Chapter Seven

LOOK WHAT I HAVE.” CANDACE ENTERED Jeanine Parsons' room with a tiny bundle in each arm. After the excitement of birth and initial examinations, Candace and her aide had taken the Parsons twins into the nursery to clean them up and perform all the other duties required for new babies. The baby girls were tiny, only five pounds five ounces each, but seemed healthy and viable and, of course, absolutely adorable.

“Oh, how sweet.” Jeanine held out her arms, more than ready to hold her little ones. Dad's wide smile showed his delight. He snapped several digital photos of Candace handing the babies to his wife, then set the camera down so he could hold one himself.

Candace made certain the couple had everything they needed and checked out with her co-workers.

Even if she was running late, days that ended like this energized her.

The morning had been a disaster with the code blue and her reaction to seeing Dr. Hamilton. Candace felt better after talking with Heath over coffee after he’d stepped in to help her. Fortunately, the afternoon had gone well; and they had delivered the twins just an hour ago.

Now, going out to her car, Candace felt she had enough stamina to be a mother to her two children: Brooke, eleven, and Howie, five. She often felt tired when she came home. It didn't help to have guilt weighing her down.

Candace tried to be a good mom and would like to be with her children more. But someone had to work. Though Candace struggled with the unfairness of it all, truth be told, she loved her job.

A twinge of anger rose up as it occasionally did, anger at Dean for leaving her and anger with God for taking him so early in life. Sometimes she even felt angry with her mom for being with her kids when she couldn't be. Not rational, of course, but there just the same.

After parking her car in the garage of their spacious four-bedroom, split-level home, she hurried inside. As always, Candace appreciated the clean house and the wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen. Some days, coming home was like getting an injection of joy. She loved the way the kids welcomed her and the way her mother had dinner nearly ready.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Brooke and Howie nearly trampled one another as each tried to reach her first.

Candace leaned over the children and wrapped her arms around them. She inhaled the scent of them, sweat, lingering bath bubbles, chocolate-chip cookies. She kissed and hugged her wiggling imps while trying to stay upright.

She could almost feel their unadulterated love soak from their skin into hers. “Come on, Mommy. Come see what we made.” Howie pulled at her arm.

She chuckled. “I’m coming. Give me a chance to get up.” Listening to their laughter and excitement lifted her spirits even higher. These were the moments she needed to focus on. The children kept her going and made her feel alive.

As quickly as they’d rushed to her side, they scrambled back to their projects—Howie to his Play-Doh and Brooke to her drawings.

Candace looked over their work. “You guys are very good artists.”

“Yes, we are.” Brooke's grin brought out her cute dimples. She had drawn a girl's face, cartoon style, with large eyes and a tear on her cheek. Candace had noticed her daughter often drew people or animals with very sad expressions. Brooke had taken her father's death terribly hard. As Candace praised the drawing, she gave her daughter's shoulders an extra squeeze.

Her mother, Janet, emerged from the kitchen to give Candace a hug. “How was your day?”

“Horrible and wonderful, but not all at the same time.”

“Would you like some tea? I just put on some water to boil.” Janet wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

“Tea sounds perfect.” She hesitated. “I’d like to change first and shower.”

“I’ll have the tea and some fresh cookies for you when you come down.”

She hurried up the stairs to the upper level and into the master suite. Candace paused to admire the room as she always did. She and Dean had picked out the beautiful queen-sized cherry sleigh bed and matching dresser, end tables and chest of drawers. It had been their first purchase of brand-new furniture. In the early years of her marriage, they’d decorated with hand-me-downs and thrift store bargains.

After Dean's death, Candace often came into their bedroom to sit in the cushioned armchair and hold his pillow or one of his shirts on which his scent still lingered.

His scent was gone now, but she still had his photo on the small table and the adorable stuffed bunny he’d given her when they were dating. Candace still loved the suite—loved the comforting and bittersweet memories it brought back.

The room was a respite of sorts, and she did her best to keep it that way. Every morning she made the bed and straightened the room so it would welcome her home as it did now.

Candace stepped into the walk-in closet and shed her comic frog top and white pants. She liked the colorful designs of her own uniforms, rather than the blue and green scrubs the hospital provided.

She took a longer shower than usual, imagining today's traumatic event and her overall sadness as grime flowing out of her body and down the drain. Some days that's all it took—a shower infused with a little imagination and a lot of willpower.

She stepped out of the shower feeling somewhat restored. Catching sight of herself, she startled. Maybe it was the shadows in her eyes, more hazel now than green. She’d also lost weight again.

“Okay Candace,” she met her own eyes in the image. “The flashback today set you back. It's not the end of the world.” Candace pulled the blow-dryer out of the drawer and brushed in body as she dried her brown hair until it shone with copper and gold highlights. When it dried, she brushed through it, parting it on the side, shaping it into the bob she always wore. She liked this style, as had Dean.

