Love's Healing Touch (20 page)

All those days he was sick, Mike had stayed on the sofa. Although it was too short for him, he didn't notice that first twenty-four hours. Then, even sick as he was, he couldn't rest in the bedroom with a two-foot-high accumulation of Tim's clothing— dirty and clean— empty soft-drink cans and other unidentifiable debris covering the floor. He didn't have the strength to pick them up. Besides, out here he could sleep through a few more baseball games.

As Mike began to feel better on the third day, Tim got sick and spent the next few days on the bottom bunk.

By the time Mike was better, he'd missed five days of work. Although he'd accumulated sick days, he couldn't use them until he'd completed the six-month probation period. That was money he couldn't make up quickly because he was in no condition to do overtime.

Tim had missed three days at the burger place so far, and their mother had missed hours of work taking care of them.

The financial situation looked bleak and was even worse when he found a check for sixty dollars their mother had written for paint supplies. He knew there was a huge charge for the antibiotic for Tim when his virus went into bronchitis. Thank goodness Ana had taken care of Tim. They could never have afforded to pay a doctor.

The evening of his fifth night off, Ana dropped by with chocolate ice cream for Mike to put some weight back on him. When she saw him, she asked, "What are you doing up and dressed?" She glared at him. "You don't plan to go to work, do you?" When he didn't answer, she glared even more fiercely. "You can't go back to work. You're too weak. You won't make it until midnight."

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are." She put a hand on his chest and pushed gently. He dropped down on the sofa. "See." She sat next to him. "Mike, this is a very serious virus. It really saps your strength. We've admitted a lot of people to the hospital."

"See, that's another reason I have to go to work." He stood. "You're not my supervisor and you're not my doctor. You can't tell me what to do."

"Oh?" Her expression hardened. "If I'm not your supervisor or doctor, what am I to you?"

It took a few seconds for both of them to realize what she'd said, really said. She'd asked about their relationship. She hadn't meant to, but it had popped out when he listed what she wasn't.

She guessed he hadn't thought the conversation would turn to this and maybe it was mean to ask him when he was so weak, but she wanted to know.

After a long pause during which he sat on the arm of the sofa and she shoved the ice cream into his hand, he said, "You're my good friend."

That's great. He considered her his good friend? "Do you often kiss your good friends?"

"Shh!" He waved his hands toward the kitchen. "Mom can hear you."

"I don't care." When she took a step toward him, he attempted to move back on the arm of the sofa until he couldn't move farther away.

"No." He cleared his throat. "You're more than that, but I don't know how to describe it. I'm not good at that, and I still feel bad."

His complexion had taken on a greenish tinge on top of the earlier pale gray. He wasn't well. He'd lost so much weight his jeans hung on him. She sighed. Even though he was playing on her sympathy, this wasn't the time to press him. Besides, she feared he'd tell her she was a nice lady next, and her ego couldn't handle that. She took pity on him and changed the subject although he wouldn't like this one, either.

"Mike, you cannot go to work tonight. As you said, I'm not your doctor, but I am
a
doctor. What I say about your condition will have influence in the E.R. A doctor has to clear you for work after this long an absence. None of them will, not after I talk to them."

An expression of relief skimmed across his face. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Okay. One more day."

"I'll come by and check on you tomorrow. If you're stronger, I'll clear you, but no overtime until I say so."

"Yes, Doctor." He opened his eyes and grinned.

"I'm going to check on Tim while I'm here." She headed toward the bedroom.

"You're a really nice person," Mike mumbled before he fell asleep, still sitting on the sofa with his head resting against the wall.

Not as bad as being a nice lady, but she still wished she hadn't heard those words.

T
he next day, Mike felt stronger, but Ana couldn't drop by and check on him. She'd called that morning to tell him she'd now caught the virus, as well, had left the E.R. early and was at her father's home where the family could take care of her.

He consoled her until she stopped speaking and he heard a sharp voice on the other end of the line.

