Healing Stones (50 page)

At noon Rich was still too groggy to talk. Twice they'd put him in a metallic bed with hoses that kept him wet while they scrubbed off the dead skin under water to stave off infection. This was among the most painful procedures a patient could go through, Ike, the towheaded nurse, told me, and they sedated him afterwards. When Ike began to describe to me that it was like being jabbed with hot needles, Mickey told him to “go ahead and take his poetry down the hall.”

She was less hard on the reconstructive surgeon who explained that in a week they would embed Rich's left hand, where the most severe burns had occurred, beneath the skin of his lower abdomen to protect it and encourage skin healing around the fingers. There would, he told us, be approximately eight other surgeries after that, including the insertion of pins into his fingers so he would be able to use his hand again, and possible amputation of his pinkie.

“We have a 96 percent survival rate here,” he assured me.

“Is that patients?” I said. “Or their wives?”

A social worker and a psychologist came to talk with us too.

“It's a whole team thing,” Ike told me. “We have everything covered.”

Still, I wished more than once that Sullivan were there, to assure me that the certainty I felt was real.

Several guys from the station came, gazed at Rich through the window to his room, and turned to me with eyes red-rimmed and wet. I finally told them I'd call when he was doing better.

I sat by Rich for five minutes every hour and let the kids have the other ten between them. After Christopher nearly passed out during his eleven o'clock stint, he gave his five to me.

It was a huge day for my son.

In true Mickey fashion, she practically spoon-fed me the thermos of soup and the herbal tea she commandeered. I was nibbling the edges of a hunk of flaxseed bread when she produced a copy of the Port Orchard newspaper.

“I didn't know if you'd want to see this or not,” she said. “The fire made the front page.”

I sat up and stared at it, waiting for it to take out another piece of my life. There was a half-page, full color photo of what was left of Huntington Hall—a black cadaver of a place, the smoke still curling up from the rubble piled shin-deep on the ground.

I felt nothing. Huntington Hall had never been the life of Covenant Christian College as far as I was concerned. My CCC was never about the ordeals Ethan Kaye suffered in his office with people like Kevin St. Clair, so nothing was lost for me in the lingering smoke and the oddly spared bits of office life scattered on the ground. I wondered vaguely if the Easter egg rock survived, or would be forever buried as it deserved.

I was about to fold the paper when I noticed something else in the picture—white and almost in flight behind the wreckage. I brought the paper close to my face and smiled.

“What?” Mickey said.

I lay it on my lap and smoothed it with my hand. “You can see the chapel
now. With that big ugly thing out of the way, you can see Freedom Chapel.”

I would have to share that with Ethan.

I was beginning to cave after my 3:00 PM vigil with Rich, and Mickey had run low on comfort food. She was out in search of a Central Market, Jayne in tow, and Audrey and Christopher sat in an awkward, painful silence on the other side of the waiting room. I was too frayed to do anything for them, which was the state Ethan Kaye found me in.

“You look like you're holding up,” he said to me, hands covering mine as he sat next to me.

“Liar,” I said.

“You never cease to amaze me with your strength, Demi. I missed it when you weren't there.”

I filled Ethan in on Rich's condition. He told me about Wyatt Estes.

“Apparently he suffered a heart attack when he was trying to get out,” Ethan said. “They've determined that he died before he was overcome by smoke.”

“And what about you?” I said.

“I'm fine.”

I squeezed his hand. “No, I mean the board's decision. I guess they haven't had time to reach one.”

“They met this morning.”

“And?”

He let out a long, slow breath from his noble nose. “I'm still president of CCC.”

“It was unanimous, wasn't it?”

He nodded. “Thanks to you.”

“And that little blonde thing. How on earth did you find her, Ethan?”

Ethan smiled, which I hadn't seen him do in a long time. “That was Sully's doing. Oh, I have something for you from him.”

I watched him take a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket.

“I still have your sport coat,” I said. “I'll have it dry cleaned, but I'm not sure the smoke smell will ever come out.”

