The First Love Cookie Club Page 4

  Penelope spent most of her days in bed or on thecouch, drawing and painting and knitting in between the times the asthma stole her breath. When he crept up onto her bed as a boy, looking for affection, he had to be careful not to jab a knitting needle in his knee or snap her charcoal in half or crimp her oxygen line. Although his mother had been confined by her disease, she had not been defined by it. She had a glow about her, her whole face round and smooth as a white harvest moon. It was only later, after Jazzy got sick, that Travis realized it was the years of mega-doses of steroids that made her look that way.

  When Travis reached the hospital, he thought of the night he and his dad had followed the ambulance there. He recalled how the frowning paramedics had whisked his mother inside on a stretcher, blocking Travis’s view of her. All he could see of his mother were her hands. Hands that had once drawn and knitted and rubbed his back when he was tired or feeling bad, hands now turned doughy with blue-tinged fingernails, hands that would never hold him again.

  He shook his head, shook off the memories, parked the truck, eased Jazzy from the backseat, and carried her through the pneumatic doors and into the emergency room bright with fluorescent lights. The front desk clerk spotted him right away and got up from his chair. Travis knew the freckled-faced man from high school. His name was Kip Armstrong.

  “We’re putting Jazzy in exam room three,” Kip said. “Dr. Adams is on his way.”

  Travis moved through the double doors, past the other patients parked in the waiting room. Jazzygot special treatment. Part of it was the frequent flier aspect. They were in here so often the staff felt like family. Part of it was Jazzy’s bubbly personality. Everyone who met her fell in love with her. And part of it, he knew, was pity. They felt sorry for a single father whose only child had a nasty habit of knocking at death’s door. Hell, if pity got her faster service, he’d take it.

  The medical staff converged around him as he laid Jazzy on the gurney in moves so habitual they felt choreographed. As if a silent director was sending out telepathic cues. Nurse One took her blood pressure. Nurse Two put a pulse oxygenation monitor on her index finger. The lab tech drew arterial blood gases, while the respiratory therapist set up the Albuterol nebulizer.

  Jazzy sat upright propped on pillows, leaning forward, knees drawn to her chest, struggling to catch her breath between the coughing fits that racked her little body. Travis fisted his hands. He felt so damn helpless.

  In his head, he heard his ex-wife’s voice. Face reality, Travis. She‘s going to die.

  Not on his watch, dammit. No way, no how. Get out of my head, Crystal, he growled silently to himself. You‘re the quitter. You‘re the one who gives up on people. Not me. Never me. You forfeited your parental rights when you walked out on us because you were too damn weak to take care of our sick daughter.

  Why the hell was he thinking about Crystal? He suspected his subconscious had dredged up his ex-wife as a target for his helpless anger. He remembered standing in this same emergency room with

  Crystal four years ago when Jazzy had had her first attack.

  “She inherited this from your mother,” Crystal had accused. “It’s your bad DNA that’s ruined her.”

  He’d never wanted to slap a woman in his life, but in that moment, he’d wanted to slap her, mainly because she’d pushed the button of his darkest fear. That he was deeply flawed and it was his fault their daughter was so ill. There had been thirty-seven more attacks that year, each one progressively worse.

  They’d taken Jazzy to specialist after specialist and spent two weeks at a pediatric respiratory hospital in Austin. One quack had even suggested they remove her right lung, which seemed more affected than her left. Jazzy frequently ran a fever with the asthma attacks and no one could really explain why beyond telling them that colds and flu viruses often precipitated respiratory flare-ups. Jazzy had endured test after test as doctors searched for the asthma triggers and they’d come up empty time and time again.

  “Maybe she’ll out grow it,” they’d said hopefully. But she hadn’t. In fact, the older she got, the worse her symptoms became.

  Then came the night that Jazzy had gone into full cardiac arrest following a stress test at the children’s hospital and the doctors had been forced to put her on a ventilator and admit her into the ICU.