"Ana, you go to bed, now." After a pause, the same voice said, "Hi, Mike, this is Luz. My stubborn sister almost fell asleep while you were talking so I sent her to bed."

"How's she doing? Really."

"Probably about the same as you were on your first day of this stuff." She sighed. "She's the worst patient you can imagine."

"Really?" he asked, not a bit surprised.

"She's so hardheaded. She
knows
she can do anything if she pushes hard enough. She hates being weak, so this is really tough on her, but it's worse on the family."

"I'm sorry for all of you."

There was a pause while Mike heard Luz put a hand over the phone and say, "Get back in bed or I'll drag you there." Then she said to Mike, "Bye," and hung up.

After he showered, shaved and got dressed, he looked in on Tim. The kid had really been sick but that wasn't going to save him from a reaming out as soon as Tim could stay awake for five minutes and as soon as he could force himself to do that.

Mom fixed him breakfast, a nice bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar. For the first time in days, Mike had an appetite.

"May I have another?" He spooned the cereal into his mouth, finished that and held the bowl out. "Please."

"Of course. I've got to get some weight back on you." She placed the second serving in front of him. "I want you to rest until it's time to go to work."

He wanted to protest, but it would be childish. She was right. Maybe that was what becoming an adult was: recognizing that what your mother said made sense. Occasionally.

Breakfast finished and the dishes washed, he went back into the bedroom he and Tim shared and began to pick up clothes, dishes and stuff he preferred not to identify. Once he could walk across the floor without tripping, he pulled the sheets off Tim, who groaned but didn't wake up, and dumped them in the laundry bag with the clothes to take to the Soap and Spin.

"Mom," he shouted from the front door, "You'll need to put clean sheets on Tim's bed. I'm taking these to the Laundromat." He escaped before she could say anything.

By noon, he had a pile of clean laundry but had begun to wish he'd listened to his mother. When he got home, he carried the basket inside. Before he could do more, he dropped on the sofa and fell asleep.

Waking up when his mother called felt like struggling up through deep mud. He lay on the sofa for a few minutes, forcing himself to move, but his body refused to respond.

"It's seven-thirty, Mike." She stood at the arch into the kitchen. "I have your dinner ready and your lunch packed. Are you going to see Ana before you go to the hospital?"

He nodded.

"Good. Antonio wants me to come over. I'll go with you and he'll drive me home." She smiled and her eyes shone with joy.

Everyone was conspiring against her, enjoying her weakened state. Luz had left at noon and put her in the unsympathetic hands of Martita. Her sister-in-law had given her a sponge bath when Ana wanted a shower. This request had been refused
only
because Ana couldn't stand on legs made treacherously unsteady by this stupid illness.

Then Martita, the devious woman, had given her a back rub that lulled Ana to sleep. She napped until almost four o'clock. Now, since Mike had called to say he'd be by on the way to the hospital, she wanted to get up and get dressed, but Martita and her father had refused to allow it.

Martita washed Ana's face again, helped her put on makeup over Ana's loud protests that she could do it herself. That completed, Martita had swaddled her in a warm gown and robe, helped her into a chair in the living room and tossed a blanket over her. As if she couldn't walk to the living room herself. Of course she could, although there had been that one little trip over the edge of the throw rug. She'd never noticed how dangerous that spot was before.

Then Mike had arrived. With a kiss on the cheek, he'd awakened her from yet another nap.

"You're so skinny." Oh, bother. She could feel tears gather in her eyes. What an idiot she was, so sentimental, so emotional. She hated being sick. "I'm glad to see you."

He handed her a tissue.

"I don't need that." She waved it away. "I'm not crying. I never cry."

Why did everyone smile when she said that?

"Querida,"
her father said. Why would he call her his darling when she was acting like such a cranky person? "You're sick. You can cry over nothing when you're sick."

"While you were asleep," Martita said, "Francie brought you some of Manny's chicken soup. I'll fix you a cup later."

"How nice." She lay back and put her arm over her eyes so no one could see the tears.