Ethan waved me off and tucked the paper into my hand. “I don't think I would ever wear it again anyway. The fewer reminders I have of that time in my life, the better.”

“I hear you.” I curled my fingers around the paper.

“I'm going to leave you to read that.” Ethan stood up, still holding on to one of my hands. “Demi—I'd love to have you back when you're ready. Kevin St. Clair has resigned, and I've called a faculty meeting to discuss where to go from here. I want you involved.”

I closed my eyes and let that rise in my chest.

“Thank you,” I said, “but Rich is my priority right now. Once he's recovered, then we'll see.” I let go of his hand. “I know I can't ask you to wait that long—and it could be a while.”

“As long as it takes, Demi,” he said.

Sullivan's letter was short.

Demi,

You're on your way now, and I have to be on mine. If you and
Rich want counseling, please call me and I'll set you up with someone
to walk you through this next part of your journey together. I'm praying that happens, but Demi, if it doesn't, you know you
have found you—God's you. It has been my honor and my joy to
watch that happen.

Blessings,
Sullivan Crisp

I folded the letter in precise squares and held it between my palms. I was homesick for the
buzzzz
and the ding-ding-dings and the grins that couldn't be translated into words.

But as I pressed it, I felt something mournful and yearning ooze from it.

He had to do it, Demi.

Whatever it was, I didn't know. I only knew it would take more than Game Show Theology to get him through it. I hoped his mentor was someone who would shove him and coax him and be gentle with him. I hoped it was someone like him.

I was pushing couscous around on a paper plate when Ike the nurse came to the waiting room door with a new expression on his face.

“He's awake,” he said to me. “You can have five minutes.”

I looked at the kids. Christopher spoke the first words he'd said to me since Audrey walked in that morning: “You go, Mom.”

I half ran down the hall, botching up the strings to the mask as I attempted to tie it on and letting Ike stick my arms into a paper gown and trying to listen to instructions on what topics to steer away from.

It turned out I didn't need those, because Rich had his face turned toward me, rasping at me before I even sat down.

“I can't talk much, Demitria,” he said.

I started to cry. I wasn't going to, and yet there it was.

“You don't have to talk,” I said.

“No—I've been quiet too long.”

He breathed hard, and I glanced anxiously over the bed at Ike, whose back was to me as he busily turned knobs and dials.

“A little longer isn't going to hurt, then.” Suddenly, I didn't want to hear what Rich had to say. The fear I'd been so victorious in battling all day shot through me, and with it every thought I'd shoved to the bottom.

He had lost his dignity, his career, and now almost his life because of me. No matter who I was now, he would never forget that, never get past it. It would be in every scar he lived with the rest of his life. “I heard you talk,” he said.

“Rich . . . shhh.”

“At that meeting. I just want to say—I got no stones, Demitria.”

I shook my head.

“I got no stones to throw, baby.”

He dragged in another breath, and Ike squished toward us on his padded shoes. I leaned my face in close and caught the last wisp before Rich drifted off again.

“I was wrong too,” he said. “I want—”

“I think that's enough for now,” Ike said.

“You want what, Rich?”

“You can come back next hour. He should be more awake then.”

I let Ike nudge me toward the door, but I couldn't take my eyes from the tiny piece of face that peered from a swath of white. Rich's eyes opened.

“You,” I heard him whisper. “I want you.”

Sully had one last stop to make before he left Port Orchard. He'd said good-bye to Ethan, checked on Tatum, delivered Isabella to the auctioneer. The garage was cleared out, except for the Great Prospects furniture he left in the office for the next tenant to wonder about. As he headed out of town for the Seattle airport, there was one last thing to do.

He'd read about the funeral in the paper. There wouldn't be much to it—no visitation at the funeral home, only a graveside service. Ironically, Fletcher Bassett had reported that in lieu of flowers, donations should be sent to Covenant Christian College. Sully wondered who'd made those arrangements.

