Always Florence (10 page)

Nate caught his arm to assure himself of the boy’s attention. “You’re coming to my office after school from now on,” he continued, trying to get control again. On one hand, it felt so good to have an excuse to let his anger fly. On the other, guilt fell over him like a prickly blanket. “You can do your homework in my office,” he said more quietly, “and when you’re done with that, I’ll find odd jobs for you.”

Dylan glowered at him. “Cool.”

Nate tightened his grip. Bobbie leaned forward. “Nate!” she said more forcefully.

He silenced her with a look, then returned his attention to Dylan. At least he thought he’d silenced her.

She leaned across the boy to catch Nate’s arm in a biting grip. “Bobbie,” he warned quietly, “this is my business.”

“You’re right,” she said, maintaining her grip. “Just please handle it carefully.” She freed his arm and sat back.

Nate wished himself anywhere but here. He drew a breath for patience, ran a hand over his face and tried another tack. “Do you have any idea what your father would do to me if I let anything happen to you?”

Dylan looked into his eyes, the pain and misery visible behind the rebellious stance. “My father,” he said in a raspy whisper, “isn’t here. He’ll never be here again.”

The truth of that reverberated inside Nate like a bullet in a tight space, injuring every time it hit. Again he groped for calm. “There’s a lot of him in you, Dylan. I loved him like everything, but he was stubborn and difficult sometimes. So he’s with us, believe me.”

Dylan didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Which was fine with Nate. For the moment, he was tired of listening.

“And I
am
here. So things are going to change. Grief is one thing, but anger with everyone over things that aren’t their fault has to stop.”

“Oh, oh.” Dylan’s eyes widened and he looked around frantically.

Bobbie reached behind her for a basin and placed it strategically. She pointed Nate to a wet facecloth on the small sink in the corner. “Would you get that?”

He took the basin and pushed her hands away. “You get it. I’ll do this.” Nate worried about the deep spasm in Dylan’s thin chest and the tortured sound of his retching. “Where’s the doctor, anyway?” He frowned, aware of a sudden incongruity. “Why are you here instead of Stella?”

“Her car’s in the shop.” Bobbie looked back at him intrepidly, seemingly unaffected by his ill temper. “She called to borrow my truck, and asked if I’d wait for Sheamus to come home from his friend’s house. A bunch of his classmates were making cookies to freeze for the food bank event. She said she told you about it.”

Nate had a vague memory of that conversation, but at the moment, his brain couldn’t quite call it up. Bobbie went on. “Anyway, when she realized my truck’s a stick shift, it was easier to let me come with Dylan and for her to wait for Sheamus.”

Bobbie took the basin from him and handed him the cloth. “And the doctor is writing a prescription.”

Nate wiped the boy’s face. Dylan remained impassive under his touch.

She put the basin in the sink and sat down again. “If you have to get back to the office, I’ll drive him home and make him comfortable. The doctor said he’ll be fine.”

Nate was still angry enough to be rude. “Why don’t
you
go home, and I’ll wait for the prescription.”

She stood, presumably to do that, just as the doctor arrived. She was a short young woman with a wide smile and blond hair tied back in a fat knot. She handed Nate a prescription and gave a sheet of paper to Bobbie. “This is a list of instructions for Dylan’s care,” she said.

“And you...” She caught Dylan’s chin in her hand and looked into his eyes with sudden seriousness. “I want you to take better care of yourself. You’re a smart boy. Don’t do stupid things.”

Nate marched out of the E.R. with Dylan hurrying beside him and Bobbie. In the sparsely lit parking lot, he stopped and turned to her.

“Thank you for taking care of Dylan,” he said briskly. “I’ll take it from here.”

She looked back at him with that cool control she’d annoyed him with in the E.R. Mostly because he’d lost
his
. She held out the sheet of paper the doctor had given her. “You might do that more successfully with these instructions.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure. If Stella has to go home and you need help, call me.”

“Aren’t you too involved already for someone who’s leaving in a couple of months?” It was snide and mean, but at that moment, he felt ruthless. Because she was right; he should be patient with Dylan, but he was finding patience difficult to maintain in the face of the boy’s continued hostility. And he hated that his own character was that small.

