Wish Me Tomorrow

Anne whirled, her face ashen.

“It’s down the hall near the gym.” Her voice was a notch above a whisper. She turned back to her call for the EMTs and hurried out of the room.

“Mr. Roberts,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Got it.” Eli bolted for the door. After scouting the hall, he spotted a couple of guys leaving what looked like the gym and raced that way. In a locked cabinet marked AED he saw a gray plastic box. But where was the key?

“Hey,” Anne called from down the hall, the phone pressed to her ear. She threw a set of keys to him. His hands shook as he tried three before finding the right one.

Back in the meeting room, he passed the AED to Christie. She thanked him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to his friend. Who was this capable, take-charge woman?

“Would you lift him to the floor?”

Eli scooped John from the chair and laid him down, sliding his jacket beneath his friend’s head. Christie pulled up John’s shirt and pressed two adhesive pads to his chest while the rest of the support group sat in a worried huddle. An automatic voice rang out that it was assessing the patient. Eli’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

After a moment, the voice warned all to stand clear; a shock was advised. Christie pressed an orange button and stepped back, her eyes meeting Eli’s. Her calm expression slowed his racing pulse. Clearly, she knew what she was doing.

A jolt shuddered through John and his lids fluttered open. “Wharrrr—” he slurred.

She smoothed John’s glistening forehead then pressed her fingers to the base of his throat. Behind them, seats shifted and creaked as the group strained to see what was happening.

“Is he going to be okay?” someone whispered.

“John, stay with me. The ambulance will be here any minute,” she said, but John’s eyes closed once more.

“No!” Eli burst out. This was not happening.

She took her fingers off John’s neck. “No pulse. Starting chest compressions,” she announced to no one in particular. “The AED needs two minutes to recharge.”

He scrambled over to John’s other side and grabbed his friend’s limp hand. Hang on, buddy, he pleaded silently. You can do this.

Christie began rhythmically pressing John’s chest. “Is he breathing?”

Eli gawked at her. If John wasn’t breathing, that meant he was—

“Put your ear next to his mouth.”

He bent toward John and felt a faint rush of air against his cheek. “Yes. Still breathing.”

Thank you, God.

She checked his pulse again. “Still no pulse.”

The whimpering behind them gave way to all-out crying as she resumed her chest compressions with cool precision. A minute later, the AED announced its readiness. She hit the button and they moved away before it zapped John again.

Eli and Christie exchanged a worried look. She probably felt as scared as he did, but she hadn’t panicked under pressure. She was a competent professional and he’d made all the wrong assumptions about this strong woman.

After the unit completed its round of electricity, Christie felt for John’s pulse. His breath caught when her eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping through her lashes. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. No. No way. Not now, John.

“Pulse is faint, but it’s steady,” she whispered and opened moist eyes. Suddenly, she rocked back on her heels. Without thinking twice, he ducked over to her side and slid an arm around her waist for support.

She’d saved John’s life.

Christie blinked up at him but made no move away from his touch. “Thank you,” she said, a blue vein standing out on her pale forehead. “I’m not usually so...” Her voice trailed off as she looked over at John again.

She really was something—unflappable when it counted most, when he could hardly see straight. Eli’s fingers tightened around her slender waist.

“Coming through,” hollered one of the two men pushing a stretcher. She gave herself a small shake then took off the AED unit before he helped them lift John onto the lowered gurney. While they checked vitals, Christie summarized what had taken place.

“Good work.” An EMT nodded to her before tucking a chart under his arm. “Who’s coming with John?”

“Me,” Eli and Christie said.

“Only one rider, up front with the driver. Decide fast and meet us outside in thirty seconds.”

Eli’s shoulders drooped. Without a babysitter he’d have to renege on the vow he’d made John to stay with him, see him through whatever happened. But asking Mary to stay was out of the question. She deserved this special night with her husband.

“I guess it’s you.” He folded John’s wheelchair and picked up his coat. “I promised John I’d be there if the end came, but I don’t have child care.”

She studied him for a moment then surprised him. “Obviously you and John are close. If you feel comfortable with it, you could give me your address and I’ll watch Tommy and Becca.”

“You would do that?”

She nodded. “But I’d want an update every half hour. Deal?”