Minutes later, feeling refreshed and relaxed in a pair of white shorts and pink V-neck, she joined her mother in the kitchen.

Candace told her mother about Dr. Hamilton but didn't mention the flashback that had disabled her during the code blue. Mentioning that would only fuel her mother's case for Candace to see a counselor.

Switching subjects, she said, “The good news is that Jeanine Parsons had twin girls. They’re healthy and doing great. Jeanine is too.” Ordinarily, because of confidentiality issues, Candace wouldn't have mentioned her patient's name, but she and her mother knew Jeanine personally and had been waiting for the big day.

Janet grinned. “Must be all that heavy praying we’ve been doing. I’ll have to take Brooke and Howie out to buy gifts. The kids will love seeing the babies.”

Candace set down her tea, then rose to get the children's drawings from the basket on the counter. Placing them on the table she slid back into the chair to leaf through them. “Look what they drew,” she said.

Janet admired the brightly colored pictures. “They’re doing very well,” she said, then drained the last of her tea and headed for the kitchen to stir whatever was simmering on the back burner.

Candace called after her. “Thanks to you.”

After her father died, Brooke would not speak. Candace had sought counseling, and after two months the crisis seemed to pass. The counselor had recommended that Candace provide as much consistency and stability as possible. Janet had done that and more.

Candace followed her mom into the kitchen. “You’ve really done a great job with them, Mom.” Candace took her mother's hand. “I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“They’re wonderful kids. And I love them to pieces.”

“I know and they adore you.” In that respect Candace felt extremely fortunate. Many parents had to drag their kids to day care every day and hope they were being properly cared for.

Her mother's smile transitioned into a worried look.“I—um…”

“What's wrong?” Candace wrapped her hands around her cup. She had a feeling she wasn't going to like Mom's answer.

“I need to tell you something.” She sighed. “I know you’re going to be upset with me, but I made an appointment for you with a grief counselor.”

Candace nearly dropped the cup. “You didn’t.”

Janet held up her hands in mock surrender. “Just hear me out. You and I both know you need help. You’re still having nightmares. It's been three years now. I know you’ll never forget, and no one's asking you to, but honey you need…”

“I’m doing just fine.” Her initial anger subsided as guilt moved in. You are not doing fine. This morning made that clear.

“I’m sorry. I can't sit around and watch you live in such despair. You’ve been promising to see someone for two years, but you never seem to get around to it.” Janet squeezed her daughter's hand. “If not for you, do it for Brooke and Howie. They need more from you.”

“More? I’m a good mother.” Even as Candace said the words, she had her doubts. As much as she loved her children, she could do better.

“Yes, you are, but sometimes it feels like you are only half here. This is a difficult word to hear, but, honey, you’re depressed.”

“Depressed sounds so extreme. I’m functioning.”

Her mother shot her a skeptical look.

“Besides, what could a counselor do for me that I can't do myself?”

“Candace, please.”

Candace felt herself relenting when she looked into her mother's pleading eyes.

“When is the appointment?”

“Tonight—at seven.”

“Tonight?” Candace coughed as she set her cup down on the table.

“I was afraid if I made it for later in the week, you’d cancel.”

She probably would have. Candace rubbed her forehead. “In case you haven't noticed it's stormy out there and there are tornado warnings.”

“Lila said she’d come here. She wants the first session here at the house so she can get a feeling for family dynamics.”

“Lila? Why do I know that name?”

“She's in practice with Tony Evans. He's the counselor Brooke was seeing.”

“Right, I remember.” Candace rose and gripped the back of the chair. “I have a headache. I’m going to take a nap on the sofa.”

“I’ll call you when dinner's ready.”

Candace settled on the comfy sofa, where she could watch her kids play. She’d barely gotten settled when Howie brushed off his hands and climbed up beside her. She wiggled back to give him more room. Brooke set down her pencil and snuggled in as well.

Candace closed her eyes, smiling at the scent of the Play-Doh, as she draped her arm across them both. What she needed, Candace thought, were more moments like this. Maybe after their nap, she’d call Lila and cancel the appointment.

As Anabelle started for home, the wind and rain returned with a vengeance. The radio announcer repeated the message that Cameron had given her earlier. “Tornado warnings have been issued throughout Bureau County.”

“I hate tornadoes,” she muttered aloud. She’d seen more than her share of disasters. A tornado could touch down in one area, leaving a swath of devastation and even wipe out an entire town and then skip over the next without leaving a tree limb on the ground. Illinois had an average of twenty a year. Deerford had been lucky. The last one to hit their little town was in 1975, leaving one dead and fifty injured. They’d been lucky.

