Last Of The Joeville Lovers

Angela’s eyelids fluttered, then opened to narrow slits when she rolled her head toward the door. Taylor let out a cleansing breath and raced to her mother’s side.

“Taylor—” Angela reached out a shaky hand, IVs channeled through a heplock into a puffy vein. “I’m so glad you made it—”

In time. Those were the words that hung between them, but Taylor refused to believe them.

“Mom, you have to fight this.” Then she forced a smile. “You’re getting a new kidney. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Angela closed her eyes and a sweet smile curved her lips. “I can’t let you do that, dear.”

“Who said it was me?”

Angela squinted at her with a knowing look.

“Well, I’m going to do it, so there’s no point discussing it.” Taylor glanced at the monitors and read the numbers. They would have to improve before surgery, but now that Mom knew there was hope, surely she would fight harder.

She had to.

Taylor couldn’t imagine life without her mother. They had always been so close, even when separated by miles. The weekly Sunday night phone calls were followed by long, chatty letters. There was nothing they didn’t share.

“Taylor?” Angela whispered, as she closed her eyes again.

Taylor leaned across the railing and kissed her mother’s clammy forehead. “I’m right here, Mama.” She kept her face near, and Angela’s lips barely moved.

“You have to do something for me—”

“Anything, Mama.” She swallowed hard to keep from crying. She had never seen her mother this sick, not even after the accident.

Angela squeezed Taylor’s hand and she watched tears escape from behind her mother’s closed lids. “Please don’t hate me—”

“Don’t talk silly,” she said, interrupting what she guessed were delirious words. “I could never hate you, Mama. You know how much I love you.”

Angela nodded her head ever so slightly. “There’s something in the attic that you have to find for me...but you can’t let your father see....”

Taylor looked nervously behind her, relieved that her father had not yet returned. What on earth was her mother talking about? Was it the drugs?

“Under the old love seat in the attic...loose boards...two journals I wrote...long ago.” Her words were coming in short bursts and Taylor thought of making her stop. “Don’t let anyone see them.” She opened her eyes slowly and held her daughter’s steady gaze. “Please?”

What on earth could this mean? Her parents never kept secrets from each other. She was sure of it. They had always treated each other with such tenderness and respect; there was always such contentment between them. It had to be the drugs.

“Taylor? Will you get them for me?”

Hallucinating or not, she couldn’t say no. “Yes, Mama.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and smoothed her fair hair away from her sallow face. “Get some rest now, okay? I’ll be back later.”

Angela closed her eyes and seemed instantly asleep. Taylor checked the monitors again and there was no change. She pressed her lips to her mother’s temple and whispered in her ear, “Fight hard, Mama. I love you,” thinking she probably didn’t hear.

Her eyes still closed, Angela whispered back, “I love you, too.”

With one last lingering look, Taylor backed quietly out of the room.

Michael and Dad were leaning against the far wall, arms folded as if to ward off a sudden chill. Michael met her halfway for a frightened hug as her father pulled himself from a stupor.

His head shot up and his eyes grew round. “Is she—?”

“She’s resting.”

He exhaled a loud breath and Taylor realized what he’d been thinking.

“Did you find her doctor?”

He nodded, then clasped her hand between both of his. “I told him what you said.” He averted his eyes and she could see them glazing over. “He said she’s too sick for a transplant.” He looked back. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It’s just too late.”

“No!” Taylor backed away and glared at him. “Mom’s a fighter. She’ll get better and we’ll do the surgery.” She lowered her voice and raised his chin with her finger, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Dad...you can’t give up or Mom will see it on your face.”

“You’re right,” he said, but without much conviction. “Let me go in and kiss her good-night. The doctor suggested we go home and let her rest. They’ll call if there’s any change.” He stumbled toward the door, paused, straightened his shoulders some and walked toward the woman who had been his wife and best friend for nearly thirty years.

Michael laced Taylor’s fingers in his. “Where are your bags?”

