that kid in high school with the speech impediment?”
“Jimmy Starks.” He hadn’t thought about the poor stuttering kid in years.
“You punched Trent White for tormenting him.”
Caleb snorted. “And got suspended.”
“You shouldn’t have. Trent was a bully before bullying was a thing.”
“Bullying was always a thing, Kristen.” She’d just been too popular to be the object. Right side of the tracks, good Christian family with a respected mother and a successful father, smart and pretty Kristen had it all.
If Caleb hadn’t learned to hit first and apologize later, he’d have been more tormented than poor Jimmy. Foster boy, dummy, loser, who’s your daddy? Those were only a few of the remarks he’d endured. They’d made him feel as worthless as used tissue. As a result, he’d hated school. And his grades had shown it.
Kristen tapped the iPad a few more times and then went to check on Pops. Her boot cast thudded on the wooden floor, warning him of her going and coming. Again, he wanted to ask about the accident. This time, he didn’t. He didn’t want her scowling at him again.
When she returned, she came to the fireplace, where he was stroking the calf’s neck to encourage her to swallow. The flames flickered behind her, yellow and blue and warm.
He looked up at her. “Pops doing all right?”
She stretched her hands behind her back, toward the fire. “Sleeping.”
“He does that a lot.”
“He needs a transplant,” she said softly.
“I know that.” His tone was harsh. “He’s on the registry.”
She perched on the raised brick hearth, watching him with sympathy. “I’m sorry. This has to be incredibly difficult for you.”
“Not for me. For him.” He didn’t matter. Pops did. “I’d give him both my kidneys if they’d match.”
She smiled a sad smile. “All it takes is one.”
“Which we can’t find.” Fury at the injustice boiled in his gut. “Probably won’t find. Not with his rare antibody.”
“He’s a tough match, but not impossible.”
“How long can he live like this without a transplant?”
Her eyes shifted. She grew wary. She picked imaginary lint from her blue scrub pants. “Statistics vary, and averages don’t consider the individual. Your dad doesn’t have some of the other risk factors, so with dialysis, he could live a long time.”
Or he could die tomorrow. That was what she wasn’t saying.
The calf drained the bottle, and Caleb lowered the animal to the rug and went into the kitchen. At the sink, he washed out the container, his heart heavy as a boulder. He was a man of action, a man who took charge of his sick animals and found a way to make them well. That he couldn’t do the same for Pops made him crazy.
Caleb carried her bag to the car. Kristen had been mildly amused that he’d held her elbow while she’d thumped like a flat tire in her boot cast down the incline from his porch to her car. The leg was healing. She was an independent adult who could manage alone. But there was something to be said for a thoughtful man.
He’d even opened her car door and waited in the December cold, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, for her and her bum leg to settle in.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, putting on her seat belt.
Caleb leaned in, one hand on top of the Honda. “Same time?”
Their gazes met, and Kristen experienced that disconcerting flutter again. “If not, I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He closed the door and stepped back, watching as she took off. When she glanced in her mirror, he still stood there, wind stirring his brown hair, his olive flannel shirt plastered against his body. He looked incredibly alone.
Like she’d felt the day James had left.
Eyes were the windows to the soul, and Caleb Girard’s said he was sick with fear and sadness. Anger, too. As a nurse, she recognized the normal progression of emotions in life-and-death situations. As a woman who’d once adored him, she ached for his aloneness and despair.
There had to be more they could do to procure a kidney for Greg. Thousands died every year waiting for a transplant. She hadn’t told this gruesome statistic to Caleb or Greg. Hope was essential. Greg had it. Caleb was struggling.
After a stop at the Refuge Home Health office, Kristen visited one more patient, who needed an IV infusion, before calling it a day. That done, she stopped at her childhood home. Dad wasn’t yet home from his real estate office, but Mom was. After twenty-six years of working alongside Dad, Evie Andrews was semiretired, showing homes only when she wanted to.
A honey blonde carrying a few extra pounds, Evie greeted Kristen with a hug. “There you are. Staying for dinner, I hope. I have lemon chicken in the oven.”
“One of my favorites, as you well know.”
Mom offered a guilty shoulder shrug. “Funny how that worked out.”
Grinning, Kristen limped through the tidy living room where she’d grown up, past Mom’s perfectly decorated, lit Christmas tree, to the island separating the living area from the kitchen. She climbed onto a bar stool and propped her boot on the rung of another.
“Your leg doing okay now that you’re working again?”
“It’s tired at the end of the day, but I’m not having any pain to speak of.”
“Which you wouldn’t speak of even if you were in agony.” Mom moved around the island to the stove. “Cup of tea?”
“Sounds wonderful. But I can make it.” Kristen started to rise.
“Sit. Let me pretend you still need me.”
“Oh, Mama, I’ll always need you.”
Her mother set the kettle to heat. “Still haven’t heard from Dr. Dudley?”
An ache pulsed in Kristen’s chest. “I thought he’d call by now, wanting to make up.”
“But he hasn’t?”
“Not even a text to inquire about the fractured fibula.”
“I know he’s a busy physician, but common courtesy demands at least a phone call.” Evie opened a cabinet. “Maybe he’s not as great as we thought.”
Maybe he wasn’t.
She’d
