Love's Healing Touch
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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. Ram'irez 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. Ram'irez 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. Ram'irez 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.