It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (8 page)

The telltale signs of an amazing life.

She opened to the obits and scanned Kendra’s remembrance article. She’d written a nice piece about Stanley R. Barker, unearthing the story of his rescue of two small children and their mother from a burning building.

An unsung hero. See, that’s what obits were about
 
—discovering what made people special. Remarkable.

Yeah, and when she died, her obit would read . . .
sister of Owen Christiansen
.

She closed the paper.

Maybe her mother
 
—and Jace
 
—had a point. Maybe she did put too much of her identity in Owen’s successes. Feared too much his failures.

Fine. Today she’d ignore Owen and his crabby attitude. Let him fail, just a little.

It wasn’t like his career was in immediate danger. According to the sports reporter, last night, despite his penalties, he’d had one of the best games of his life.

And if she walked away, he’d wake up and realize that he missed her. That he needed her.

She was in the shower when her phone rang. She thought she heard it again as she dried her hair.

It rang a third time as she was brushing her teeth. Owen’s face appeared on the screen. Again.

See, he missed her already. She spit and answered. “Owen, this better be you, live, in the flesh, and not you rolling over in your sleep, fully clothed
 
—”

“Is this Eden?” A man’s voice
 
—vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

She shut off the water, grabbed a towel. “Who is this?”

“Max Sharpe. I play right wing
 
—”

“Yeah. I know who you are. Why do you have Owen’s phone? Did he leave it somewhere?”

It was the hesitation on the other end that made her sink down on the edge of the tub. “What’s happened?”

“Owen’s been injured.”

She closed her eyes.

“We were . . . we were playing a game of pickup hockey
 
—”

“What? In the middle of the night?”

“A couple hours ago. It was a pond game
 
—me and some of the other guys and Owen. We met up with some of the Denver players, and things got heated, so we decided to take it on the ice
 
—and, well, we were kind of drunk.”

“Of course you were.” Oops, she probably didn’t need to say that, but
 
—“Just tell me what happened, Max.”

“Things got wild and he got nailed in the eye by the end of a stick.”

That was it? He’d been backhanded before, ended up with a black eye. “Okay.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

“So put an ice pack on it.” Maybe this was when she would teach him a lesson, make him fend for himself. “Listen, I’m going to be late for work
 
—”

“We’re at the hospital, Eden. University of Minnesota. They think he might lose his eye.”

It seemed the room swam then, a complete circle. She slid off the tub and onto the floor.

Lose his eye.

“Are you there?” Max said.

“Yes,” she said, her voice shaking. “Stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“He was asking for you.”

Finally.

In truth, Jace had just wanted to run. No amount of pretty paint or high-tech gadgetry could erase the odors and tastes of a transplant wing.

Too much desperation saturated the hallways, slithering under his skin even as he found his way to the chapel.

He sat on a pew before the altar, fighting to find words through his own tangle of anger.

Jace agreed with Sam. He, too, wanted to punch something or maybe lace on his skates and fly over an open pond, take as many shots on goal as he could until his entire body ached.

Anything to erase the feel of Maddy’s delicate, failing body in his arms.

God, it’s just not fair.

It was as far as he got before he gave up and headed out to the elevators.

He needed some air, and Sam deserved something better than cafeteria coffee. He thought he remembered a real coffee shop down the street.

January had revived with a vengeance in the hours since they arrived at the hospital, the day bright and crisp as the early morning sun lifted above the skyline. His frustration emerged in a puff of breath as he took off in a run down the sidewalk.

His lungs burned, and he liked it.

He had to clear the smell, the memories, from his nostrils.
The sight of his mother tucked into a bed, not unlike Maddy, disappearing before his eyes, waiting . . . waiting . . .

Sybil Jacobsen had died slowly, in agony, suffocating.

He stood at the light with a crowd of pedestrians, jogging in place like an idiot in his dress pants and shoes. He refused to look around at a father and son who’d edged toward him. The boy
 
—he looked about twelve
 
—glanced at him, then again.

Yes, hello, it’s me.

Only, maybe they wouldn’t recognize him without a blue-and-white sweater, a helmet, a stick in his hand
 
—

“Good game last night, Mr. Hammer.”

He didn’t correct the kid, just smiled. “Thanks.”

The light changed and he quick-walked across the slick street. His dress shoes did nothing to assist him as he slipped on the ice, and for a second he regretted his impulsiveness.

Especially when the wind kicked up and scraped at his ears.

But he ducked his head and found the coffee shop, adding himself to the line. He tried to remember Sam’s order
 
—a macchiato? And a moose-size black coffee for himself. Taking out his phone, he thumbed through the
Star Trib
’s online news, reading the headlines. The sports section had posted pictures of Owen
 
—one with his hands high in triumph, another with his fists in a Denver Blades player’s sweater, his face in a grimace.
Boy wonder sidelined by penalties, still pulls out victory.