She turned to Dylan and dropped the frosty demeanor. She wrapped him in her arms. “I hope you feel better. And try to be hopeful, okay? The world’s not so bad when you realize everybody has problems and we all just have to deal with them.”

Nate aimed the remote at the car and unlocked the doors. “Go ahead,” he said to Dylan, “I’ll be right there.”

As his nephew climbed into the car, Bobbie started for her truck. “Try to remember that he’s just a little boy,” she said to Nate over her shoulder. “Good night.”

In his growly mood, Nate took instant offense. “I’m well aware of his situation. I live with it around the clock.”

She turned back to him and looked right up into his face, her eyes gleaming in the dark. “I know that was scary for you. But shouting at everybody isn’t going to help him. Or you.”

“And this is all based on your extensive experience with children?” he asked coolly. “I thought you were too busy for that kind of distraction in your life. Children get in the way of art, so how would you know how to handle a little boy determined to hurt himself?” He couldn’t believe he’d said that, but the sound of his angry voice rang in his ears.

She was silent for a moment and he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she said in that reasonable tone she’d been using on him all night, and that he’d come to hate, “I don’t think he was trying to hurt himself. I think partly he was just a kid doing something stupid, and partly...maybe he just wanted to reassure himself that if something did happen to him, somebody would care enough to be upset.”

“Well, I
am
upset!” Nate raised both arms in exasperation. “So I think even you will have to agree that I’ve handled this appropriately!”

She turned away from him, climbed into her truck and started the motor.

Determined to finish this argument, he went to her window and twirled his index finger in a “lower the window” gesture.

She did and leaned out. “What?” she demanded. “You’re not
my
uncle, so I don’t have to sit here and let you yell at me! Don’t worry. I’ll find another model for the painting, and I promise not to come and mess up your Thanksgiving!”

How could he explain that he was mad enough to throttle Dylan and then her, but still looked forward to Thanksgiving? Nate couldn’t. It didn’t make sense. So he used guilt.

“You have to come,” he said judiciously, ignoring his complete loss of judgment and cool. “You’re bringing the pies and rolls. And I have all your art supplies.”

“I’ll drop off the pies and rolls.” She put the truck in gear. “And I’ll just buy more supplies if Kiwanis is paying for them.”

“You’ll come,” he roared at her over the sound of the engine, “or I’ll tell your father it’s all a lie and you
don’t have
any friends. Big surprise, why that is!”

She furiously turned the window crank and he had to remove his fingers or let her take them with her. She roared away in a squeal of tires.

Dylan was sobbing when Nate got into the car. Nate was caught off-balance, certain that words of comfort wouldn’t be appreciated.

Dylan stopped abruptly, ran a hand over his eyes with the sleeve of his coat and sniffed loudly. Nate started the engine, took the tissues from his pocket and put them in his nephew’s lap. He pulled out of the parking space.

“She’s not coming for Thanksgiving?” Dylan asked, his voice husky. He yanked a tissue out and put it to his nose.

“She’s coming.” Nate slowed for. the highway entrance and glanced at Dylan. “She’s just mad.”

“You were yelling at her,” he accused.

“Yeah, well, she was yelling at me.”

“It wasn’t her fault. She was trying to help.”

“I know,” Nate admitted grudgingly. “But being scared makes me mad, because I don’t know what to do and I don’t like that feeling. So I took it out on her.” He turned onto the highway, which was busy with early evening traffic. At a red light, he stopped and glanced again at Dylan. “You know, just like you do with us when you get mad because you’re scared.”

Dylan glanced at him with tear-filled eyes. “But you’re a grown-up. You’re supposed to know what to do.”

There it was. The indictment that tortured him constantly. “Sometimes being a grown-up is no different than being a kid. When your emotions are involved, it’s hard to think smart.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Dylan said plaintively, his voice cracking to a squeak, “I want my mom and dad!”

“I know.” Nate put a hand out to cover his. “I’m sorry. I want them, too.”

With surprising strength, Dylan grabbed the arm he offered, and held on.“Has anybody ever come back from being...dead?”

Nate pulled over, one-handed, to the side of the road. This had been a bad day for Dylan, but the boy’s open vulnerability was a first. “Not that I know of,” he replied honestly. “Except in the Bible.”

