The Christmas Promise(37)

“That’s what I thought, too,” Nathan said. “But it’s never too late and you never know what’s around the bend.” He clapped Chaz on the back and made his way upstairs.

Chaz walked down the hall and fell into the orange chair again. He leaned onto his knees and pressed his fists into his forehead. He jumped when the nurse called him.

She let him sit beside Carla’s bed, and pulled the curtain between her and another patient, an older man who was hooked up to an IV. Carla opened her eyes when she heard him. “You look like hell,” she said.

“So do you,” he said as he stepped close to the bed. “Carla, you don’t have to tell me anything, but…what were you doing?” A tear rolled down her face and she let it fall onto the sheets. “Were you trying to…”

She rolled her head back and forth. “No. No,” she said. “I needed medicine to stop the pain, but it didn’t help, so I took a few more, but they didn’t work, so I kept on taking more.”

“You should have called somebody,” he said, stepping closer.

She shook her head, clenching the sheet in her hands. “No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t call anybody.”

He sat down and looked at her. “There are people who care, Carla.” She looked up at the ceiling. She didn’t believe that any more than he would have; once you’ve convinced yourself it isn’t true it’s impossible to think anything else.

“They say somebody beat you up,” Chaz said.

Another tear fell onto the bed. “Thomas.” She lifted the sheet and wiped her face.

“You could have died,” Chaz said. She nodded, and more tears spilled down her cheeks. “Donovan would have been alone just like that.”

“He’s better off alone,” she said.

He leaned close to her. “No. He’s not. Don’t ever believe that. Nobody’s better off alone.”





A nurse ushered Chaz out of Carla’s room before he had a chance to ask her if Donovan was still with Miss Glory. He walked out the front doors of the hospital and the cold air stabbed his lungs. His coat was still at Carla’s but he pulled the hood of the sweatshirt over his head. He wandered through the hospital parking lot into the street and started to run. He stopped after two blocks and tried to catch his breath; it was too cold to run. He had to find Donovan; he needed to see him. Help me find him. Help me find Miss Glory’s home. He hadn’t prayed in years, and he felt foolish.

The bartender from a few nights before saw Chaz as he was driving home and gave him a lift to Wilson’s. From there he ran through the town square over to Baxter, then behind the homes on that street to Maple.

What was the address Donovan had rattled off? He thought hard but he couldn’t hear the number in his head. It was something 14. 214? 514? His hands ached and he shoved them deep inside the sweatshirt pockets, pressing them close to his stomach. The frozen asphalt seeped through his tennis shoes and he realized his toes were numb. What was he doing? He ran farther still and saw a porch light on in the distance. Snow sat on top of each mailbox like a frosty top hat, and he swiped it away from the top of one: 860. Snot drained out of his nose and onto his hand; he hadn’t even felt it. He wiped it away with his sleeve and his nose stung at the touch. He walked farther and knocked snow from another mailbox: 832. Was the house number 814? He thought it was, and tried to speed up but couldn’t. He put his head down in the direction of the snow and counted the steps he took. What if no one answered the door? What if they called the police? The air burned his lungs and he buried his nose in his sweatshirt. He flicked snow from another mailbox and held on to his side as he read the number: 820. It hurt to take deep breaths, so he took shallow ones instead, counting the number of houses down to 814. It was the one with the porch light on. He pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose again and headed toward it. The street was empty and all the lights were off inside the house. It was two o’clock in the morning. He stood at the bottom of the driveway and hated himself for coming all this way, but the image of Carla lying on her bed jumped into his mind and he had to know that Donovan was safe. Even though the doorbell was lit he chose to knock on the door instead, hoping not to wake everyone in the house. He knocked again and heard footsteps.

“Who’s there?”

“Miss Glory, I gave you the bags filled with hats and gloves at Wilson’s the other day,” he said, shivering.

The dead bolt clicked and the face of the woman that he knew as Miss Glory appeared in the opening. “What are you doing?”