She stared after their father, unable to look Michael in the eye. Maybe she could fool Dad with her false hopes, but Michael could always see right through her. He was only twenty, five years her junior, yet it had been years since she’d thought of him as a kid. She met his sad gray eyes and remembered his question. “My bags are downstairs behind the information counter, but—”

“I know you want to stay, but if you don’t leave, neither will Dad. I’m worried about him. I can’t remember when he slept last.”

She didn’t want to leave, but she knew Michael was right. And then there was the matter of her mother’s request. Was there really something in the attic beneath loose boards? If there was and she could tell Mom she had found it and removed it, maybe it would buoy her spirits. It was grabbing at straws, but that was all she had at the moment.

Her father joined them in the hall, his chin back on his chest.

Taylor took his arm, and Michael moved to the opposite side. “Let’s go home, Dad. She’ll be better in the morning.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, yet like a gentle breeze, they fanned a low flame of hope.

After a fitful night of half expecting the phone to ring, at dawn Taylor sat up with a start when she heard her father tell Michael that he was taking a shower and to listen for the phone.

All night she had thought about her mother’s request and wished she could go exploring upstairs. But the night had been too still and the house too small for her to hide her movements, so she had waited. Now, as soon as she heard the water running, Taylor checked that Michael’s door was closed before darting up the attic stairs.

It had been years since she’d ventured up here, and the dusty smell of cardboard boxes and stored treasures reminded her of lazy afternoons with Mom, times when they had retraced the steps of old shoes and hats left behind by Grandma and Aunt Helen. Taylor stopped at the top step and eyed the old rocker in front of the window. A floor lamp with an arched neck and Tiffany shade waited next to the rocker for someone to pull its chain. Cross-stitched throw pillows rested at the foot of it all, where Taylor used to sit by the hour and listen to her mother’s stories of the Big Sky Country of her youth.

Particles of sunshine filtered through the aged organza curtains and spotlighted the old love seat on the opposite wall. The curved cherry wood trim on the back was in better shape than the willow green brocade upholstery. She could almost hear the cushions ripping if she dared sit on its fragile surface. She walked cautiously toward it, having no intention of sitting on it at all, wishing she didn’t have to touch it. If there were loose boards beneath it, she hoped they revealed nothing. Yet the sound of her own fast breathing told her there would be something there. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted to discover. Something that might tip the scales of their balanced little family, a good and loving family that was at the core of who she was.

Taylor stopped at one end of the small sofa, her arms still at her side. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s worried face when she’d made this strange request. There was no going back to the hospital without telling Mom all was safe.

Before she could lose her nerve, she lifted an armrest and moved the sofa silently away from the wall. Wide cracks bracketed two boards beneath and she fought the urge to run from this once-cozy space. Instead, she stooped and tugged at the planks, listening for the water to shut off downstairs, hearing nothing but the hammering of her own heart in her ears.

There, below the floor, were two cloth-covered journals, their delicate calico prints suggesting a woman’s loving touch. Taylor retrieved them quickly, replaced the boards and repositioned the love seat in the clean spots left by the claw-footed legs.

With the books tucked safely under her bulky sweater, she descended the stairs, raced to her old room, and pressed her back to the closed door before releasing the breath she’d been holding.

There. She had Mama’s journals. Dad would never see them, would never know their content.

But what did they say that would hurt him so much?

There was a soft rap on the door and Taylor jumped. “Taylor?”

Quickly she hid the books in her carry-on bag and then took a cleansing breath.

“Be right there, Dad.” Suddenly she felt as though she were part of some conspiracy. Would he see a guilty look on her face? She glanced at the mirror and practiced a calm she didn’t feel, then opened the door.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

His concern doubled her guilt and she struggled to conceal it. She’d had no reason to ever deceive her father before, but Mom had said he must never know. “I—I’m fine, Dad. Maybe we should leave for the hospital now.”

His weary gaze lingered on her face a moment and her pulse raced. But then he turned and headed for the door, Michael right behind him. “Yes. I think we should get going.”