The children had met her twice. And he’d seen her in action. They couldn’t be in safer hands. Besides, Mary would give Christie the third degree before she’d even let her into the apartment. Mary would make it work. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”

When he rattled off the address, she pressed something furry into his hand and closed his fingers around it. “Trust me. I know how important it is to be there for your friend. And that’s for good luck.”

He called Mary from the ambulance then unfurled his other hand to reveal a rabbit’s foot. Seriously? He tucked it into his pocket, wondering how someone who dealt with loss all the time could believe in something like that.

“Lucky for this guy a nurse was there. She saved his life,” the EMT said.

Eli peered out of the ambulance’s passenger window at the disappearing YMCA. He imagined Christie in full-on pep mode, offering hope and comfort. The platitudes hadn’t been an act. And the EMT was right—she did save lives.

But as his fingers dug into the lucky rabbit’s foot, he knew firsthand that no amount of comfort, luck or medical skill could rescue some people.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER CONCLUDING THE support-group meeting with reassurances and hugs, Christie huddled beside Eli’s brick prewar apartment building on a narrow SoHo street. Streetlamps glowed to life as the purple dusk deepened, illuminating pavement shining from the evening’s drizzle. A few buildings away, a Korean deli’s green awning stretched over flower-filled buckets. She inhaled the sweet scent, desperately needing some grounding after tonight’s ordeal with John.

Her insides still shook, but at least her hands had quit trembling. The need to save John had gone beyond professional, firing through her with a desperation stirred up by ghosts from her past. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d been unable to simply go home afterward. If she couldn’t be at the hospital, she was glad, at least, to be here, where she was guaranteed updates.

John should have arrived at Bellevue by now, and the critical-care team would be working hard to stabilize him. Given his already-compromised health, the group faced a serious challenge. But didn’t they always? And John’s strong, larger-than-life persona would help him conquer this setback. It had to.

She shifted her weight to her right foot and pulled her damp shirt from her shivering body. How much longer would Mary keep her outside? She had promised to watch Eli’s children so he could stay with John. And if she didn’t get inside soon, she might miss hearing the latest on John’s condition.

“Ms. Bates?” Mary’s voice crackled through a brass speaker.

She pressed the talk button. “Yes. I’m still here.” Emphasis on the still. She shifted to her left foot.

“My husband ran your license number and it seems you’re all clear.”

“Your husband?” Mary had some serious connections. Getting inside Eli’s building was tougher than gaining clearance at the Pentagon.

“He’s a sergeant at the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth Street,” said Mary, pride ringing in every word.

“A man in blue? He must be handsome, then.”

“There’s nothing like a man in a uniform,” Mary gushed, the sound of the buzzer ending her sentence.

Christie’s sneakers squelched across a white marble floor to elevators with wrought-iron gates. A bronze art-deco light fixture made of scalloped glass dangled from a fifteen-foot ceiling with crown moldings.

This was the glamorous New York she’d envisioned back when she’d sat on her front porch swing in Kansas, dreaming of the day she’d rejoin Gran in the big city. Visiting her widowed grandmother had fueled her desire to become part of this vibrant, cosmopolitan world once more. She’d never forgotten her old neighborhood’s Irish street festivals and specialty shops, and its fine-dining and family-style restaurants.

She pressed the elevator button and stepped back to watch an ornate dial twitch closer to the lobby. When the elevator dinged, the familiar panic about entering an enclosed space clutched at her throat. An image of her brother’s casket flashed in her mind before she could block it. Where had that memory come from? She thought she’d locked it up and thrown away the key.

She searched her purse with trembling hands. Where was her lucky rabbit’s foot? She’d had it for ages. Wait. She’d given it to Eli. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured John. He needed it more than she did. She pulled the crisscrossed metal gate open and forced herself inside.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight...” she counted, a coping trick her psychologist friend and roommate, Laura, had taught her. She whispered “ninety-four” before the doors swooshed open, the lit button indicating the top floor. Impressive. Whatever Eli did for a living, he must be very good at it.

“Christie!” Tommy yelled as he burst through the double doors of his apartment. He wore dinosaur-patterned pajamas and massive green claw slippers. His wet hair and clean scent suggested a recent bath.