It had started to rain and Dylan stared grimly out the windshield. “Has anybody ever gone...there...and come back?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, sometimes people stop breathing or their hearts stop, and that’s like being dead, and then a doctor can sometimes bring them back. But people who are really dead don’t come back.”

“So...that’s it? I mean, sometimes when I begin to feel happy about something, I sort of forget that I’m never going to see them again. And it always feels like they’re gonna come home. But they don’t. And then, when I think about that, I feel so...awful.” He had a death grip on Nate’s arm, his fingernails digging through his white shirt to the inside of his elbow. “I’m never—ever—going to see them again.”

Nate gathered himself to say the words that did not want to be spoken. He took a breath. “That’s right.”

After a moment, Dylan whispered, “That’s why I get mad.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Dylan heaved a deep sigh and freed Nate’s arm. “I’m sorry about the cinnamon.”

“Good.” Realizing what a major breakthrough an apology was, Nate kept commentary to a minimum.

“Do I still have to go to your office?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be boring.”

Nate turned the key in the ignition. “No, it won’t. You’ll have a lot to do.” When the traffic thinned, he pulled out onto the road.

“Homework,” Dylan said in a disgruntled tone. He dabbed at his eyes and sat back.

“We’re moving the supply room around. When your homework’s done, you can help Hunter with that.”

“Yeah?” There was a little glimmer of hope in Dylan’s voice. Nate smiled to himself, feeling as though he’d just been through the car wash without a car.

Stella was beside herself when they got home. She hugged Dylan to her, then held him at arm’s length to study him. She frowned over his pallor.

“Do you feel like you can eat anything?” she asked worriedly. “I can make you a soft-boiled egg and some toast.”

Dylan shook his head. “Thanks. I think I’ll just go to bed.” He glanced up at his uncle. “Okay?”

Nate nodded. “Sure. I’ll come up in a minute and see if you need anything.”

Sheamus followed Dylan, asking him as they climbed the stairs how many times he threw up.

Stella handed Nate a shot of brandy. “Drink that. You look like you’ve been dragged behind a horse.”

He smiled. Similar analogy to a car wash. He took a deep sip and enjoyed the warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“Sorry you had to stay so long,” he said, sitting down at the table. “You’re looking at a big Christmas bonus.”

“Is he okay?” she asked softly. She sat across from him, her purse and coat over her arm.

“Physically, the doctor says he’ll be fine. Emotionally, he shared a little of his pain with me on the way home. But there’s still a barrier there.”

She smiled maternally. “With children, sometimes little breakthroughs are big things. Don’t give up. I know how hard you try.” She stood and leaned over the table to touch his cheek. “If he has trouble during the night and you need help, call me. And there’s a chicken veggie pasta casserole in the fridge if you feel like it. I fed Sheamus.”

“Thanks, Stella.”

The house was dark and quiet when the door closed behind her. He took another sip of brandy, then headed upstairs to see how Dylan was doing. Nate was surprised to hear quiet, civil conversation coming from his room.

“Did you get a shot?” Sheamus asked.

“No.”

“What about those things that shock you?”

“No. That’s for when your heart stops.”

“Oh.” Sheamus sounded disappointed.

Nate rapped twice on the half-closed door.

Dylan called a raspy “Come in.”

Sheamus sat cross-legged on top of the covers at the foot of the bed and climbed down when Nate appeared. Nate turned on the bedside lamp and switched off the bright overhead light.

“Can I have some ice cream for dessert?” Sheamus asked.

“Sure. Don’t forget to put the carton back in the freezer.”

“Okay.” He ran off.

“How do you feel?” Nate asked Dylan. The boy looked very pale against the pillows.

“Okay. Hungry, but I don’t really want to eat anything.”

“Yeah. Well, maybe you can have toast and yogurt in the morning.”

“That sounds good.” He turned onto his side, but toward Nate, not away. “I’m sorry you had to come to the hospital, and I’m sorry Bobbie got mad at you.”

Nate pulled the covers up over Dylan’s shoulder. “I didn’t mind going to the hospital, although I minded that you choked. And Bobbie being mad at me isn’t your fault.” He patted his back. “Try to get some sleep. You need anything before I go?”