When they arrived at the room, they were blocked by a wall of white and aqua jackets surrounding Angela’s bed. Orders were barked and obeyed. Taylor stood on one foot then the other trying to see the monitors, but the view was obstructed by a burly intern whose pinched brow and intense eyes gave her reason to worry. She squeezed Michael’s sweaty palm and felt her father’s hand dig deeper into her shoulder.

It was at times like this that Taylor wished she knew less about medicine, that she was a little girl again... who thought her mother was invincible.

Her ear was trained on the beeps from the monitor, picturing each peak, praying for the next. And then she heard the sound she feared the most—a constant hum

Injections and paddles followed the dismal sound, but to no avail.

The time of death was called by the senior physician.

The trio huddled in the doorway, Taylor in the center. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s soul winging its way to heaven and tried to draw comfort from the fact that she was in a better place now, free of all pain. It helped a little, and surely as time passed her faith would help her again.

But in the deep recesses of her mind, there was a dark dread that in the months to come Mom’s death would only be part of her grieving. Grandmother used to say trouble came in threes. If she was right, Taylor didn’t speculate on number two and three. At the moment one seemed more than enough.

It came as no surprise to any of them when the family read Angela’s letters Wednesday afternoon. There was one for each of them that they would later share, and there was one that listed the whereabouts of valuables and papers of importance. Angela had anticipated this day and had planned every last detail, including prepayment of expenses. She’d asked to be cremated after a private family viewing, and if they decided to have a memorial service, she hoped it would be the next day at the hospital chapel.

Simple, clean, fast.

That’s what she wanted and that’s what she got, the family somewhat relieved that decisions had been made, all too numb with the loss of a young, vital woman.

Phone calls kept them busy until late evening, when her father and Michael each retreated behind closed doors, leaving Taylor alone in the kitchen. She cleaned up the bowls of half-eaten soup and wiped the counter, noticing her mother’s hair appointment marked on the calendar next to the phone. It was for next Thursday.

Later, she told herself. She’d call the shop tomorrow.

The idea of telling the sad story one more time today left her weak in the knees and she slumped into the nearest chair. She’d held it together all day, as much for her father and Michael’s sake as her own. Right now she could use a good cry, alone in her room.

But there was one more call she had to make.

Not only had she promised Josh she’d call, but she knew Max would want to know. Josh. She remembered their conversation on the plane and his faraway look when he’d spoken of his mother. The pain had shown on his face, even after all these years. The knot at the back of her throat pushed again as she forced herself out of the chair and to the phone.

Hannah answered on the second ring and said she was the only one home. Taylor rushed through the bad news, surprised when the tough old housekeeper started sniffling and then blew her nose. They didn’t know each other that well; the reaction seemed out of character. And what seemed even stranger were her parting words.

“Call Max after the funeral tomorrow, will ya, sweetie?”

Taylor paused a moment, then said, “Sure.”

When she hung up the phone and padded into her room, she wondered why she should call Max again. Maybe to talk about when she would be back to work.

The room down the hall from the hospital chapel was filled to capacity with food and those who had come to pay their respects.

Taylor accepted the sympathetic touches and hugs from hundreds, faces blurring together, kind words washing over her like rain that wasn’t wet, not touching her, not penetrating the cloak she wore around her pain. Dad stood to one side of her, his eyes red rimmed, his composure a thin facade. Michael no longer fought the tears. He bit his top lip and nodded acknowledgment to mourners, never saying a word, his light blue collar spotted with dark droplets.

Mercifully the day ended and the grief-stricken family returned to their little bungalow near the hospital. They reminisced about good times and dug out old photo albums, but eventually the men found solace in their rooms while Taylor sipped her lukewarm tea and stared at the phone on the kitchen wall. As much as the Malones had come to mean to her, Montana and the life she had made there seemed part of a distant past, as surreal as the events of the last couple of days.

Still, she had told Hannah she would call. So she did.

Hannah only said hello this time, before shuffling off to get Max, whose voice sounded as strained as her own.

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” he said.