“Hey, Tommy.” She strained to keep her voice calm as she tugged at the stuck elevator gate.

“I’ll get you out, Christie. Daddy says I’m strong.” Tommy wrapped his small fingers around the metal strips and pulled. A golden retriever bounded out and barked.

“Scout. Tommy. Back inside.” Mary appeared, shooed the two into the apartment and turned to Christie. “My dear, are you all right?”

Christie slowed her breathing and dropped the hand hovering over her chest. Blackness crept around the edges of her vision.

“I can’t get the gate open,” she gasped. How much longer before she passed out? How mortifying if she did.

“We’ve asked the condo board to replace this thing a hundred times but they claim it’s too valuable.” Mary yanked the gate upward and sideways, applied a light kick to the bottom left corner and pulled. With a grating squeal the apparatus came loose. “Looks like a piece of scrap metal to me.”

Saved! Christie stumbled out and dragged in a deep breath.

“Thank you.” She tried to pull it together. The ambulance call and the high emotions of the night had shaken more than just her claustrophobia.

“We should thank you. Eli would have been crushed if he couldn’t be there for John.”

“Has he called?”

Mary nodded. “While you were outside. He said to tell you that John’s condition is stable but still critical. Oh. And that he’ll call you again soon.”

She smiled in relief. John’s life had hung by a thread at the YMCA. Thank goodness for Eli’s quick-thinking aid. She might be a trained RN, but she hadn’t been on a code response team in years. She wasn’t used to the adrenaline rush that came with that kind of pressure. Having him beside her had helped keep her steady.

“Christie, are you coming?” Tommy called. He held out a silver purse. “And you forgot this, Mary.”

Mary took the purse and put an arm around Tommy. “I would have been sadder if I’d forgotten your good-night kiss.” Tommy tipped his bright head back, his dimples so like his father’s.

“Goodbye, Becca,” Mary called through the doorway.

Tommy waved a dismissive hand. “She’s in her room talking to her boyfriend.” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to tell.”

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow, dear.” Mary ruffled Tommy’s hair, stepped into the elevator and gave a last wave.

Tommy grabbed Christie’s hand and yanked her inside. An excited Scout wove in and out of their legs, halting them to beg for an ear scratch before moving aside.

“Want to see my dinosaur? His name’s Rexie and he’s awesome.”

“Sure.” She smiled as the youngster scampered down the hall to her right, Scout hot on his heels. She turned to survey the rest of the apartment and— Wow.

A mammoth open space, so unlike the illegally sublet SoHo loft she and Laura shared, yawned before her. Despite the vintage exterior, the apartment had an ultramodern aesthetic that blended rather than clashed with its Corinthian columns. Square light panels alternated in a checkered pattern across the vaulted tin ceiling. A woven beige area rug covered gleaming maple floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows encompassed an entire wall, commanding a panoramic view of the neighborhood and city. The neutral color palate, repeated in black leather couches with white and beige accent pillows, was broken by vibrant artwork and framed photographs. The apartment could have graced the cover of a decorating magazine...if it wasn’t completely and utterly trashed.

Holy cow.

She leaned against the closed door and gaped at the mess. It looked as if a Kansas twister had barreled through the room, scattering papers, books, toys and, of all things, a sewing machine covered in fabric pieces, feathers and open bags of sequins and rhinestones. Not that the place was dirty. In fact, every uncovered surface shone. No doubt Mary was doing her best to keep things clean, but why leave it so untidy?

She twitched at the lack of organization and bent to pick up a paperback.

“Dad doesn’t like anyone touching his stuff,” Becca said behind her.

Christie put the book on a recessed shelf and turned. “I can see that.” She smiled at the young girl, who wore a pink tank top and gray sweatpants. Her dark hair hung past her shoulders in loose curls. “How are you, Becca?”

“Good. A little hungry, though,” Becca laughed. “I can never eat enough after dance class.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Is Mr. Vaccaro going to be okay?”

“He’s getting the best possible care,” Christie assured the girl. Good thing her voice sounded steady. When she’d seen John sitting so still in his wheelchair, she’d felt as if her own heart had quit beating. “Now, let’s find you something to eat.”

