“You’d be happier with me if I wrote the order in the morning and let him come home.”
He almost agreed. And then, the anger losing intensity, had to shake his head. “No, I’m happy with you when you do what you believe is right.”
It was the absolute truth. And a new level of awareness for Kirk Chandler.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive.”
Her eyes were shadowed in the moonlight, giving her a vulnerable look as she looked up at him. “You’re still coming for Christmas dinner?”
He stared at her for a long time, needing to say no—to the judge. At the same time wanting to say yes to the woman. Another internal battle. Always a battle.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
But he was going to see Abraham, too. On Christmas morning, with a letter from the boy’s mother and a passenger seat full of the presents Carla had bought for her son. At her son’s request he’d called her, made the arrangements. Abraham could tell the Mortons they were from Kirk. What others thought didn’t matter. As long as Abraham knew the truth—that his mother loved him. As long as, somehow, he shared this holiday with his family.
“MOM!”
The sound of terror in her son’s voice had Valerie racing from the kitchen on Christmas afternoon, leaving the water running in the sinkful of pots and pans. Kirk, who’d been loading the dishwasher, was right beside her.
“Bry? What’s wrong?” The boys were in the living room, and never had three rooms seemed so far away.
“Blake’s sick, Mom! Hurry!”
Running into the room, she took in everything at once—Blake leaning over the edge of the couch retching, the mess on the floor, the blood, the stark fear in Brian’s eyes.
“It’s okay, son,” she said, ignoring the floor as she sat beside her crying and violently ill son, rubbing his back. ‘It’s okay, just let it all out. Don’t fight it.”
“Get us a bucket, a spatula and a clean, cool washcloth, okay, Brian?” Kirk’s voice was calm, reassuring, as though boys throwing up blood were an everyday occurrence for him.
“I’d say you overdid it on dessert, Blake, my boy.” Down on his haunches, he didn’t seem to even notice the stench and the mess at his feet as he took Blake’s hand, held on.
“Mom?” Blake was sobbing, his face wet and smeared. Before he could say more, he was seized by another violent spasm. And then another. Until, finally, he seemed to be spent.
Brian stepped forward with the washcloth. “Thanks, Brian.” Valerie heard Kirk over her softly spoken reassurances to Blake. Was thankful when, after she pulled her son onto her lap and cradled him against her, Kirk gently wiped his face and hands.
“You’re going to be fine,” she told Blake over and over. “No big deal.” It was the first time she’d ever knowingly lied to her son.
She had no idea whether or not Blake would be fine. And she knew for sure that the amount of blood he’d vomited couldn’t possibly be a good thing.
SHE’D CERTAINLY never expected to spend Christmas night at the hospital. Still in shock, Valerie sat in one of the old padded leather armchairs beside Blake’s bed, with Kirk occupying the chair next to her. Blake and Brian were side by side on the bed, heads bent over a new handheld video game they’d received for Christmas.
“Guess we should’ve known Blake was going to be okay when he grabbed that game on the way out,” Kirk said softly. A sitcom rerun was playing on the television but the boys seemed to be tuning out everything except each other.
“He just remembers when he broke his arm,” Valerie said. “After the initial fright and pain had worn off, his worst memory of the whole thing was waiting for half a day to have the cast put on.”
“How old was he
?”
“Seven.”
“So his father was still alive.”
“Yeah.” She glanced at the boys, tense, as always, when their father was mentioned. One of Brian’s legs hung over the edge of the bed.
“I’m guessing he wasn’t there waiting with his son.”