She could hear the pain in his voice and knew his words far transcended politeness. He cared about her mother; they had been friends. “I know.” She swallowed, hoping to keep the conversation short. “The flowers were beautiful. Thank the rest of the family for me...please?”

Max said nothing, the tension at the other end of the line nearly palpable. It was as if he were wary about speaking his mind, that there was something else he wanted to say and couldn’t. She decided it must be about work.

“I talked to Dad and Michael. We agreed it would be best for all of us to get back to work. They started an addition to someone’s house last week that needs a roof before it rains, and—”

“Take as much time as you need. I don’t want to rush you.”

“You’re not. I want to...have to keep busy.”

Max didn’t argue. In fact, he said nothing. “Max? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

The pause, followed by a long sigh, told her there was. “Max?”

“You have enough on your plate—”

“Please. What is it?” She knew it wasn’t good, yet she had to know.

“It’s Josh—”

She sprang out of the chair and paced toward the sink. “What about Josh?”

“I didn’t want to trouble you with this, Taylor, but...well, he had an accident with his plane—”

“Is ..is he—”

“It looks like he’s going to pull through.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, but before she could relax he told her the rest.

“He’s banged up pretty bad, and—” Max paused, then blurted it out “—Taylor...he’s going to need our help. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

Three

As difficult as the flight had been to Detroit, the return was even worse. The hope Taylor had nursed five days ago had been replaced with a large empty hole, one she doubted would ever be filled, a wound so fresh and deep that she couldn’t quite comprehend the days and months ahead. Her work, and a lot of help from above, would be her salvation.

And why did this have to happen to Josh? Was this number two of three, as Grandma had warned? If it was, then what else was in store for her? She shook her head and squared her shoulders, dismissing the silly adage as she strode down the hospital corridor, nodding at familiar faces, her gait saying she had no time for idle chatter.

She stepped into the elevator and punched the button for ICU, then punched it again when it didn’t respond, as if the second prompt might speed things along. Others wandered in and she stepped aside. One young man held a large stuffed animal, and his face reflected the joy and pride of a new papa. She stared at the floor and wondered when she might feel joy again.

First Mom, now this. Josh’s dimpled smile flashed in her mind’s eye. So young, so carefree...so handsome. He had everything.

That wasn’t true, she reminded herself. He’d lost a mother, too. At least she had hers for twenty-five years, which was almost twenty years longer than Josh could say. And then another thought crossed her mind: why did people wait for a tragedy to think kindly about certain people? Why did they—she—not see the pain in their eyes before and realize that they carried baggage from the past, too? Like Josh...

The elevator stopped and Taylor excused her way to the front, wondering what she would say to Josh when she saw him. She hadn’t been very nice to him in the past, based mostly on rumors and supposition...and her own prejudice against young people with easy money.

Today would be different; she would look Josh in the eye and start again. There was a good man inside there somewhere; she was sure of it. After all, he was Max’s son. He had to be. And now, more than ever, Josh would need help to see him through.

As she neared ICU she remembered the pastor’s recent eulogy. “When you’re feeling your lowest, reach out to someone else in need...it’s impossible to feel sad when you’re making someone else smile.”

Taylor held tight to that thought and identified herself at the nurses’ station, then pressed the metal plate on the wall for the big double doors to swing open. Why it had to be Josh whom God had chosen to help occupy her days of mourning, she didn’t know. But she made a silent vow that she would do her best to bring a smile back on that handsome face of his.

She stepped into the room and suppressed a moan. Both legs were in traction; a trapeze hung over his chest. Monitors and IVs surrounded him, reminding her of her mother’s plight just days ago. With an ache in her chest, she stepped into the room. Josh’s head was facing the window and she thought he was asleep, but when her shoes squeaked on the tile floor, he looked at her, and amidst a maze of cuts and bruises a big smile washed over his pale lips.

“Hi, gorgeous.” His speech was a little slurred, his tongue sounding thick with drugs. Still, he smiled. “This is much better,” he said.