  He and Crystal sat in the critical care waiting room, staring into cups of cold rotgut coffee, while the doctors worked on Jazzy. His ex-wife had raised her head and looked at him like a coyotecaught in a trap. “I’m gonna go home and get a change of clothes.”

  He’d stared at her, incredulous. “It’s a three-hour drive back to Twilight.”

  “I know, I know. I just need to get outta here, get some air, clear my head.”

  “Jazzy needs you.”

  Crystal had twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “You’re better at this sick stuff than I am.”

  “You’re not going off and leaving her.”

  “I can’t take it. I need a break.”

  He remembered clenching his jaw and fisting his hands to keep from saying or doing something he would regret. “Fine,” he muttered. “Go have your break.”

  She’d fled the room without a backward glance and Travis had never seen her again. When he and Jazzy got back home, all Crystal’s things were gone. She’d left a note on the dining room table. I’m sorry. I’m just not cut out for motherhood. Forgive me.

  Honestly, he’d forgiven her a long time ago. He wasn’t the kind of guy who held on to a grudge. Crystal was who she was and he couldn’t change her. All he could do was love Jazzy twice as much, and that was easy to do. He thought of his daughter with her wide blue eyes and her long, curly blond hair, and his heart squeezed. He’d never loved anyone the way he loved that child. That’s what he couldn’t understand about Crystal. How could she go away if she loved Jazzy? And how could a mother not love her own child enough to stick with her through thick and thin?

  When Crystal had discovered she was pregnant, she’d wanted to have an abortion. He’d told her absolutely not, that they were getting married and having that baby. Crystal had dreamed of becoming a country-and-western singer and making it big in Nashville. She’d blamed first Travis and later Jazzy for ruining her dreams. He’d heard through the grapevine she’d made it to Nashville, but she was waiting tables, not cutting records.

  Maybe he’d been wrong to insist on marriage, but he hadn’t been wrong about keeping Jazzy. She was the very best thing that had ever happened to him. Without her, he’d be far less of a man.

  An image popped into his head. His wedding day. He remembered the terrified look in Crystal’s eyes as she stood there and then the surprising turn of events when young Sarah Collier had come bursting through the door of the church yelling at the congregation that Travis couldn’t marry Crystal because he was her soul mate.

  The memory put a momentary smile on his face.

  Dr. Adams came bustling through the door, his white coattails flying out behind him. He took one look at Jazzy and the frown riding his face deepened. He tugged a stethoscope from his pocket, spoke gently to Jazzy, and then pressed the bell of the stethoscope to her chest.

  Travis stepped closer, fisted his hands, watching and waiting as the physician examined his daughter. After several minutes, Dr. Adams raised his head, rattled off a list of medical jargon to the nurses, wrapped the stethoscope around itself, and tucked it back into his pocket. “Could we speak outside, Mr. Walker.”

  Mutely, Travis nodded to the doctor, and then said to Jazzy, “Daddy’s going to be right out here in the hallway.”

  “Daddy,” she wheezed.

  He took her hand, squeezed it. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Will … you …” She paused, chuffed in a mouthful of the nebulizer mist from the green plastic mask the respiratory therapist had slipped over her face.

  “Don’t talk.”

  “Isabella,” she whispered. “Book.”

  “You want me to bring you I
sabella and The Magic Christmas Cookie?”

  She nodded again, asking for the two possessions that comforted her most.

  “I’m on it,” he said. His gut wrenched and it was all he could do to make himself leave her, even for a fraction of a second.

  “What’s going on here, Doc?” he asked once the door had closed behind them. “You said that last drug we put her on should do the trick. She’s taking four different kinds of medication a day and showing no signs of improvement.”

  Dr. Adams pulled a palm down his face. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  Uh-oh, this didn’t sound good. Travis struggled to quell the fear growing inside him as Dr. Adams led him into the empty physicians’ lounge and plunked down at the head of a small conference table. “Have a seat.”