Yeah, Owen had a stellar, J-Hammer-style game. And if he didn’t straighten himself out, he’d land a rep that might change his career. Soon that pretty-boy face would sport its own crooked nose, maybe some loose teeth. Jace had four not his own.

Couldn’t we be on the same team? Maybe work together to keep him out of trouble?

Eden’s voice chipped at him, and he ignored it as he stepped up to the counter and ordered, adding a muffin and a yogurt. Probably Sam wouldn’t eat anything else the rest of the day.

Poor Sam. Jace couldn’t imagine living through it all again
 
—the despair, the hope, the coiled tension every time the phone rang, praying it would be a donor organ.

The helplessness could drive a man crazy. Still, Sam had always possessed the ability to pick up the pieces of his life when it seemed the darkest. Like when he’d climbed out of the devastation of losing his hockey career, met Mia, fallen in love, had Maddy.

He’d found a way to keep going after losing Mia, too, rising to the challenge of being both mother and father to Maddy. Sam’s daughter gave him focus.

She gave Jace focus too. Since the day she wrapped her chubby fingers around his, Jace had fallen hard for his best friend’s kid.

He moved over to wait for his order and did a quick Google search of his name.

No new blogs or weird news reports. So maybe Eden wasn’t out to exploit their ride home for the world’s scrutiny.

Perhaps his guilt just gnawed at him. He shouldn’t have been quite so cold toward her. After all, she was right
 
—maybe he did have a responsibility to Owen and the other younger players. He hadn’t exactly acted like the team captain lately, so focused on his injuries and the demise of his career.

Maybe he
should
have a sit-down-and-come-to-Jesus meeting with Owen.

The barista handed him the drinks, and he took them with his bag of food over to a table, propping his loot on it while he scanned his phone for Owen’s number. No time like the present to roust the kid out of bed, help him see the light. He thought
he’d downloaded the team roster onto his phone, but apparently not.

He found Max’s number, however, and dialed it. He’d seen the guy leaving with Owen, and even if he was snoozing, it would do the other troublemaker good to join them in that little sit-down.

Already Jace could feel the helplessness sloughing off, the steam subsiding. He’d get in Owen’s face, make him see exactly where he was headed with a vivid and ugly cautionary tale.

If this ended up being Jace’s last year in the league, he would leave with a legacy of something more than his reputation.

Max answered, quicker and more alert than Jace expected. “Hello?”

“Max. It’s J. I know it’s early, but I
 
—”

“J., listen, I’m so sorry. It was stupid, I know it, and
 
—”

Max was breathing hard, too hard, what sounded like panic in his voice.

“Calm down. What are you talking about?”

He heard Max exhale, could almost imagine the guy rubbing his hand across his forehead.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the waiting room. At the university hospital. It’s Owen
 
—he was in a fight.”

Of course he was. And now he probably had stitches and orders to sit out the next game. Or two.

“Perfect. That’s just awesome.” Jace nested the phone against his shoulder, picking up the coffees and the bag. “When will he be all stitched up?”

Silence.

“Max?” Jace paused a second before he pushed out the door.

“Uh . . . he’s in surgery, J. Like, it’s bad. I think you need to get over here.”

Jace stepped back inside, out of the cold, as another patron entered. He set the coffees on the garbage can. Surgery? “How bad?”

Max sighed again, a tremble in it, and the sound reminded Jace of the morning his mother had slipped away. Reminded him of sitting beside her bed as his world crumbled.

“I’ll be right there.”

E
DEN CLUTCHED THE COLLAR
of her parka to her neck and hunched against the cold, hating that the bus had seemed to inch along today. She’d thought about getting out and running but doubted she’d get much speed in this wind. Now it streaked down her back and turned her body to ice.

His teammates were overreacting. So like hockey players to reach for the dramatic and overblow the incident. After all, with all the injuries Owen had already survived, a little black eye wouldn’t take him out of the game. He was only twenty years old; his entire spectacular career stretched before him.

Wrong. They were simply freaked out and wrong.

And even if he had suffered a painful injury, well, she’d nurse him back to the game. How many times had she soaked up his
blood from split lips or iced his knees or fetched Gatorade to keep him hydrated? And ER visits to stitch up stick wounds were routine.

They’d get through this. He wasn’t going to
lose his eye
.

Eden pushed inside the ER and stood for a moment in the entry under the heaters that fought to ward off the chill. She pulled off her gloves, then pressed her hands to her cheeks as she walked to the nurses’ station. Glancing around, she didn’t see Max or any of the other Blue Ox players.

“Did Owen Christiansen pass through here earlier?”

The nurse looked up at Eden wearing a half-tolerant smile. “Who?”