She moved slowly to his side, wanting to touch him, yet feeling shy for some odd reason. “What’s much better?” she asked, pretending not to notice the extent of his injuries.

“A beautiful nurse! In the movies, there are always young, pretty nurses. I had just about given up.”

Still full of it, she thought, then chuckled. “I’m not a nurse. I’m a—”

“Yeah, yeah. A sadistic physical therapist.”

His smile was firmly in place, a fact that amazed her. She had only to enter his room to achieve her goal. Without thinking, she returned his easy smile.

“Guess that shoulder business was just a sample of what I’m in for, huh?”

Taylor straightened his covers, needing something to do with her hands and having trouble holding his gaze. “You got that right, cowboy. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“I love it when you talk tough.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how tough you are in the months to come.”

“Months?” He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Weeks. Once I get out of this place, you wait and see. I’ll be the best success story you’ve ever told.”

She glanced at his elevated legs, hoping he couldn’t read her worries about his paralysis, about the severity of the damage that may have been done. When she looked back at his sleepy face, his smile had disappeared.

“You will be my therapist, won’t you?”

“Yes. Of course. You were one of my favorite patients to abuse.” She swallowed hard and decided it was time to leave. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, and turned to go.

Josh reached out and snagged her hand, his fingers shaking. “I’m glad.” He held her gaze a few seconds too long, then, as if sensing her discomfort, he waved his free hand in the direction of his legs. “It’s temporary, you know. Traumatic something-or-other. Nothing hard work can’t cure.” He tried to move and winced. “I’ll just have to pretend it’s training camp for football. Used to have a pretty grueling schedule, you know. Two-a-days...that’s what they called them. With lots of running and weight lifting in between.” He stopped talking suddenly and studied her face. “But the coach never looked as good as you.” He shot her a roguish wink.

Taylor shook her head, seeing the fear and uncertainty behind all his bravado. “You never quit, do you?”

“Nope,” he said, eyeing her closely and still holding her hand.

The feel of his lingering touch sent her pulse racing. She wondered if he was still thinking of physical therapy; she sure wasn’t. She caught herself quickly and placed his hand on his chest with a gentle pat. She must remember her objectives: to be his physical therapist and part of his healing process as well as her own.

“You need your rest,” she said. “I’ll be back later.”

“Promise?”

She forced a lazy smile. “Promise.”

“Today?”

“If you’d like.”

“I’d like.”

Taylor left the unit, rounded the corner and then stopped, pressing her back to the cold concrete wall and breathing deeply through her mouth. She’d always prided herself in being able to control her emotions. Yes, she had cried over her mother’s death and she surely would again, but she knew Mom was in a better place now and that Dad and Michael would take care of each other.

But who would take care of her? She longed for a hug and a shoulder to lean on. That must be why Josh’s gentle touch had shaken her so.

She pushed off the wall and headed for Max’s office.

Vulnerable. It was only natural that she would feel vulnerable for a while. She would be wise to remember that whenever she was with Josh. He needed her help; she needed to keep busy.

That’s all there was to it.

Josh stared out the window, wishing he was on the other side, feeling the sunshine on his face. And more importantly—the ground beneath his feet. He tried focusing on a list of calls that had to be made, chores that had to be delegated. His first crop of wheat needed attention.

Yet the farm was a hazy image eclipsed by a beautiful face, one surrounded by waves of hair fairer than his precious wheat, framing eyes bluer than his beloved Montana sky.

He bent an arm behind his head and pictured her fragile smile, and suddenly guilt prickled in his chest. Damn. He’d been so glad to see her, he hadn’t even mentioned her mother’s death. What an insensitive oaf she must think he is. A self-absorbed oaf. Who better than he knew how it felt to lose a mother? Next time...when she returned....

He closed his eyes and his head grew fuzzy, the drugs numbing more than his pain. His thoughts were again a jumble and it was hard to concentrate. Wheat fields blurred with blond hair, and yellow combines turned into oak caskets. Then, mercifully, images of mothers and deaths were overtaken by the fluids dripping into the back of his hand and everything went blank again.