A Fragile Hope - Cynthia Ruchti

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extremities and called for help.

      He heard a crack and prayed it was his watch crystal or the housing on one of the pieces of equipment, not yet another fragile bone. Karin wrenched, he countered, his weight holding her to the bed for her own good. Her own good.

      Within one of those minutes that bloats into distended oblivion, a boost of medication drove Karin deeper into unconsciousness. Theirs. The one they shared.

      Crisis averted, Josiah stumbled out of the room. His visiting time expired mid-writhe. He would have fought against leaving the room at all—ever—but the air in there rivaled Kilimanjaro for thinness and lack of oxygen. He felt his way out of the intensive care unit, down the hall, and toward the family waiting room. The door to the visitor restroom stood open. He slipped inside, locked it, and created his own scream. Muffled. Throat-burning. Scalp-tingling.

      He leaned over the porcelain sink, his head unhinged at the neck. Unblinking, he reached to flip the chrome paddle faucet handle to the On position and waited while a stream of cold water grew colder. Then he cupped both hands, filled them with glacial runoff, and shocked his face back to reality. Out there in the plum-couched room, Catherine and Stan waited for his report.

      It was time to let them know about the baby.

      Something was wrong. More than the obvious. Conscious of an irritant but disengaged as one might slap at a fly without reaching for the flyswatter, Josiah flicked the irritation away from his thoughts and took the last few strides toward the waiting room.

      “Sharp dresser.” Stan’s eyes glinted with the mischief few knew lay hidden beneath his composed demeanor. “New fad in Paris? Milan? New York fashion district?”

      What was Stan talking about? Josiah took a step closer to where his father-in-law sat at Catherine’s side on an appropriately named love seat. He traced the path of Stan’s gaze to the black long-sleeved tee shirt he’d pulled on after his shower. Backwards. And inside out. The label not only showed, it showed under his chin. And he hadn’t even noticed in the restroom mirror.

      “Leave the boy alone, Stanley.” Catherine’s smile radiated sympathy. “Just because you don’t want to advertise what size you wear . . .” She jostled her husband with her elbow, then grabbed her arm as if she’d clunked her funny bone.

      He let the two play, poking at each other with such good humor that a lump formed in Josiah’s throat. He and Karin used to have interchanges like that—teasing but not really. Finding the comic side of their humanness. How many lifetimes ago?

      Comedy and tragedy share office space, he reasoned. Either one might serve as receptionist and pick up the phone when it rings.

      At the moment, his home-away-from-home ICU family waiting room served as the stage for the comic tragedy of the scene he could no longer avoid. Stan and Catherine didn’t have to know about Wade. Not yet. But it wasn’t fair to withhold the small matter of the child Karin carried.

      How could he describe this child—the one he wanted but didn’t? How does a person begin a story like that? The miracle of life conceived in betrayal? He begged for grace to construct a sentence he wouldn’t trip over. Ease into it, Josiah.

      “Karin’s pregnant.” Yeah. Ease into it. Just like that.

      Catherine blanched and grabbed the neckline of her blouse with both fists. Stan clamped a hand onto her knee.

       Say something, one of you. My words are gone. Catherine, come on. Stan?

      “Oh, son. How . . . how wonderful.” Stan’s words sounded strained. Big surprise. “After thinking it wasn’t possible. We’d given up hope of—” Whatever came next caught in the man’s wrinkled neck.

      Stan directed his attention to his speechless wife, as if urging a wise response from the one who normally oozed wisdom. Josiah joined him.

      Catherine grimaced, rubbing her jaw on the left side. She obviously could only think of the additional threat to her daughter’s broken body, not the wonder of a grandchild they thought they’d never have. Tears collected in the corners of her eyes and escaped down the folds of her face when she squeezed her eyes shut. Poor thing.

      Stan turned his grip on her knee into loving pats. Pat-pat-pat, “No matter what, it’s wonderful, isn’t it, Catherine? Honey?”

      Whatever else was happening in the room lost all importance when Catherine collapsed against the love seat’s fat armrest. Out cold.

      Stan took the news of Karin’s baby better than Josiah expected, his deepened concern for his daughter tempered by pride at the pending title—Grandpa.

      Catherine, on the other hand, had a heart attack. Complete with chest pain, jaw pain, and an out-of-the-norm “code blue to the ICU family waiting room.”

      It wasn’t funny at all. Not one bit. The sounds coming from Josiah weren’t laughter. They claimed origins in the emotional word hysteria, not the amusing hysterical.

      Nice one, God. What’s next? Don’t answer that.

      Welcome to the Woodlands Regional Circus. The place should consider changing its logo and offer popcorn and soft drinks between acts.

      Hours of chaos and two stents later, Catherine settled into a room in the cardiac wing, her pain under control for the time being, the rest of her medical protocol yet to be determined.

      On the positive side, visiting Catherine on the third floor would make the waiting time between ICU visits more productive and focused.

      Poor Stan. Stan, the Man. Strong as a barn timber externally but a pile of kittens on the inside. And Catherine stayed married to him for how many years to this point? Maybe the timber-kitty principle needed exploring by a marriage workshop expert. One who wrote books that changed lives. Books like the one Josiah still hadn’t submitted to his agent. Morris would be on his case. The guy had a capacity for sympathy that would drown in the shadow of a kidney bean.

      Assured that Catherine now rested comfortably, awaiting the cardiologist who would decide the next course of action for her, Josiah excused himself from her room and made his way through the maze of corridors to a quiet sitting area away from the flow of foot traffic. He slipped his laptop case strap off his shoulder and set up the computer on the low coffee table in front of the love seat. Within moments, he moved instead to one of the chairs closer to an outlet.

      Free wireless access. Nice perk for the hospital to offer. Perk? Like anything about this place was a gift.

      He checked his e-mail inbox first. Anything urgent? Reader mail—equivalent to writer food. Tempted as he was, he had to let it go for now.

      A note from Nate. The distance between Josiah and his friend—half a continent—mattered. Now more than ever.

      Ah, good friend. I’ve neglected you, too. Have to rectify a few things once we know where all this is headed.

      True to form, Nate kept his message short. Never one to waste words—as opposed, said Nate, to Josiah’s indiscriminate flinging them onto paper—or to waste an opportunity to create a chuckle, Nate had written:

      “The church I grew up in was so conservative, we couldn’t even raise our hands on a roller coaster! (I just made that up.)”

      Clever. Pack your bags, Nate. You can audition for a comedy channel show with that one.

      Josiah stared at the laptop screen. It didn’t blink or beep or register respiration and heart rate. It didn’t flash an alarm for a sudden drop in blood pressure or a spiked fever. Words on a blank background. His territory. A medium he understood.

      So conservative. Roller coaster. Funny.

      Two of the most important

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