Christmas At Timberwoods (22 page)
Read Christmas At Timberwoods Online
Authors: Fern Michaels
Could he make it? One step at a time, both feet on one step. That was the way to do it. It would take longer, but there was no way he could force his legs to do anything else. When he got to the top of the stairs, he collapsed, his breathing ragged.
What if I die here, alone?
he thought. That spurred him on.
Move, Charlie,
he ordered himself,
just a little farther. A few more steps, that’s it. Do what needs to be done. Step by step. Just a little farther . . .
What if I die here, alone?
he thought. That spurred him on.
Move, Charlie,
he ordered himself,
just a little farther. A few more steps, that’s it. Do what needs to be done. Step by step. Just a little farther . . .
Pediatric Oncology. Maria’s mother glanced at the badge pinned to Dr. Francis Tucker’s white coat, then down at her daughter. He held the little girl’s wrist in his hand, his eyes on the antique pocket watch he carried. It was 1:35.
“Her pulse is stronger.” He checked the new entries on her chart, then replaced it at the foot of her bed. “And her vitals are on the upswing. Both good signs.” But he shook his head. “I’m not sure letting her visit the mall is a good idea if you want her to be home for Christmas. She could pick up a minor bug that she can’t shake off in her present state of health.”
“It would make her so happy. I’ll take every possible precaution and keep her away from the crowds.”
The doctor nodded and looked down at his bright-eyed patient. “Maria, the decision is up to your mom.”
“Dr. Tucker, will you look out the window and see if you can see anything special across the highway?” Maria said in a soft voice.
He looked across the highway and smiled. “I sure can, young lady.” He turned toward the window. “Well, I’ll be darned—there’s a Santa Claus on the roof of the Timberwoods Mall. Looks like he’s stuffing his bag with something. Now, that’s clever,” he added to Carol Andretti.
Maria rose halfway and craned her neck, but she was too short to look out the window without someone to lift her up. “Do you really see him?” She sounded out of breath. “He’s my special miracle. Isn’t he, Mommy?”
Carol Andretti squeezed her daughter’s small hand. “Yes, honey. He’s right where he was.”
“Is he waving, Dr. Tucker?”
“Why, I . . . Yes, he is. Do you want me to wave back?” He turned to Maria, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh, yes, wave back. I can’t see and I want him to know that I know he’s there. Wave, please, wave for me.”
Francis Tucker felt slightly foolish, but he did as the child asked, then turned around and smoothed her fevered brow. “You look tired. It’d be a good idea for you to get some sleep now. I want to talk to your mother for a minute, and then she’ll be right back.”
“Okay, Dr. Tucker. But first . . . you didn’t say when I’d be better.”
Francis Tucker closed his eyes for a brief moment. Somehow you were never prepared for things like this. “You’re doing well, Maria. We’re all really happy about that.” He picked up the iPod that was inside a fold of the bedcovers. “Do you want to listen to your music now?”
She nodded and took it from him, putting in the earbuds and listening to a tinny singing voice he could barely hear. Some teenage pop star. Maria smiled to herself.
Luckily for him she fell asleep, saving him from having to give her a reply.
“I couldn’t have answered her,” he said to Carol. “Let’s talk outside. Are you sure you want to take her to the shopping center, Mrs. Andretti? I can’t stop you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea, even though her condition has stabilized.”
Carol Andretti squared her thin shoulders. She drew in her breath. “Will she live through Christmas?”
“There’s always—”
“Hope? I know there’s hope. Doctor, I’m asking you for your medical opinion. Will Maria live to see Christmas?”
“I don’t know. In cases like hers, we do see patients occasionally experience a remarkably swift remission, but not often. And it’s not something we can predict with certainty.”
“How long does she have? Tomorrow, the next day, Christmas Eve? When?”
“She could have a lifetime. Or only days, Mrs. Andretti. A lot depends on how her body responds after the bone marrow transplant.” His shoulders slumped. All the little girl wanted was to talk to Santa. He couldn’t deny her that. He could only explain as best he could and let it go at that. With childhood cancer, no one was ever prepared.
