordan to reappear, Meara breathed deeply. She drank from the paper cup and, with no success, urged her body to calm.

Perhaps Jordan wouldn’t return until later the next morning. He had wanted to stay, but she’d told him to leave. Forced him, if she were honest. But now Meara needed him.

Setting the cup on a table, then reaching into her purse, Meara withdrew a handful of change. She rose and wandered to the hall, searching for a pay phone. She spied it along the wall and moved her numb legs down the corridor. The coins clicked into the box, and she punched in Jordan’s number, praying he was home.

The telephone rang.
Once. Twice.
Her heart pounded against her sternum, then skipped at the familiar
click
of the connection.

“What?” Jordan asked when he heard her quavering voice. “What is it?” Panic invaded him.
Please. No.

“I was so afraid I wouldn’t find you. Are you coming back soon?” Meara’s voice charged across the line. “Mac’s lung collapsed, and they’re putting in a chest tube so he can breathe.”

Jordan’s voice caught in anguish. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” His hand clenched the receiver.

The disconnecting
click
sounded, and fear raged inside him. Was it happening again? Had he opened his heart to this wonderful child, only to lose him? He slammed the receiver and smashed his fist against the kitchen counter. Glass rattled, and dishes shifted with a
thud.

“No,” he thundered. “No! No! I can’t bear it again. This child doesn’t deserve to die. Punish me. I’m a detestable sinner. Me, not the child.”

As if his life were repeating, Jordan sensed the depth of loss. He rammed his hands against the door frame, and tears fell from his eyes. Scalding, purifying, draining. His life rolled through his mind like a silent movie. Black-and-white. Colorless. Dead.

How long would he cling to his past and miss the joy of love again? The delight of a child? The passion of a woman? He’d waited too long. God had struck him down again.

With trembling fingers, he snatched the open Bible from the table and raised his arm to heaven, shaking the book clutched in his fist. He slumped to his knees, his body quaking, out of control. “Show me the words, Lord. Give me something to hang on to. Something to show me You are loving and merciful.”

He bent to the floor, the Bible pressed beneath his head, and his tears poured onto the pages. When he’d calmed, Jordan raised himself at the waist and stared down at the open book. He lifted it from the carpet, closed the cover and rose.

He sank into the chair, the Bible resting in his lap. He wanted to believe God was loving and just. But his own distant sorrow persisted as a reminder that things didn’t always happen as he desired. Once again he felt responsible for Mac’s life being in jeopardy. Whatever he touched turned to ashes.

Jordan inhaled deep, calming breaths to steel himself. He’d survived heartache before. His wife’s and son’s deaths had dealt him a despicable blow. He’d survived then. He’d survive now. Bracing himself, he said the words. He could learn to live without Meara and Mac. It would be best for all of them.

He’d rebuild the protective wall so strong that even Mac’s joyful laugh and Meara’s smiling eyes couldn’t cause a chink. He should have known better than to want a new life when his own walled existence was waiting for him.

Waiting for him.
Meara was waiting for him. Jordan jumped from the chair, dropped the Bible on the table and bolted to the door. He couldn’t abandon her now. Meara needed him.

And shoved back somewhere in his heart, Jordan knew he needed her.

Footsteps on the tile floor tapped in her ear, and she raised her eyes to the doorway. Jordan’s tall, angular frame appeared, carrying a shopping bag from the apartment full of her requests. She leaped from the chair into his arms.

“Any word yet?” he asked as she clung to him.

“Nothing. It seems eternal.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder, his voice measured and quiet. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s out of our hands.”

She peered at him, noticing his detached expression. “But we can pray, Jordan. God is merciful.” She brushed tears from her lashes.

He didn’t respond.

Her anxiety mounted. She took Jordan’s hand and led him to the sofa. What was wrong? His rigid, controlled manner seemed so different from that of the Jordan she’d come to know. Afraid to ask, they sat in awkward silence.

Jordan spoke, his voice distant and alien. “I called Otis. He and Nettie will be up shortly.”

“What about the shop?”

He stared into the distance. “He’ll have someone cover for him, I suppose.”

The air around them was filled with a charge.

Minutes passed, then Jordan shifted in the chair without lifting his eyes. “Otis said he collected most of the petitions. The city council meeting is next Monday. We’re on the agenda.”

Meara’s interest sparked. “How many signatures did you get? Any idea?”

“Five hundred plus. That’s more than half the population of Mackinaw City.”

“That’s good news. More than five hundred signatures should do it, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “I hope so.”

His words sent her hopes plunging. “You only hope?”