  He didn’t want to, but he sat.

  Dr. Adams took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say, Travis. Jazzy is on the maximum doseof every effective medication we have in our arsenal.”

  Travis felt a chill straight to his soul. “What are you telling me?”

  The physician shook his head, spread his hands. “I’m all out of tricks.”

  “Does this mean we have to go through another round of specialists?” he asked. He was willing to do whatever it took to make his daughter well, but he hated the thought of putting her through more tests, more hospitals, more needle pokes. Jazzy was a trouper, but the poor kid had been through so much. Where did it end?

  Dr. Adams shook his head. “We could try, but I have no reason to believe the outcome would be any different than in the past.”

  Fear clawed at his throat. “So what are you saying? That there’s no hope?”

  “There’s always hope. You have to believe that, Travis.”

  “What can you offer us?”

  Dr. Adams shifted his way. “There’s a new drug on the market, but—“

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” Travis interrupted, feeling a surge of hope.

  “It’s very expensive and your insurance doesn’t cover it.”

  “I don’t care. Whatever it costs, I’ll get the money.”

  “It’s twenty-five hundred dollars for one injection and she’ll need a shot every three weeks.”

  One shot equaled his monthly take-home salary. Travis swallowed. “I’ll sell my house if I have to.”

  “It’s not just the cost.” Dr. Adams pressed his

  lips together. “The reason insurance won’t cover the drug is because while it’s been approved for treatment of another lung disorder, it’s not approved for severe bronchial asthma. If a drug is used off-label, it’s considered experimental. Although it has been approved in Canada for use in severe asthma.”

  “Fine, we’ll move to Canada,” Travis said, and meant it, even though he’d lived his entire life in Twilight. Hell, his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father had all been born and raised in the town, and he loved the place with all his heart and soul, but he loved his daughter more. He’d leave it in a nanosecond if doing so could heal Jazzy.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Nothing ever was. “You dangle this hope in front of me and then you snatch it away, Doc. What the hell is that all about?”

  Dr. Adams met his stare. “I’m willing to go out on a limb and prescribe this drug to Jazzy for her asthma.”

  A tidal wave of hope hit him this time. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you.”

  Dr. Adams held up his palm. “Before we jump into this there is a lot to consider. This medication might not even work.”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “There are side effects.”

  “There’s side effects with the medication she’s already on.”

  “Yes, but this drug is still new and it has been approved for a different condition. I did some research, called some experts, and I have a tentativeprotocol for using the medication off-label, but essentially, we’d be flying blind. We could be playing Russian roulette with Jazzy’s life.”

  Silence fell between them.

  The reality of what the doctor was saying slowly sank in. “But this could also be the drug that controls everything, right?”

  “It could. The preliminary findings are very hopeful. You need to think about this long and hard, Travis.”

  “I just want her well.”

  “I know,” Dr. Adams said, “but do the risks outweigh the possible benefits?”

  Travis let out a long breath and it was only then that he realized he’d been holding it down deep in his lungs. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks for giving it to me straight.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Dr. Adams went back into the exam room with Jazzy, while Travis went out to his pickup truck. He drove the three miles to their cottage by the lake, found Isabella and The Magic Christmas Cookie book, and hurried back to the hospital.

  When he went back into the exam room, Jazzy’s eyes were closed and her breathing was easier. Travis took Isabella and tucked her gently in the crook of Jazzy’s arm and then he sat in the flimsy blue plastic chair beside the gurney and opened the well-worn cover of The Magic Christmas Cookie and began to read, the ritual now so ingrained, he didn’t have to think.

  “Butterfly Books,” he read, “a division of Jackdaw Publishing. First edition. All rights reserved.” He always read the information on the copyrightpage to tease her, just as his mother used to do with him.

  Usually, she would say, “Dad-dy,” in a tone of exasperation, but this time, she said nothing.