Anabelle prayed that her family and all the people of Deerford and the neighboring areas would be safe from this new threat.

Once again, she could hardly see through the sheets of rain pelting the windshield. She drove by instinct, grateful that she knew the route to her house so well. Even so, the drive seemed to take forever. By the time she reached the house at 6:30 PM, her hands were practically frozen to the wheel from sheer tension.

Cameron stood in the open and welcoming garage as she pulled into the driveway. He motioned for her to pull inside. Once she’d parked, he opened the car door for her.

Anabelle gathered her things and stepped out into his waiting arms. She leaned against him, letting her jangled nerves melt away as she drew in his strength. Cameron pushed the button for the garage door opener and watched to make certain it closed.

As they turned to go inside the house, everything went black.

“I knew that was coming.” Cameron chuckled.

“We just lost our electricity and you’re laughing?”

“I was just thinking that if I were a much younger man, I’d have taken immediate advantage of the darkness to kiss my sweetheart. Now my first thought is to find the candles and eat dinner.”

Anabelle gripped his hand and pulled him back. “I don't know about you, but let's pretend we’re young.”

He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

“Hmm, that was nice.” She moved ahead of him. “Now we can eat. I’m famished.”

Although the sun wouldn't be setting for another hour, the dark clouds ate up any daylight they had left. Cameron had already set the table. He took the salmon and potatoes out of the oven where he’d been keeping them warm.

Candlelight and the flickering flames in the fireplace made the meal seem like a romantic interlude rather than a nuisance. They feasted on grilled salmon—which, in Anabelle's opinion, was a little dry but still tasty—baked potatoes and a fresh salad.

“We should do this more often.” Anabelle took a sip of her drink. “By the way, you did a great job on dinner. Maybe I’ll have to work late more often.”

“You’d grow tired of my meager menu. I can do grilled chicken, baked potatoes, a salad and I make a mean oatmeal.”

“You don't want to admit you can cook,” Anabelle teased. “I know that ploy.”

“And I know if I spent more time in the kitchen than I already do, you’d be shooing me out.”

“That's true enough.” She loved cooking for her family, always had.

“How's the good doctor doing?”

“Better. I stopped to see him just before I came home. Speaking of which, I should call Kirstie and let her know what happened. She’ll want to drop by to see him.”

“She called earlier and so did Ainslee. Wanted to make sure we knew about the tornado. She sounded upset.”

“Who, Ainslee or Kirstie?”

“Ainslee.”

Anabelle set her glass down. “Did you ask her what was wrong? She was upset yesterday at our quilting meeting too. I hope she's okay.”

“Just worried about the storm, I suspect.”

Anabelle wasn't so sure.

When they’d finished dinner, and cleared off the table, Anabelle rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. She then tried to call her girls on her cell phone. The calls wouldn't go through. “Do you think they’ll be all right? I wish they were here with us.”

Cameron was sitting on the couch and patted the space beside him. “They’re fine. They all have basements and know what to do if the tornado does hit.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She sank onto the sofa and leaned back against him.

“They’re adults now.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “Try not to worry.”

“I do, but telling a mother not to worry is like telling a flea not to bite. Worrying is a mother's job.”

He chuckled. “The Bible tells us not to be anxious.”

She poked him in the stomach. “Don't be quoting Scripture to me, dear husband. I know the verse by heart. Besides, I’m not anxious. I’m concerned.”

“All right then.” He draped his arm around her shoulders. After a while he kissed her forehead. “It's nice to sit here and relax with my favorite girl.”

“Very nice.”

They snuggled on the couch for half an hour as Cameron began to doze off. Anabelle listened to the gentle rhythm of his breathing wondering if this was how nights were spent pre-electricity, before she too drifted off. Cameron eventually stirred. He yawned and gently moved her aside so he could get up. “We might as well go to bed. Doesn't look like we’ll be getting the power back anytime soon.”

Anabelle nodded and followed him upstairs.

Cameron set a flashlight on the bottom step and took the second one upstairs. There was no need for them to take shelter in the basement. Deerford had a top-of-the-line siren system to warn them if the tornado took a turn toward them.

Cameron seemed to have no trouble falling asleep. Anabelle lay awake listening to the pounding rain and wind as she prayed for Olga, Dr. Hamilton, Kirstie, Ainslee, and everyone else she could think of.

She finally gave up on sleep and made her way downstairs to her favorite chair. Without air-conditioning, the air felt muggy and warm. She pulled her legs up and leaned back. Like a sentinel, she stayed at the window watching the waving trees in the back-yard listening to the ferocity of the rain battering the foliage, praying that the tornado would pass them by. Before long, the rain lessened in intensity and Anabelle sighed. There’d been no tornado siren. It looked as though Deerford had escaped the storm.