“Owen Christiansen
 
—a hockey player. Might have had a black eye?”

“And you are?”

“His sister.” Eden pulled out her wallet, showed her license.

“I . . . uh . . . Yeah, I think so. Let’s see.” The nurse sat down at the desk. “He plays for the Blue Ox
 
—”

“Yes.”

“He’s in surgery. You can go up to the surgical waiting room, and the doctor will find you.”

Surgery? So maybe Max hadn’t just been freaking out. She drew in a long breath and found the elevators.

The university hospital had an academic feel about it. As she got into the elevator and pushed 3, following the directions to the surgical floor, it gave her a moment’s pause that they’d brought Owen here.

A handful of players sat in the lounge. Some snoozing on the sofas; others, like Max, wearing shock, their faces pale. Max sported a freshly opened lip.

He got up as she entered. Smoothed his hands on his jeans. They were shaking. It made Eden shake a little too.

“What’s going on?” She lifted her bag off her shoulder, set it on one of the vinyl couches. She’d already called in sick, but she didn’t see the need to worry her parents until
 
—and unless
 
—she had news.

“He went into surgery over an hour ago. They called in a specialist
 
—”

Eden held up her hand. “Tell me everything.”

Max glanced at one of his buddies
 
—she recognized Kalen, who pushed himself up into a sitting position. His Mohawk now resembled a bad toothbrush.

“It was my fault,” Kalen said. “I guess I started it. We were slapping around the puck, and I threw one of the Denver players into the snow. He came back at me, and we ended up on the ice, throwing fists.”

Max added, “I tried to get in there, but Owen jumped in for Kalen, and I followed, still holding my stick, and then we’re not sure what happened . . .” He looked away. “All at once, he was on the ground, screaming. There was blood all over the ice
 
—the cops came. They took him to Hennepin County Medical Center, and then the doc there sent him here. We met the surgeon in the ER, and we’ve been here ever since.”

Eden sank down onto the couch. “And no one thought to call me?”

“What are you talking about? We called you constantly.”

Right. “Sorry. I thought it was Owen, pocket dialing me.” She pressed her hands against her roiling stomach.

“Do you need a drink?”

She looked at Max, made a face.

“I meant coffee.”

“Oh. Uh . . . no. I just want to wait for the doctor.”

“They called about fifteen minutes ago, said he was out of surgery. He should be here any
 
—Jace, man, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Eden glanced up as Jace Jacobsen came into the room, looking like a man who’d walked through fire. His cheeks red from the cold, his hair blown back from his face. He carried a coffee in his whitened hand and wore what looked like the same clothes from last night.

Of course. She didn’t presume to think that J-Hammer would have gone straight home.

He frowned, then surveyed the room before returning his gaze to Max. “Update me.”

After a glance at Eden, Max gave Jace a similar rundown on the night’s events.

Jace listened, his expression grim. Finally he asked, “So where are the Blades players now?”

As if he might round up a posse and finish the fight? She should have expected as much.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, standing. “Owen is all that matters.”

“Of course,” he said, glancing at Max. “Where’s Doc?”

“He was here
 
—I think he went to talk to Coach.”

Jace said nothing, just took a sip of his coffee.

Eden wanted to strangle him. She knew
 
—she just
knew
 
—that Owen would get himself in trouble. He had it written all over him last night.

She should have tracked her brother down instead of letting Jace drive her home.

Eden turned away before she said something she might regret, although at this moment, she didn’t know what that might be.

She had to do something, however. She walked to the coffee
table, began to pick up the debris of candy wrappers and Coke cans, and dumped them in the garbage. Then she went to the coffee station, found the pot empty, and filled it, brewing a fresh batch.

The clock ticked out the seconds in the room.

She watched the coffee brew, straightened the sugars. The surgeon would fix it, whatever it was, and Owen would be fine. Just fine.

Behind her, someone had turned on the news.

She closed her eyes.
Please, Lord, don’t let him lose his eye.
God wouldn’t take away the one thing that Owen longed for . . .

“Is there an Eden Christiansen here?”

She turned at the voice and saw a doctor in blue scrubs, his feet capped in cotton covers, his scrub hat still partially covering gray hair. Behind him, a female nurse waited, carrying a chart.

“I’m Eden.”

“Dr. Harrison. I’m the ophthalmologist on staff. Can we talk privately for a moment?”

She looked at Jace, at his team, all leaning in. “I need to call my parents. But . . . tell me. How bad is it?”

The doctor pinched his mouth into a thin line. “The blow crushed parts of his orbit, or the socket that holds his eye. It lacerated the eye, which we repaired, but he has quite a bit of papilledema, or swelling of his optical disk. It was a blow to the head, too, so we’re watching his intracranial pressure. We’re concerned with his raised levels of cerebrospinal fluid pressure, so we’ll be moving him to ICU to keep a watch.”