  Travis recited the story he knew by heart, sitting there, watching his little girl sleep. The mask was still on her face; little puffs of mist escaped from the vent slits on the side and disappeared into the air. He watched his daughter and read of magic cookies and Santa Claus and Christmas miracles a week before Halloween.

  This was a scary place, where they were right now. Hung on the precipice of promise and disaster. New drug. New hope. How many times had he gotten his hopes up? How many times had they been dashed?

  Jazzy turned on the gurney, opened her eyes, tugged the mask from her face. “Daddy?”

  “What is it, sweet pea?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to run on the playground. I knew better.”

  “It’s okay, it’s all right. Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You just wanted to have fun.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Am I gonna die like your mommy did?”

  Travis bit down on the inside of his cheek. He’d never wanted to tell Jazzy about how her grandmother had died, but Crystal had told her when she’d asked. Travis still held that against her. “No,” he said, “absolutely not. I’m your daddy and I won’t let anything happen to you, no matter what. Got it?”

  “Will I ever be normal?” she asked.

  “You’re already normal,” he said.

  “You know what I mean. Will I ever be able to run and play like other kids?”

  It was a promise he had no way to guarantee, but he made it anyway. “Yes,” he declared. “One day you’ll be able to run and play like other kids.”

  She smiled faintly, closed her eyes. “So where’s Isabella now? Is she at the North Pole yet?”

  “Not yet.” He reached across the bed, squeezed her hand, and went back to reading about Isabella, his mind made up. They were going to try that new drug because Jazzy deserved a fighting chance at a real life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time December rolled around, Sarah was no further along on her book than she’d been in October. Oh, she’d written plenty, but none of it had gelled. Nothing was right. She’d written, edited, discarded. She had no feelings for the work other than disgust. And disgust was not a passion on which to build a successful story.

  Going back to Twilight was beginning to look damn good in comparison. That spoke to how desperate she felt, considering that she’d rather vacation in Baghdad than return to her grandmother’s b
irthplace.

  But on the first Thursday in December, as a driver guided the Town Car that had been waiting for her at DFW airport, past the “Welcome to Twilight, Friendliest Hometown in Texas” sign, and she saw Lake Twilight glimmering blue in the distance, deep nostalgia swept through her. How she missed her Gramma Mia! Even now, she could smell her grandmother’s kitchen rife with the scent of fresh-baked yeast bread and the sweet taste of her homemade peach jam.

  She hadn’t expected the hit of sadness that fisted tight against her rib cage as the driver turned down Ruby Street with the tall, sheltering elms lining both sides of the road. The town was just as she’d remembered. Nothing had changed. Christmas decorations adorned almost every yard they passed. People smiled and nodded and waved at the car as it passed, as if they were welcoming friends.

  Twilight was one of those super-adorable tourist towns frequently found parked beside rivers and seashores and at the foot of majestic mountains. Verdant green lawns lush with St. Augustine grass and white, knee-high picket fences graced most of the Victorian, Cape Cod, and Craftsman-style homes that dominated the neighborhood near the square and around the lake. Flags fluttered from rooftops, a testament to patriotism. Wind chimes whispered in willow trees. Kitschy pink flamingos and wooden cutouts of ladies bending over showing their bloomers dotted the landscape.

  In the spring and summer, the flower beds were an arborist’s wet dream. Planter boxes and hanging baskets hosted a range of petunias and periwinkle and pansies. Sidewalk gardens boasted daffodils and amaryllis and hyacinth in late February and early March, later to be replaced by irises and gladiolas and day lilies. Elephant ears were a favorite in the rugged Texas soil, along with hearty salvia and geraniums and begonias. This time of year it was mostly Christmas cactuses and rust-colored chrysanthemums offering a splash of color.

  The sweet familiarity tasted like tears against her tongue. She clenched her purse with both hands, curling her fingers into fists around the Italian leather strap. It was all she could do not to beg the driver to spin the car around and zoom back to the airport.