“Oh. Me, too. Me, too.” Tommy burst from behind his sister and dropped his plastic Tyrannosaurus rex. Scout snatched the toy, trotted to a plaid dog bed beside the door and settled down to gnaw on the dinosaur’s tail.

“It looks like everyone’s starving.” Christie eyed Scout. “Give,” she commanded in her firmest nurse voice. The dog’s mouth slackened, the toy dropping to the floor.

“Wow.” Becca tucked her hair behind her ears. “He never listens to anyone. How did you do that?”

She grabbed the toy and sidestepped a shoe pile on her way to the kitchen. “I have a dog, too.” She turned on the hot water and washed the dinosaur in a double sink set in a black granite countertop.

It felt good to clean. Create order. There was nothing like busywork to distract her from worries. She took her first solid breath since she’d noticed John was unconscious.

“What kind of dog? Is he big like Scout?” Tommy and Becca seated themselves in beige leather stools at the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space.

“He is actually a she and her name’s Sweet Pea.” She handed Tommy the slobber-free T. rex. Scout trotted over at the toy’s reappearance but scuttled back at her stern look. She glanced at a stainless-steel microwave over a matching cooktop. It was 8:15. How much longer until Eli called again?

“Sweet Pea.” Becca spun in her seat. “That’s such a cute name. What kind of dog is she?”

She smiled, picturing her small, white-and-tan dog. On her way to the apartment, she’d phoned Laura, who’d agreed to walk Sweet Pea. How lucky to have such an amazing roommate. She’d pick up Laura’s favorite frozen yogurt, Pinkberry’s chocolate with honey-almond granola topping, on her way home.

“She’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.” She thumbed to a photo of Sweet Pea on her iPhone and passed it to the kids. She headed to the fridge. “How do grilled-cheese sandwiches sound?”

“Are they the healthy kind?” Tommy’s fingers traced Sweet Pea’s long ears and their curly fur.

Christie paused on her way back to the counter, organic cheese and butter in hand. “Do you have whole-wheat bread?”

Becca grimaced. “That’s the only kind we have. Dad’s been a complete health-food nut ever since—” Her face froze and she fell silent.

Christie located the bread behind a stack of unopened mail while her mind turned over the possibilities of Becca’s unfinished sentence. Although Eli had sounded annoyed at the cancer-support-group meeting, she’d glimpsed pain, too. Was his decision to be more health conscious related to that?

“This is seriously the cutest dog ever.” Becca held up the iPhone, Sweet Pea’s tilted head and tiny snout on display.

“Is she a puppy?” Tommy got to his knees and stretched toward an overhead pot rack. “Here.” He handed her a frying pan as Becca steadied his stool.

“Thanks.” Christie hunted for a spatula and a butter knife. “Sweet Pea’s almost ten, which is old for a diabetic dog.”

Becca came around the counter, pulled open a couple of drawers and located the utensils. “Need a hand?”

“Sure. Would you turn on the cooktop while I butter the bread?”

“What’s tiabetic mean?” Tommy hopped off his stool and stood next to Christie. “I can help, too.”

“It’s diabetic, Little Man.” Becca grabbed a buttered sandwich. “It means she needs shots.” The frying pan hissed as she placed it inside. “Insulin, right?”

Christie nodded, impressed. “Twice a day, breakfast and dinner.” She handed Tommy two cheese slices, which he lined up with careful precision, tongue sticking out between his teeth. “Becca, I’ll take over the frying, okay?”

“Why do you do that?” Tommy placed the last piece of bread on top and followed her to the range. “Shots hurt.”

Becca pulled Tommy away from the hot pan and wrapped her arms around him. “Because if she didn’t, Sweet Pea would die. We learned that in health class.”

“Die?” Tommy looked stricken. He ran back to his stool and picked up the iPhone.

Christie turned from the stove and gave Tommy a reassuring look. “Not until it’s her time, Tommy. Her medicine keeps her healthy and I make sure she gets it every day.”

Tommy’s quivering lip stilled and Christie flipped the browned sandwich.