"Honey, it's okay." Mike kneeled on the rug in front of the sofa, gently moved her arm aside and blotted her cheeks with the tissue. "You're human."

"What a terrible thing to say."

"You can't reason with her," Martita said. "I've always heard doctors were the worst patients. Don't we know that."

After a few minutes, Mike stood and his mother took his place, brushing Ana's hair back and cooing soothingly.

"Ana, I've got to get going to the hospital. I'll be back tomorrow. What can I bring you?"

"Just you," she said. "Don't overwork yourself. Rest whenever you can."

"Yes, Dr. Ramírez." He laughed and headed outside.

Ana closed her eyes. She had a virus. It would take a few days to shake it, but soon she'd be as healthy as Mike.

But, oh, how she hated to be sick.

The next few days were a nightmare for Mike. It had been a killer virus, as Ana had said. Still not at full strength, he struggled through an eight-hour shift, then went home, called Ana. After that, he'd go to bed and sleep until noon. His mom awakened him for lunch, he read his anatomy book until he dozed off and slept until she woke him up again at eight to eat and go see Ana.

He was so tired when he went into work at ten-thirty he wondered how he'd make it. He had no illusions he could work a double shift. With Tim sick, his younger brother wasn't earning a penny. Fortunately, he was well enough for Mom to work her full thirty hours, but they were so far behind financially.

He hadn't discussed the paint and supplies Tessie had bought. They'd work that out.

What he dreaded most was that he still hadn't talked to Tim about his sneaking out of the house the night Mike got sick. He didn't want to. Confrontation was his least favorite thing in the world. Mike preferred withdrawal, and he knew Tim well enough to know his little brother would make the conversation as difficult as possible.

When Mike got home after his second night back at work, he pulled out the checkbook and looked at his budget. They were okay now, but after he paid the bills there wouldn't be enough money and not much coming in. He'd have to take money from his savings, which would wipe out that account. He dropped his head in his hands. He'd have to work overtime or they wouldn't be able to eat.

He could take the bus home from work, but not to work because there were no connections that late at night. What good would it do to have someone take him and drive home so he could save gas money taking the bus home? None of the other graveyard shift staff lived in this direction, so carpooling was out.

What was left to cut? Nothing. He'd have to work more hours.

The sound of someone moving around awakened him at ten-thirty. "Tim?"

"Yeah. I'm fixing breakfast."

He stood and went into the kitchen. "We need to talk."

"What part— " Tim bit the words off "— of 'I'm eighteen' don't you understand?"

"The part about 'I can do whatever I want and won't get into trouble with the law.' That's the part."

"I wasn't going to get in trouble." He slid the eggs from the skillet onto his plate. "We were going to drive around, that's all."

"No throwing eggs? No paint cans? No vandalism?"

Tim shook his head and shoved two pieces of bread in the toaster.

"Did anyone have a gun?"

"How would I know? You didn't even let me get into the car."

"Tim, you could have ignored me. You could have gotten into that car, but you didn't. That makes me feel that deep down you knew whatever was going to happen wasn't what you wanted, really wanted, to do."

Instead of leaving the kitchen, Tim sat down and began to spread peanut butter on his toast.

"Was there beer involved?" Mike asked.

Tim frowned. "You know I'm not old enough."

"Like that's ever stopped a kid."

Tim shrugged and took a bite of toast.

"Playing chicken?" Mike asked.

"Driving fast, most likely. Maybe shooting paint-balls. I don't know." He chewed and swallowed. "I didn't go."

"How many times have you sneaked out?"

"A couple." He slapped the table with his fist. "You don't know how hard it is to make friends when you're out of school. Everyone I work with is going to college. The Montoyas live on the other side of town, and we have only one car."

"I know that's tough."

"Sure you do." He stood. "You're Super-Mike. You're smart. You're good-looking. You make friends easily. How would you know?" He turned, took a step and tossed the dishes toward the sink. "Everyone says I should be like you, hardworking, responsible, never get in trouble." He scowled. "Well, I'll never be as smart or good as you so I might as well give up trying."

"What are you talking about?"