A Fragile Hope - Cynthia Ruchti

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The last one—Call me!—stung his own ears when it reverberated off the empty walls of his hollow house. Should he get in the car and go look for her? Wherever she’d gone, it couldn’t be good. The salt truck made a return trip.

      He should call the police. Yeah. And admit the relationship counselor didn’t remember where his wife said she was going. He had a reputation to uphold.

      If he found her sipping a cappuccino at an Internet café as if he didn’t exist, hadn’t been waiting for her to come home . . .

      No. That wasn’t Karin. The closest she came to raising her voice at him was usually related to his not trusting her to be strong enough to take care of herself, make her own decisions, run her own business. She hadn’t raised her voice in a long time. She’d perfected the silent treatment, though. And—God help him—he’d ignored it, grateful he didn’t have to adjust his writing schedule so they could talk it out.

      He yanked the remote off the end table at his elbow and clicked off the TV, righting his recliner as the dot of green light faded. Discarding the throw, he slid out of the chair and onto his knees. Not enough. Not low enough. He lay flat on the carpeting, arms spread eagle.

      The carpet smelled a lot like Sandi, but he stayed there, groaning a semblance of prayer.

      He’d paid to upload a worship song ringtone. Now when it broke the flow of his prayer, he considered volunteering an additional fee for the message of hope its welcome sound conveyed.

      He rose to his knees and fumbled for the phone. His frenzied fingers dropped it, twice. It skated out of reach on its slick plastic back. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he dropped to all fours and reached under the couch where the music was coming from.

      “Yes? Hello?”

      “Is this the Chamberlain residence?”

      “Yes, it is. Who is this?”

      “Are you related in some way to Karin Chamberlain?”

      “She’s my wife.” The simple words ripped through him. “Who is this?”

      “I’m with the Timber County Sheriff’s Department. Your wife?”

      “That’s right. What’s this about?”

      “Well, sir, we’re sorting things out little by little. Your wife and another person were involved in a motor vehicle accident. The car is registered to your wife. We found this number on an unsent text. From the driver’s phone.”

      Every muscle in him spasmed. “Is my wife all right?”

      “Are you able to get yourself to Woodlands Regional Hospital?”

      “Yes, of course.” He headed for the kitchen where his keys hung on a peg near the back door.

      “We’d send a deputy to accompany you, but with the roads such a mess, we’re spread pretty thin on accident detail.”

      “Accompany me?” That only happened when—“She’s gone?”

      “No, sir. But it doesn’t look good. I’d advise you to make your way there as soon as you can, but take extra care. It’s nasty out there.”

      Chapter 3

      Grace outdistances you. It runs ahead to meet you at the intersection of your next need.

      ~ Seedlings & Sentiments

      from the “Time of Need” collection

      Quarter to eleven. It had taken him an hour and a half to make the thirty-five miles. All of it maneuvered hunched over the steering wheel, peering out at the slick night, fighting to keep the white line in sight. Woodlands? Why hadn’t the ambulance taken her to Paxton’s medical center? Sure it was small, understaffed, with limited hours of operation. Could that have been the reason? One of many unanswered questions. Like, who was driving Karin’s car? It was Karin’s car, the deputy said. But she was a passenger? Why?

      The hospital parking lot, with a glaze of ice over the parked cars and security lights, looked as eerie as a Hitchcock film. He guessed where the lines of demarcation defined parking spaces. His foot slipped as he stepped out of his Camry. The lot was worse off than the highway.

      Sliding the last few feet into the emergency room entrance, his breath heavy and inefficient, Josiah bit back a fist of fear. He ripped the boiled wool cap off his head and, twisting it in his hands, asked the woman at the “All visitors please check in here” desk where he could find his wife.

      A question he’d asked himself all night.

      “Please take a seat in one of the green chairs,” she said. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”

      Was that sadness he read in her eyes? Sympathy? Had she recognized him as the face she’d seen on the back cover of innumerable books? That might explain the added layer of concern. Or did the thick slabs of eye shadow weigh her eyes down at the corners?

      Green chairs. Retaining imprints of past sitters. He’d stand, thank you. A bearded guy slumped in one of the chairs in the corner brought Rip Van Winkle to mind. How many years had the man slept stretched out like that—legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest, hat brim low to shield him from fluorescence—waiting for the answer to his emergency room question?

      He woke Karin’s mom and dad before he left for the hospital. His phone call said little more than, “I don’t know anything.” A call to Morris could wait until he got some answers.

      Josiah smelled coffee. Harsh, aged coffee. Better than nothing. Complimentary, the sign said. He took a waxed cup from a tilting stack and poured coffee from a quarter-full glass carafe. The cup warmed his stiff hands. In his hurry to leave the house, he’d forgotten gloves. His Columbia jacket hung open. Expelling breath and emotion through dry lips, he pressed the coffee cup to the frozen tundra around his heart.

      What was he supposed to feel? Besides numb. In the whole long trip, he’d mastered one thing: numb.

      Josiah made a living off his creative imagination. Tonight it was not his friend. What-ifs stung him like fire ants. Sting, pain, itch.

      What if Karin didn’t make it? How could he live with himself for not taking her absence more seriously, for not going out to look for her, or calling the authorities right away? He’d been miffed that she hadn’t been waiting for him when he finished his project. She’d tried to hint that he’d become self-absorbed. He’d jotted a note to consider a section on the subject for an upcoming seminar.

      The deputy said Karin and another person were in the accident. He said person, not woman. What did that mean? It was a man? A man was driving her car? That made no more sense than anything else in this muddle.

      Karin must have had a flat. The guy—a good Samaritan—stopped to help her and then got behind the wheel to drive her home? No. No, that didn’t add up. She ran out of gas and—No. It was her car. With some man other than Josiah behind the wheel. An unsent text message? What? The person had been texting and driving? In an ice storm?

      Josiah needed answers. Right after he found out that Karin was going to be okay. She’d be okay. She had to.

      What was taking so long? The deputy insinuated he’d had to sort through who to call, since the natural assumption would have been that she and the driver were friends. Or related. Involved. Together on purpose. Crazy talk. Maybe the staff was confused. He could clear it up if someone would let him speak.

      His mind drafted the imaginary conversation going on somewhere beyond the visitor’s desk:

      Her husband’s here.

      Isn’t that her husband? The one she came in with?

      Uh, no. Must be boyfriend.

      Ooh. Sticky.

       Yup. Now what?

      

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