There were only a few cars parked at the cemetery, and so few people gathered in the rain that Sully had to ask which grave was Zachary Archer's. That didn't surprise him. After the news of the arson came out, who would have any respects to pay?

The body of Dr. Zachary Archer was found handcuffed to a stair railing
on the north end of the building,
Bassett had reported.
Investigators
have named the fire an arson/suicide. College officials have no comment
on any link between this and Archer's involvement in the scandal that
was
under scrutiny in the boardroom of Huntington Hall at the time of
the fire, though Archer's name was mentioned at the hearing.

Sully had been surprised by Bassett's final paragraph.

Reports from campus indicate that faculty and students are relieved at
the board's decision to keep Dr. Ethan Kaye on as president. Students are
equally as vocal about the possible return of Dr. Demitria Costanas.

She was going to be all right, Demi was, and so was Ethan. As he trudged through the drizzle toward the miserly-small knot of people at the gravesite, Sully wondered if that would be enough to make him believe he could ever get back to being of any use to anyone else.

The service was brief and dismal and couldn't have been more stereotypically hopeless. It had every element of a wasted life, from the dripping rain to the apathy of the four people who stood with their heads bowed and their minds obviously on shopping lists and afternoon traffic.

By the time the officiant muttered about ashes to ashes, Sully was sure he'd made a mistake. This was doing nothing but depressing him. When the black-coated man invited the “mourners” to pay their respects to the seated woman under the umbrella, who Sully assumed must be a relative who knew little about her kinsman, Sully moved out of the circle toward his car. Footsteps splashed after him.

“We meet again, Dr. Crisp.”

Sully turned only briefly to see the Brillo pad of hair approaching. He stopped and put out his hand.

“Nice article in the paper,” Sully said. “I appreciate what you did for Dr. Costanas.”

Bassett shrugged. “She's a good woman.”

“That she is.”

“I don't know what your connection to her is,” Fletcher said.

Sully gave him a half grin and continued toward the car. “Nor do you need to know.”

“Okay—so throw me a bone here. Why were you at Zach Archer's funeral? I don't get that connection either.”

You tell me, pal
, Sully thought.

And then he knew. He knew as he'd known for Demi, and for Ethan.

“Off the record?” he said to Fletcher.

The Brillo pad nodded.

“I came because I needed to remember that even though this guy's through—I'm not.”

“O-kay—”

“Because you know what, my friend? Until you're dead, you're not done.”

And then Sully loped to his car, tears and rain dripping into his grin, because Dr. Sullivan Crisp was definitely not done.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

W
hat a team we've had helping us create
Healing Stones
. Just in case you're one of those people who actually reads acknowledgments, we've tried to leave no stone unturned in naming them all. Pun intended.

Dr. Dale McElhinney, therapist/psychologist who kept us from setting the practice of psychotherapy back twenty years. His reading and re-reading of therapy scenes was priceless.

Ardi, Jayna, and Haven Fowler, and Barbara Dirks, who opened their home in Port Orchard, as well as their hearts, and made the town a character in itself.

Nick McCorkle, Joey Simms, and Bobby Cawthen, the Lebanon Tenessee firefighters who allowed Nancy to experience a fire firsthand, and Lt. Glen Pappuleas (“Pappy”) of South Kitsap Fire and Rescue, who brought Rich Costanas to life. They have our utmost respect for the work they do.

Susie Cole, research cohort, photographer, and hand-holder whose cheerful support lightened the darkness of writing Demitria's journey.

Jim Rue, who though completely un-Rich-like, added valuable insights into the male world and gave the story a new dimension. His moral support was beyond measure.

Marijean Rue, who read, advised, made sure all college-speak was authentic, and kept the snacks coming. This book truly could not have been written without her.

The Writeen Crue, who field-tested and asked the hard questions we know our readers will put to us.

Lee Hough and Greg Johnson, our literary agents who paved the way for this opportunity and kept us afloat on a number of levels.