“Thank you, Dr. Tucker. And the answer to your question is, yes, I am taking her to Timberwoods. I have to let her see her special miracle. Don’t you see? It’s all she has left. It’s all I have left.”
He nodded in acquiescence and went over the necessity of keeping the sick little girl away from others and not over-tiring her. Carol Andretti seemed to understand. Dr. Tucker left the hospital room convinced that he was going to change his field of medicine. Dermatology—that was fairly safe. In the new year he would look into it. Acne and psoriasis weren’t all that bad. At least patients with those complaints stayed alive. You smeared a little ointment on them and hoped for the best. Just acne and psoriasis, he promised himself for the thousandth time since entering medical school.
“You want to know something, old buddy? That was the worst lunch I ever ate,” Mary complained as she crumpled up her paper napkin. “Our only hope is to buy those Jordan almonds for Susie’s wedding favors and stuff ourselves.”
“If it was so terrible, why did you eat it?” Cheryl asked testily.
“Because you paid for it, that’s why. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Since when did you ever worry about my feelings? I thought the lunch was good.”
“That’s because your taste buds are warped.”
“I would have thought that anyone who can eat pickled herring with ketchup has warped taste buds.” Cheryl’s voice dripped honey.
“Are you going to start a fight?” Mary demanded, her elfin face full of mischief.
“I’m too tired to fight. We’ve been here since ten o’clock. It’s now two thirty and we haven’t bought anything. That’s four and a half hours. Remind me—what the hell did we come to Timberwoods for?” Cheryl protested indignantly.
“It’s not my fault you want to buy all the wrong things. I bought you a foot massage, and I expect something of equal value.”
“Ah, the true meaning of Christmas,” Cheryl snorted. “How can I buy you something when all you keep saying is that you don’t want that under your Christmas tree? If you aren’t careful, I’m going to stuff you into one of those sequined stockings with a tag that says Don’t Open Until . . . and I’m going to leave the year blank!”
“What’s bugging you, old buddy? We came out for the day to have fun. All you’ve done is complain. And you haven’t even bought my present.”
Cheryl sighed. She knew when to quit. “Why don’t I ever win?” she asked her friend, a winsome smile on her face.
“You always win! You won seventy-five dollars at bingo. Pay the bill and let’s go.”
“Okay, okay,” Cheryl grumbled as she struggled out of the narrow booth. “I suppose that means I have to leave the tip, too.”
“Suit yourself. The food was lousy and the service was worse. I wouldn’t leave a tip. Do you want me to write a complaint on the napkin?”
“No, I’ll take care of it,” Cheryl answered through clenched teeth. She pulled two coins out of her wallet and left them on the table in plain sight so that anyone seeing them before the waitress picked them up would know what kind of service they’d received. Leaving two cents said it all.
“Where do you want to go now?” Mary asked brightly. “Oh, listen—don’t you just love ‘Jingle Bells’?”
Cheryl looked around. “First of all, I want to get my bearings. Where are the exits? I can’t see a single one. Which store are we going to next?”
“Let’s see. I have a credit card for Stedmans, and they’re on this level, and so is Simmons Leather Shop. I want to get a wallet for my hairdresser and a camera for Patty. You know, one of those digital things.”
“I’m not moving till I find out where the nearest exit is,” Cheryl said, grabbing hold of the railing leading to the lower level.
“Oh, for God’s sake! What do you think is going to happen? Tell you what: if you buy me two presents, I’ll get you a set of worry beads.”
“Mary!”
“It’s over there, next to the community room. All you do is go down the hall by the snack bar. That’s an exit.”
“Okay, we’ll go to Simmons first, then Stedmans. Maybe I’ll look for a key holder for the mailman while you’re looking for a wallet. What do you think a leather key holder will cost?”
“Who cares? We aren’t using money, remember?”