“I don’t want to get too excited. Things don’t always turn out the way we expect.”

Meara heard deep sadness in his voice. “I’ll keep it in my prayers until the meeting.”

“Do that” was all he said.

Meara wrapped her arms over her chest to hold back the sudden chill. Her mind struggled to understand Jordan’s cold, calculated responses. Was he remembering Robbie’s death? A shudder shot down her spine. That had to be it. Jordan was controlling his fear…so as not to frighten her. That had to be it. But the nagging question lingered.

When the nurse beckoned from the doorway, they rose together and followed her down the corridor.

“He’s back in his room,” she said over her shoulder, “sleeping soundly. The doctor’s waiting for you.”

With trepidation, Meara stepped into the room, first eyeing Mac, then peering into the doctor’s face. He caught her gaze with a faint smile.

“He’ll be fine. Everything’s under control. See,” he said, gesturing to Mac, “he’s resting and getting good healing breaths now. That’s what he needs.”

She nodded without comment.

With a final check on Mac, the doctor shook Jordan’s hand, then hers, before exiting.

Meara moved to Mac’s bedside and ran her hand down his motionless arm. Her heart felt heavy…for her child and for Jordan. She glanced at the brooding man over her shoulder.

“He’s sleeping. That’s good.”

“He needs his rest.”

She faced Jordan, longing to broach him about his sadness. Instead, she gestured to the two chairs near the bed. “Would you like to sit?”

“No, I—I think I’ll get back home. Otis and Nettie should be here soon to keep you company. I need to let Dooley out and—”

“I understand.” She was listening to Jordan become a stranger.

Edging toward the door, he lifted his hand. “I’ll see you, then. Later.”

“Later,” she echoed.

He spun on his heel and left the room.

Stunned, Meara stared at the empty doorway, reality creeping through her veins. Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked to stem the flood.
Later.
The empty promise was dashed to the ground as were her hopes.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jordan lied into the telephone.

“If you say so,” Otis said, his tone dubious. “So if everything’s all right, why haven’t you been up to see Mac? It’s been days.”

“You said he was much better.”

“Right. But that doesn’t answer my question. Be honest, Jordan. You’ve been their right arm since they dragged you back into the world. I think you owe her somethin’. At least an explanation.”

“I’ve been busy, man. Tell her I’ve been busy. It’s no big deal.” His voice soared in pitch and tone, and he winced at the truth he’d exposed by his reaction. “I’m tired, Otis. Maybe I’m sick.”

“Sick in the head is about right. Jordan, think of me as your father. I spotted a spark between you and Meara long ago. A flame’s more like it. You can’t deny that, my boy.”

“It died. Fox fire.”

“Fox fire, my eye. Git yer sorry hide up to that hospital, son. That woman needs a friend. A special friend. I know you have a heart, Jordan. You’re fightin’ this saloon battle for the community and tourist trade. People you don’t even know. I’ll bet my boots Meara and Mac have a place in that hard heart of yours. And no measly wall you try to build can hold those two out.”

“Are you finished?”

“No, but I’ll hang up…” he said, followed by a soft chuckle, “before you hang up on me.”

A soft
click
and the line went silent. His hand trembling, Jordan pushed the receiver onto the cradle and stood in paralyzed silence.

Otis was right. Jordan had promised himself to ease away from Meara and Mac. Not run. He’d deserted her when she needed him most. Pulling a trembling hand through his hair, Jordan leaned against the wall. Could he go to her without crumbling? Would she even want to see him?

A sound at the doorway caused Meara to look up from the newspaper. When she spied Jordan, her stomach knotted. The past few days, he’d vanished from their lives. She’d wept tears for herself. Tears for Mac. But she felt helpless. Empty. Today she looked in his eyes and saw tension.

“Jordan?”

He took a hesitant step into the room and paused. “I hear Mac’s doing better.”

Searching his face for more but seeing nothing, she nodded. “They’re going to take out the chest tube today.”

“Today? That soon?”

“I’m waiting for them now.”

He edged into the room and moved to Mac’s bedside. “He’s sleeping again.” He eased his hand forward and brushed his fingers across Mac’s hair.

“The nurse put something in his IV to relax him. But they have to be careful. He can’t tolerate strong pain medication. It’s too dangerous.”

Jordan swung around. “Dangerous? How?”

“His heart. And he needs to cough when they take out the tube. To keep his lungs clear. Otherwise, they’ll have to put it back.” She ached at the thought. What she wouldn’t give to take Mac’s place. To be the one suffering instead of her son. “I wish it were me in that bed.”