A head injury. Eden had the sense of the room tilting, of Dr. Harrison swimming in front of her. But she couldn’t fall apart.

Not when Owen needed her.

“Will he lose his eye?” Jace asked quietly.

The doctor looked at Jace, then back to Eden. “It’s too early to know the extent of the damage. But you should call your parents.” He pressed a hand to her arm.

“We’re going to get through this,” she said softly. “He’s going to be just fine.”

No one answered her.

“I’m scared, Daddy.”

Maddy lay in her bed, and even Sam, a nonprofessional, a parent who wanted to camp long and hard in denial, could admit that his daughter appeared worse. At death’s door. Her feet, hands, and face were plumped up with fluid, she ran a low-grade fever, and she couldn’t go off oxygen without her breathing becoming labored. A muted cartoon played on the TV on the wall, but behind her, another screen monitored her heartbeat, her oxygen levels. He tried not to let it trap him as he watched the stats.

“It’s just a biopsy, honey.”

But it was still general anesthesia, still his baby wheeled away, out of his arms. Still needles and pain and more fear, held back by the faintest press of hope.

He rubbed her forehead, his hand cool against her skin. “They need to test your heart and see how it is.”

“But it hurts.”

“I know.”

Jace had sent over balloons from the gift shop, as well as a bear the size of a buffalo, but Maddy hardly had the energy to thank him when he’d stopped by with coffee and breakfast. Then the phlebotomist came to draw blood, and Maddy had dissolved into hysterics.

Sam wasn’t sure what had happened to his brave, strong daughter, but he didn’t blame her. He wanted to let out a feral cry as well.

Jace had mentioned some kind of emergency with the team, and Sam could hardly expect him to hang around the hospital all day.

No, that was
his
job.

He wouldn’t even think about the bar and grill. Nell could manage for a day or two, but not a month or two . . . or eight like last time.

He would go under, and then they’d lose even the restaurant. That would look stellar in the transplant viability report.

Please, God, don’t let Maddy need another heart.

The nurse came in wearing a uniform with bears on it. Around her neck dangled a pink stethoscope with Dora the Explorer clipped to it. “Good morning, Miss Maddy. My name is Britta, and I’ll be taking you down to surgery.”

“No!” Maddy turned to Sam and grabbed his arm. “Please, Daddy, don’t make me, please
 
—”

His chest threatened to implode. “Maddy. It’s okay. You can do this.”

“Tell me the story again. Please.”

The story. He took her hand, soft and fragile in his. “Your mommy knew, from the day you were born, how strong you were. She would lay you down to sleep, and you’d get so angry.”

“I would cry.”

“Yes. And your little face would get red and your back would arch and she’d say, ‘My little girl is a warrior.’” He cupped her face with his hand, ran his thumb down her soft, wet cheek. “You had eyes as big as saucers, and your hair stood on end, but you were the cutest thing your mommy and I had ever seen. I just knew that
angels sang over you. One day you were in your walker and we’d forgotten to close the gate, and before your mommy knew it, you headed toward the stairs. She dove to catch you, but down you went, tumbling head over tail in your walker
 
—”

“Like a bouncy ball.”

“Right, like a bouncy ball.” He moved aside as the orderlies wheeled in a surgical gurney. They picked up Maddy and transferred her over.

She shot Sam a panicked look. He kept his voice even. “The crazy, miraculous thing was, you bounced from the bottom step into the air, right through the middle of the doorframe without touching it, and then . . . you landed right-side up, holding on to the sides of your walker like you’d just gone on a roller-coaster ride.”

“And I didn’t even cry.” Her lip trembled through her smile.

They moved out of the room. “You didn’t even cry. And your mom said, ‘My little girl is brave.’”

Bless her tiny, frail heart, Maddy put on her brave face. She managed a shaky smile, her eyes filling. “I’ll be right back,” she said, remembering.

“Yes. And I’ll be right here,” he responded, smoothing back her hair and kissing her forehead.

“’Kay,” Maddy said, but her eyes grew wider as they wheeled her down the hall. She tightened her hold on Sam’s hand. “Sing to me, Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby.” He licked his lips, his voice shaking. “Uh . . . ‘Jesus loves me . . . this . . . I know . . .’”

Shoot, he could do better. He took another breath. “‘For the Bible tells me . . . so . . .’”

Maddy’s lips moved with his, her brown eyes so big they might swallow him whole. Just a few more feet . . .

And then she’d be gone. His voice died.

“‘Little ones to Him belong.’” Maddy’s voice picked up the song. “‘They are weak, but He is strong.’”

Oh, God, thank You for my strong, brave daughter.
“‘Yes, Jesus loves me . . .’”