“I forgot,” Cheryl said agreeably.
Simmons Leather Shop was crowded with shoppers. Mary looked through the selection of leather wallets and finally found one that looked right. “What do you think?” she asked, holding the wallet up for Cheryl’s inspection.
“It looks okay to me, but what do I know? I don’t use a wallet.”
Mary rolled her eyes and walked over to a very pregnant black woman who was waiting at the checkout counter. “Excuse me, but could you give me your opinion about this wallet? I’m considering buying it for my hairdresser. Do you think it’s too plain?”
The woman smiled and took the wallet from Mary’s hand. “Plain? No, not at all. I think it’s elegant. I’m sure your hairdresser will be delighted with it.”
Mary let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. I couldn’t decide, and my friend here is no help at all. She doesn’t use a wallet. She just throws her money into her purse.”
“Ah, Mrs. Summers,” the sales clerk broke in,
“I have your briefcase right here, all wrapped up and ready to go. Will that be cash or charge?”
After paying for the wallet, Mary and Cheryl headed for Stedmans. At the front of the store there was a digital camera display, inexpensive models that were meant for fun, not serious photography. Each was attached to the display by a thin but strong flexible metal link that was long enough to let interested customers pick up a camera and test it.
“Oh, look, Cheryl,” Mary cried, “the sign says you can take a picture to try the camera. And you get a print right away. Works for me. Back off into the mall a little and I’ll take your picture.”
Cheryl obliged.
Out of the corner of her eye Mary saw Santa Claus. Who wanted a picture of Cheryl, anyway? She turned the viewfinder toward Santa Claus and pressed the button. Cheryl was going to have a fit. Maybe if the salesman wasn’t watching, she could snap two pictures. Cheryl was hell on wheels when she got mad.
Snap. That was all there was to it. The metal links that kept customers from walking off with the cameras were also connected to a computerized photo printer that was part of the display. In less than a minute the machine spat out a finished print. Snap. Out came another. The photos rested in the tray as Mary turned to the clerk, who’d coughed to get her attention.
“Only one free print per customer, ma’am,” the sales clerk said.
Mary set the camera back on the display and gave him her innocent look. “But there are two of us,” she pointed out. “And I want to buy two cameras.” She grinned at the clerk. “Put them on my credit card, please.”
“I know you didn’t take two pictures of me,” .Cheryl complained. “So who—”
“Santa Claus, who else?”
“Oh,” Cheryl said, slightly mollified as she put her credit card into her purse. “Did we get a good buy?”
“Absolutely. Would I steer you wrong?” She moved to the printer tray and took out the two free pictures. “I must have pressed the wrong button. There’s something wrong with my Santa Claus picture. Look, it’s all blurred and red. Nothing but red.” She held up the other one. “Yours came out good, though. Look how nice your teeth look. What do you suppose happened to the first one?”
“Don’t worry about it. It probably wasn’t focused right.”
“Guess so,” Mary said, putting the pictures into her purse. “Shall we get the nuts now or later?”
“Later, Mary, much later.”
Dan Malinowski looked at the clock on the opposite wall and grimaced. Damn that Charlie Roman. No word on the tank. He should have known better than to believe vague reassurances from a loser like him. “I’ll fix his ass,” Dan snorted. He dialed a number at Timberwoods Mall.
“Summers here.”
“Dan Malinowski. You guys still keeping tabs on everyone? Have you seen Charlie Roman?”
Eric didn’t bother to answer the first question, because that was none of Dan’s damn business. “I think he got sent home this morning. Can I help you?”
“Nah, guess not. It can wait. He looked sick when I saw him, but that was about eleven this morning. Guess he couldn’t take it, not even as a walk-around Santa, what with all those kids and that bad cold. I’ll call him next week.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?” Eric asked.
“Nah. He was just going to check on that missing propane cylinder for me. But like I said, it can wait.” Dan caught himself, remembering what Charlie had told him about Miguel. “No sweat. Sorry to bother you.”
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