Why had Becca said that? The bluntness of teenagers. Her veterinarian had advised her to euthanize Sweet Pea years ago, saying that she’d go blind (she hadn’t) and that it would be difficult to keep up with the shots (it wasn’t). Sweet Pea’s life expectancy was shorter than other dogs, but it only made their time together more precious. She would rather have ten years with Sweet Pea than fifteen with another dog.

“My daddy got medicine so he wouldn’t die,” Tommy blurted.

Christie nearly dropped the cooked sandwich as she slid it onto a plate. Was he saying his father had been treated for a terminal illness? Her insides clenched.

“Tommy!” Becca scowled and passed him the dish. “Eat.”

“Well, it’s true.” Tommy ignored the steaming food. “And Christie understands ’cause she helps other people with cancer, like Mr. Vaccaro.”

“Yes, I do.” The spatula slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. She bent down and rested her forehead against a lower cabinet, hiding her surprise. So it was true. Eli was recovering from cancer. Her stomach twisted in empathy for him and his children. What they must be going through, and by the look of things, without a wife or mother to help. No wonder he sounded bitter. She grabbed the utensil and rose, her face as composed as possible.

She turned off the stove and handed a scowling Becca the last grilled cheese. “Becca, eat something.”

“Dad doesn’t want people knowing.” Becca pushed the plate away. “He won’t let us talk about it with anyone. Even each other. Ever.”

Becca’s frustration touched a chord, her distant behavior toward her father suddenly making sense. Becca didn’t ignore him out of anger—she avoided him out of fear. And Christie should know; she’d done it to her own brother.

She hated thinking about that painful time in her life. But Becca’s reaction to her father’s illness reminded Christie so much of herself at that age. Confused, hurt and lost.

She waved the grilled cheese under Becca’s nose until the girl gave her a reluctant smile and grabbed the sandwich. “Please don’t worry,” she said. “Everything will work itself out.”

“So you can help Daddy!” Tommy’s blue eyes were wide and bright.

“I can’t promise you that.” She looked from a crestfallen Tommy to a narrow-eyed Becca. “But if he gives his permission, you can call me anytime to talk.”

“Anytime?” Becca looked at her intently. “Even really late?”

Her heart squeezed tight at the thought of Becca—scarcely more than a child herself—scared for her father with nowhere to turn.

“As late as you need,” she promised, hoping she wasn’t getting too involved in Eli’s personal life.

Then again, helping kids deal with cancer was her job. If only Eli could see how much his kids needed to talk through their fear, she’d be happy to help. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was getting involved with him. His handsome, anguished face came to mind. Now that was a risk she didn’t trust her heart to take.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. Becca grabbed the cordless. “Hello?” She listened for a moment then shoved the handset to Christie. “It’s Dad,” she said, her voice hollow.

“Thanks, Becca. Hello?” She clutched the phone and paced. The children’s eyes followed her.

“Ms. Bates, it’s Eli. How are the kids doing?”

“They’re great.” She grinned at Tommy as he polished off his sandwich. His gap-toothed smile was really too precious, especially with cheese squirting out of it. “They’re eating sandwiches, and then I think we’ll watch a little TV before bed.”

Becca finished her last bite and carried the dirty plates to the dishwasher. When she returned to the counter, she helped Tommy climb onto her back and carried him to the living room.

“That sounds perfect.” A feeling of lightness overcame her at the husky cadence of his voice. “But bedtime’s at nine, so not too much TV, okay?”

“Nine o’clock. Got it.” She heard cartoon voices from the living room, where Tommy and Becca sat watching a talking sponge on a flat-screen TV.

“How’s John?” She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and began cleaning the countertop.

“The same. Stable, but still critical. We’re waiting for some test results. How much longer can you stay?”

She eyed the snuggling siblings, grateful for the company they’d given her tonight. “As long as you need.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bates, for everything—helping with the kids, letting me stay with John.” His voice thickened. “Saving his life. I think I gave you a hard time tonight, and I’m sorry.”

Warmth rushed through her at his admission. “Don’t give it another thought. And please call me Christie. Would you let me know when John’s condition improves?”

“When or if?”

“When. Think positively.”

His laugh wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but then again, it didn’t sound bitter. “You never quit with that faith and hope stuff, do you?”

She grinned as she swiped a damp paper towel across the cooktop. “Nope.”