That he would not do anything really stupid.
That the Lord would help him get over Eloise—he thought it best not to call her Mandy. Whatever this fixation with a twenty-year-old was, it had to be affecting his thinking. It could be the single reason he was back in town, and that was dangerous. However it turned out, whatever he found out, it was to resolve his own issues and get peace of mind, not … well, he didn’t even want to think about it.
But he did pray that God would take care of the girl, keeping her strong and pure, and not let anyone in this town—and that included the likes of that Seamus character—soil her or lead her astray.
Dear Lord, just help her find out who she is and where she belongs.
The prayer huddle took place in the second pew from the front, Dane and Mandy’s favorite spot for the whole fifteen years they attended the church, and where Dane sat for the worship service that day.
She’d dressed up for church, sat near the back, remained just a few minutes to pray a prayer not too different from his. She slipped quietly out, lost in the mix, saying hello to the friendly people, feeling so much better until some heads turned and she heard a lady say, “Doesn’t she look like … ?”
She walked quickly, turning her face away. She didn’t want to hear it.
A few miles down the freeway she finally corralled her emotions and got things at least half sorted out; she was glad she went to church and glad she heard the lady say that. It was a God thing, the good and the sad. God was just being honest and making her face things … ooohh, pun!
Yeah, yeah, she’d been a fool, a teenybopper with just the face and hormones to fall into a fine kettle of fish, right along with Dane. Well, thank God, she could see that now, and there was no need to blame Dane or beat herself up about it. God still loved and forgave her. It was time to grow up and move on.
So, to be grown up about it, silly mistakes aside, she learned a ton from Dane Collins and she should just be thankful for the productive days they had together. Maybe she’d write him a letter—in a few years—and thank him for that part of it.
To be grown up about it, that simple hour and a half spent with other believers in the embrace of God’s presence was real and familiar, like finding land after being adrift. The sweet God things she’d grown up with were still there, unchanged and rock solid under her feet, so there was still a big part of her world she could depend on.
As for the rest of her world, the part that was always smack-dab in front of her, brought her work, and helped her survive, but was so totally out to lunch she had to be nuts, that was another kettle of fish altogether. Any sane person would think it weird and scary, but she was getting used to it so it was becoming less weird, and thatwas scary. Stepping through a veil into another place she’d never been before, making things move by touching them even though she wasn’t, meeting and talking to people she could see through, and seeing herself ahead of herself, all of these were becoming as real as making a sandwich, crossing the street, leaning against a wall. She’d heard that crazy people couldn’t tell the difference between delusion and reality, and she was getting awfully close to that now.
And she sure didn’t want to end up in the hospital again.
So could she tell the difference?
Her little blue Bug had to be real, and the pavement rushing under it at sixty-five miles per hour more than just her imagination. That her hands were on the steering wheel, keeping the machine from veering off and flipping over the guardrail, was a fact she’d better not have doubts about.
Oh, great. Was that her exit? Nuts!See, there was another real thing: she wasn’t paying attention so the real exit in the real world went right by her and she missed it. She wouldn’t have made that up and caught herself off guard like that. She drove on to the next exit and took that one, hanging a left at the bottom to duck under the freeway, where she could hang another left back onto the freeway …
There was no on-ramp here.
Guy!
She kept going straight, lost. She’d have to pull over, look at her map, get her bearings …
She’d been here before.
That mall over there … that Kinko’s. She was seeing them again … for the first time. Wasn’t she?
Turn right at the Kinko’s.
She turned right. She didn’t know why except that it seemed the thing to do. Just like déjà vu, you kind of know which way you’re going to go and what you’re going to see before it happens.
Oh, what was this now? The hospital district. She got nervous. She’d just been thinking about hospitals and it wasn’t pleasant, never was.
Here came a blue sign: HOSPITAL. She’d seen that sign before.
Well, of course she had. There were plenty of signs in plenty of places she’d been that said HOSPITAL. Just like that big red sign that said EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY and that little blue one that said ADMITTING and that one that said VISITOR PARKING.
It was the big blue logo on the side of the building that made her slow down, then make a right into the visitor parking lot. Before she even parked in a slot she stopped the car, flung the door open, and leaned out to see it better.
It was a stylish, modern logo in big blue letters against the cream-colored building: CCMC. Beneath the logo was the name of the place: CLARK COUNTY MEDICAL CENTER.
Another car pulled in behind her. She scurried, found a parking slot, killed the engine.
She couldn’t climb out of the Bug fast enough, but once she did, she remained beside it, staring at the building, then the parking areas around it, then the streets, the trees, the multistory parking garage. It was more than déjà vu. It was memory. She’d been here.
“God, is this real?”
As real as the pavement under her feet. As real as the curb she stepped up on, the grass she ran her fingers through, the palm tree she touched. Nothing moved, nothing wavered, nothing shifted into and out of her world. The smells, the feel, the sound and sight, all remained right where they were, exactly the way they were.
Why did she remember this place?
Her eyes came to rest on two young men by the front door under the big breezeway, parking valets in blue shirts. The heavier one on the right; she’d seen him before. She even knew his name: Kerry.
What if he knew her? What if … she didn’t know what if, she only knew she had to get inside that building and check it out.
She crossed the parking lot, went under the breezeway and right up to Kerry.
“Hi,” she said.
He smiled, entirely pleasant, maybe even a little stricken by her looks. “Hi.” His name badge bore his name: Kerry Mathinson.
She gave him time to recognize her.
He only looked puzzled at the silence. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Mandy Whitacre.”
“Oh. Well, it’s great to meet you. This is Mark, I’m Kerry.”
They shook hands and it was all very cordial, just like strangers meeting.
Okay, she ventured the question, “So you’ve never seen me before?”
Kerry checked with Mark, who shrugged. “Afraid not. Believe me, I would have remembered—uh, no offense.”
“None taken. Thanks.”
She went through the doors, they eased shut automatically behind her, and she was enveloped by the sights—daylight through huge windows, marble and mosaic floor, high ceiling—and the sounds—air noise, talking voices nearly lost in the vast space, the clunks, clacks, and taps of shoes on the marble—and the smells—floor cleaner, wood stain, disinfectant—of the hospital lobby. Her steps faltered and slowed until she came to a dead stop right in the middle of the big logo on the floor. She was dumbstruck. Frightened.
Was she back in the madness, in the unreal? She braced herself, tapped her feet to be sure the floor was under her, and took in every detaiclass="underline" the sofa seats along the windows, the big logo she was standing on, the wooden pillars and paneling, the reception desk directly in front of her, the hanging fluorescent light fixtures, the plaques and portraits on the walls.