Ride the Rainbow Home (18 page)

Jim called from Flagstaff that evening, but Meg could barely make time to talk to him. She explained what was happening and he said he planned to be home by noon the following day and would have the rest of the week in town. Meg felt warmed when he offered to help, and assured him they could use all the help they could get.

She was exhausted by the time they put the children to bed, exhausted and aching all over. "I'm not used to this kind of work," she complained as she prepared herself to catch what sleep she could. "Honestly, Sally. I admire you more every day."

"Thanks and all that, but you get it back in full. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you here."

"Let's get some sleep," Meg said with a moan. "We'll have little enough chance at it."

The children slept better the second night, and Meg was relieved that she only had to get up once, when both Sammy and Serena needed more medication at the same time. She was giving Serena a couple of ounces of sterile water when the room spun around her and she had to sit down.

"Are you all right?" Sally asked.

"Yes," Meg said, nodding. "I'm sure it's okay. I'm just much more tired than I'm used to."

"Here, I'm finished with Sammy. Let me take Serena and you go back to bed." Sally sent her on her way with a look of concern.

Meg slept very late the next morning, but felt worse when she staggered down the hall. Isabel was already up. So were Tommy and the infants. Sally was carefully managing them all in the front room, trying to give Meg some extra rest. "Thanks, Sal," Meg said as she joined them. "It was good of you to let me sleep."

"No problem," Sally said. "The kids all seem better this morning. You, on the other hand, look like death."

"How lovely of you to say so," Meg mocked, but she felt like death. Then the room spun again, much more violently this time, and Meg made a mad run down the hallway, reaching the bathroom just in time.

"I'm afraid I have it too," she announced unnecessarily as she returned a few minutes later, "whatever it is."

Sally had that concerned look again. "Meg, have you ever had chicken pox?"

"Chicken pox? You've got to be kidding."

"I'm afraid not. Look at Isabel." Sally lifted the little girl's shirt. There were at least a dozen raised red spots on the child's belly. "I thought Tommy's spots were mosquito bites," Sally continued, her voice apologetic. "If I'd realized what we were dealing with... Meg, you have had chicken pox, haven't you?"

Meg, wide-eyed, shook her head. "I never did—at least, not until now. They have a shot for that now, don’t they?"

"Yes, but our pediatrician likes to give it when the kids are a little older, and I’ve never gotten around to it. I'm so sorry." Sally was giving her a tragic look.

Meg, unnerved, tried to be philosophical. "How bad can it be?" she asked. "Kids have chicken pox all the time."

"Yeah, but they're kids. It's not a small matter for an adult."

"I guess we'll see," Meg answered, just before she dashed down the hall again.

By noon they had all broken out—Isabel, Sammy, Serena, and Meg, a regular polka-dot convention in the Garcias' living room. Meg, who had medicated herself as soon as she realized what she was dealing with, was feeling slightly better by the time the spots broke out, but felt like sobbing every time she looked in the mirror. She had pox everywhere, in her ears, on her tongue, and even between her toes. The ones that bothered her most were on her face.

"All those years I spent trying to clear up my complexion," she whined as she watched Isabel nibble at lunch, her own stomach too edgy to allow her to eat. "Just look at me now!" She sat on the floor next to Sally's chair and lowered the collar of her T-shirt to let Sally see the full effect of the spots upon her neck and throat.

"You look wonderful to me," a deep voice answered.

"Jim!" Meg quickly raised her collar. "What on earth are you doing here?"

“Tommy let me in. I promised to help, remember? But now it looks like there's another patient."

"Oh, Jim, don't look at me like this!" Meg was back-pedaling as she said it, scooting herself toward the hall. There were tears in her eyes. "I look so awf—" She sniffed. "—so awful!" She tried to stand, but her legs were too weak to hold her and she sank to the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

"Oh, honey," Jim crooned as he lifted Meg into his arms. He turned to Sally. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, then carried Meg to Isabel's bed. He carefully placed her on it and tucked the covers around her.

"I assure you, Meg, you look absolutely beautiful to me," he said, then stroked her hair until her tears subsided.

Just before she dozed off, Meg took Jim's hand. "You know you're doing it again," she said drowsily.

"Doing what?"

"All the giving. Jim, you're too good to me."

"Shh," he said as she drifted into sleep.

* * * *

Throughout the rest of that day and for the two days following, Jim was there. At night he slept on Sally's couch and hopped up whenever Sally or Meg or one of the children needed him. During the day he went from one patient to another—feeding, medicating, tending. When no one needed him for a moment, he took on the normal tasks of home such as washing dishes, sweeping floors, and filling in on all the chores Meg had done before she became so ill.

And Meg was certainly ill. She couldn't remember when she'd been so sick. Though the children seemed to get better as soon as they broke out, she simply stayed sick—losing half her meals and barely nibbling at the others, staggering when she tried to walk, waking in the night with fever dreams. Once she fainted and would have fallen for sure if Jim hadn't been there to catch her and carry her back to bed.

For three days Jim tended her with more care and compassion than anyone had ever shown in her life, helping her to the bathroom, carrying her when she couldn't walk, soothing her when her raw nerves drove her to renewed tears. By Friday morning, the worst had passed. Sammy and Isabel were both down to a couple of dozen scabby spots and Serena had only a few more, but Meg, who was finally beginning to feel well again, was scabbed from one end to the other, even on her scalp.

"I pronounce you well," Jim said in mid-morning when he'd taken her temperature.

"I don't look very well," Meg grumbled, still afraid of her reflection. "These things don't leave permanent scars, do they?"

