As she gave him the information, he scrawled her home address and phone number on a scrap of paper. Folding it, he then tucked it into his front shirt pocket.
Great! So much for keeping her distance. Now he knew where she lived and how to reach her at home.
“How’s Angie doing?” She shouldn’t have asked, but she really wanted to know. It was her job to ask questions and monitor the girl’s progress.
A frown pulled at his brow. “She’s as good as can be expected, but she’s throwing up and quite weak. I know you said it’s normal to feel sick right after a treatment, but I hate to see her like this. That’s why I was late tonight. She was sick in the car, so I got it cleaned up and then bought her a sand bucket to carry around when we travel.”
“A sand bucket?”
“Yeah, she takes it with her to help prevent accidents. Angie likes it because it has little pink seashells on the rim and it’s smaller than the mop bucket.”
How ingenious. Pretty sand buckets in the car.
“How’s her appetite?” Emma asked.
A labored sigh escaped his lips. “Not good, but Mrs. Perkins tries hard to get her to eat during the day while I’m at work.”
“Mrs. Perkins?”
“Our neighbor. She’s a widow who watches Angie for me. Usually, she only takes in babies, but Angie isn’t up for a busy summer day-care program. She doesn’t have that kind of stamina. Instead Mrs. Perkins lets her do puzzles and read, and help tend the babies. Angie can lie down and rest anytime she wants. It’s a good, quiet place for her, although Angie tells me the babies cry a lot.”
“Ah.”
He gave a sad smile. “You know with the brain tumor, all of a sudden, we belong to a club we don’t want to belong to. Angie just wants to be a kid. I wish I could give her a normal childhood.”
Emma understood. When Brian had become ill, she’d joined that club, too. She opened her mouth to tell Mark about it, but caught herself just in time. “I’m sorry, Mark. I hope we can give you your wish very soon.”
He flashed a brilliant smile and her stomach flipped somersaults.
“You’ve been great, Emma. So many people have helped us. When I got home from work tonight, I found that one of the men from my congregation mowed my lawns this afternoon. His wife brought dinner in and took our dirty clothes to wash. I know those things seem trivial, but it lifted a big burden from me. There are so many good people praying for us.”
“That’s very kind of them.” She could hardly speak around the lump in her throat. She found herself wishing kind members from her congregation had been there when Brian had died, but her husband didn’t like structured religion and she’d gone inactive. No one at church had followed up with her to find out why she wasn’t attending anymore and she had too much pride to ask for their help during those dark days before and after Brian’s death. Would it have made a difference?
The other committee members had left the room, moving toward the main foyer in the outer reception area. The sun had gone down and the wide picture window looked black and vacant.
Just like her heart.
“I was sorry to hear you were divorced,” Mark interjected.
Emma froze. Any reminder of her divorce was like meat hooks ripping at her. Guilt rested heavily on her shoulders. Her ex-husband blamed her for the death of their son, and he had been right.
“Yes,” she croaked.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mark said again.
She felt the burn of tears. “Thank you.”
“I don’t recall your husband. Did I know him?”
Shaking her head, she felt as though a wind tunnel had sucked her up. “No. David and I met in college.”
“Ah, and what does he do for a living?”
“While we were married, he owned a construction company. He built things. Usually lush homes with tons of rooms for all my rich medical colleagues.”
Resentment filled her tone. She remembered how her husband made contacts with her circle of wealthy doctor friends. For him, her medical degree wasn’t about helping save lives, but rather a way to get lucrative building contracts for clinics and homes. Still, Emma couldn’t blame him alone for the breakup of their marriage. They’d been struggling for some time before their son’s illness. After Brian died, Emma didn’t have the heart to try anymore. When David blamed her for Brian’s death, the end came swift and sure.
She noticed Mark’s contemplative frown. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to unload or sound so cynical. We divorced about two years ago. It’s been really hard, but it wasn’t all David’s fault—”
Time spun away and she longed to head for the door, but her legs wouldn’t move.
“I heard your father died a few years after we graduated from high school,” he said. “You’ve had more than your share of tragedy.”
She had been alone long before her father died. They hadn’t been on speaking terms and she hadn’t known he was gone until after the funeral. He’d been a domineering man who’d made her mother’s life miserable. Emma had made up for their lost relationship by showering her love on Brian. Now, she had no one and she couldn’t face the pain of losing someone dear ever again.
“I have my practice, and that keeps me busy.” Her voice cracked.
He cupped her elbow and squeezed gently, a look of empathy on his face. She wasn’t fooling him for a minute. “I get the feeling you miss your husband very much.”
She shuddered. “I miss the camaraderie and the close relationship of a husband and wife, but I don’t miss the—”
She was telling him too much. She’d almost blurted out that she didn’t miss David’s accusations or criticism. She no longer loved David, but she missed the warmth of a man nearby when she needed a solid shoulder to lean upon. She missed having someone reach things on the top shelf and be strong for her when she didn’t think she could go on alone.
It was too comfortable to confide in Mark. He’d always been easy to talk to.
Another step and he reached his other hand toward her shoulder. Panic overwhelmed her. He was going to hug her. She couldn’t allow that—
“Excuse me.”
Whirling about, she fled, racing for the door, bumping into Rachel Miller, the accountant housewife with three children.
“Pardon me,” she called as she dashed through the foyer and shoved against the glass pane of the outside door.
In the dark parking lot, Emma sprinted for her car, stumbling in her high heels. Even if she broke her leg, she was not going to stop until she was in that car.
Turning on the ignition, she jerked the gearshift into reverse and spun out of the parking lot. Looking back in her rearview mirror, she saw Mark standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pants’ pockets, staring after her.
Too close. Too close.
She had promised herself she wouldn’t become friendly with him. But she’d ended up telling him things she hadn’t confided to anyone, not even herself.
Her heart slammed against her chest. She almost ran a red light and the breaks squealed as she forced herself to slow down. She pulled over and stopped the car at the side of the road, trying to calm her nerves before she killed someone—probably herself.
“Oh-hh,” she groaned, and leaned her head against the steering wheel.
She brushed angrily at the tears falling down her cheeks. “I don’t believe in You, God. You’ve never