"Rarely," Jim answered. "And you haven't a thing to worry about. You'll be as lovely as ever in no time."

"Easy for you to say."

"But true." Jim was picking up his things. "I need to get some work done, so now that you're all better, I'm going to leave for a while. Think you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine, thanks to you. You know I can never repay you."

"Think nothing of it."

"But I can't help thinking of it. Ever since we've known each other, you've been the one who does all the giving. I'm good with groups, but I don't seem to have your skills for closeness."

Jim smiled. "You're still too weak to be this serious."

"But I am serious." Her look told him so. "I've never been good at intimacy. I think it's a skill all its own."

Jim straightened. "Do you know who Dag Hammarskjold was?"

"Something to do with the United Nations, I think.”

"Right. He was a former general secretary from a generation or so back. He once said something I've taken as a personal motto: 'It is more noble to give yourself completely to one individual than to labor diligently for the salvation of the masses.' "

Meg lifted an eyebrow. "Wow. I'll have to think about that one."

"But enough of that," Jim said, lightening the mood. "You know what you need? Dinner out. How about tomorrow? I'll pick you up at seven."

Meg scowled. "I can't go anywhere looking like this."

"Where I have in mind, you can. Dress up. Your turquoise dress will be perfect. You can even wear it off the shoulder."

Meg lifted one sleeve, looked at her shoulder, and grimaced. "No thanks. I think I'll stay covered."

Jim smiled, an enigmatic look. "Seven o'clock. Okay?"

Meg nodded. "Sure. I'd like that."

"Great. I promise it will be special."

It's already special
, Meg thought as she watched Jim leave. Nothing in her life had made her feel more special than knowing someone like Jim was willing to devote himself to caring just for her.

Chapter Nine

Their date was set for seven o'clock, but by six-thirty Meg was twirling in front of the mirror in the entry hall, not happy with her appearance, but satisfied. The pox were disappearing more rapidly than she'd hoped. She had even dared to wear the turquoise peasant dress, though she had kept the sleeves up; her shoulders were still badly speckled. She slipped on a pair of white sandals and touched up her hair just in time to answer the door. She opened it, and instantly felt underdressed.

"Wow, look at you!" she gasped. Jim was resplendent in a chic black tuxedo, tucked white shirt, and black tie.

"You look pretty fine yourself."

Meg smiled at the compliment, but then her expression changed. "Jim, look at me. I can't go to the kind of place where people wear tuxedos. I'm barely fit to be seen in private."

He touched her lips with a finger, effectively silencing her. "Trust me." Sally came into the hallway and Jim said, "I'll take good care of her, Sal, but don't wait up, okay?"

Sally chuckled. "You two have a good time."

"I promise," Jim answered, taking Meg by the hand.

"So where are we going?" Meg asked when they were both in the cab of the truck.

Jim just gave her that enigmatic look again. "Someplace very special."

Meg frowned. "I don't like mysteries."

"You'll like this one," he said as he turned the truck toward the highway.

The sun was low in the sky, painting everything red-gold as they headed north. Just above the bowl of the valley, Jim followed a well-traveled gravel lane to a sandstone bluff. There he parked the truck and got out. When he opened her door and offered his hand, Meg asked, "Jim, what are we—"

"Shh," he said. "You're going to trust me, remember?" She made an exaggerated frown, but let him lead her around the edge of the bluff. "Look," he said, pointing toward the western hills.

Meg looked, and beheld a scene of dramatic splendor only the high desert could produce. A towering thunder-head dropped rain onto the sandstone bluffs while the sun shone below, making the rainbow colors of the rocks shimmer in array. As she watched, a real rainbow formed in the sky above—formed, then doubled, a startling spectrum of color.

A prickly sensation began in Meg's scalp and ran down her neck and along her spine. "Oh, Jim!" she breathed in a tone like prayer. Though she had never believed in signs, this seemed an answer to every question she'd been asking, a promise to be fulfilled. "Is that what you wanted to show me?" she whispered. "But how could you have known?"

"I didn't know," Jim answered. "This is a bonus, but it's only the start. Come with me." Jim led her a few more feet around the side of the bluff and into the dooryard of a sandstone-faced building that blended into the living rock. "We're here," he said.

"Wow." Meg gulped and looked again.

"I had it built last year."

"
You
had it built? This is yours?" Jim nodded. Joan had mentioned Jim's home, but she'd never suggested anything like this. "It's... it's beautiful, Jim." She floundered for something to say, and then her eyes twinkled with mischief as she poked him in the ribs. "When did you develop such excellent taste?''

Jim smiled. "I always had good taste," he argued amiably, and gave her a long, speaking look that made her blush. Then he stepped into his door yard and held the front door for her.

For the next several minutes, Jim regaled Meg with what he called the grand tour. Meg walked from room to lovely room in a kind of cathedral quiet, simply absorbing the atmosphere of one of the loveliest places she'd ever seen.

Jim's home was spacious and airy, filled with windows and light wells, fireplaces of natural stone in the style of the beehive
horno
ovens used by the Pueblo tribes for centuries, and covered in elegant hand-fired ceramic tile. Each bedroom—there were four—had its own dominant color, all coordinated around a southwestern theme, and the high ceilings in the open spaces increased the sense of natural spectacle. Jim's showpieces were the native art objects he had acquired over the years: elegant black-on-black Hopi pottery, fine Navajo rugs in traditional and modern abstract patterns, well-crafted silver, and a pair of feathered fetishes.

"It's lovely, Jim, all so lovely. You've created a place of great beauty here. It's serene, peaceful. It feels like—" She hunted for a word to represent her feelings.