The Healing Place

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “What have I gotten myself into?”

Chapter Two

Mark tossed another load of laundry into the washing machine, then wiped off the granite countertops in his kitchen. The tiled floor felt sticky where Angie had spilled her cherry punch and he headed for the pantry to get the mop. As he filled a bucket with hot, sudsy water, he leaned against the refrigerator and stifled a yawn. With two corporate tax returns for clients due tomorrow and Angie’s first chemo appointment in the morning, he’d be lucky to get three hours of sleep tonight.

After he mopped the floor, he skimmed his fingers along the elegantly carved balustrade of the spiral staircase and went upstairs. The thick Berber carpet muffled his steps. He and Denise had chosen nothing but the best for their spacious home. Growing up in a shabby trailer park, he’d spent hours of his youth dreaming of living in an elegant home like this. Now, he’d give it away free if it would heal Angie. The realization that all the money in the world couldn’t make his daughter well again caused him to change his priorities. Maybe he should sell the place and buy a simple three-bedroom house he could maintain more easily.

He’d think about that tomorrow.

Hopefully, Angie was ready for bed. At bath time, he hadn’t rubbed her head too hard because it was so tender from stitches—two hundred and thirteen so far. Angie kept count. Battle scars, she called them.

Poking his head into her room, he found it dark, except for a reading lamp on the nightstand by her bed. Stuffed animals crowded the top of her dresser. Books and trinkets lined two shelves, including a small jewelry box with a dancing ballerina on top and an orange ceramic bowl she’d made in first grade. He loved every one of the drawings and finger paintings she had plastered on her walls. A jump rope, skateboard and hoola-hoop stood propped in one corner. Even if she had the energy to play with these toys, Mark didn’t dare let her for fear she might fall and jar her head. The last thing they needed was another surgery.

Angie sat up in bed, staring at a picture of her mother beside the clock radio on the bedside table.

“Hey, honey-girl, it’s late. You should be asleep.” He smiled, remembering the first time he’d caught her with a flashlight under her covers, reading a Trixie Belden book; advanced reading for a kid barely out of kindergarten.

Her brow furrowed as he sat beside her on the bed. He brushed his knuckles against her temple. “Something wrong?”

“When’s Mommy coming home?” A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Regret swamped him when he thought of all the woulda’, shoulda’, coulda’ things he might have done to keep his marriage alive. He hated that Angie had to pay the price for her parents’ failure.

“Remember, Mommy’s gone to stay with Grandma.”

He couldn’t bring himself to tell her Denise now lived with another man. According to Denise’s mother, the guy was still in college, twelve years younger than Denise. The kid had taken Denise to Europe and the Bahamas, while Angie spent her days with doctors and specialists.

Anger crowded Mark’s mind and he tried to fight off the resentment. He wasn’t ready to ask God’s forgiveness for these emotions, but without God, he believed he would fall apart. And he needed to remain strong, for Angie’s sake.

“Mommy may come to visit us, sweetheart, but she won’t be living with us anymore.” He’d told Angie this before, but she couldn’t seem to accept it.

Neither could he.

Heavenly Father, where are You? How much more can I bear?

In the quiet, Mark heard a still small voice speaking within his soul.

I’m here, son. I’ve never left you.

“But why doesn’t she call us?” Angie asked, her bottom lip quivering. “Doesn’t she love us anymore?”

He scooped Angie into his arms and hugged her tight. As he breathed deeply of her warm, sweet skin, he tried to calm his troubled thoughts. “Of course she loves you. Maybe Mommy’s extra busy and hasn’t had a chance to call.”

Yeah, right. Too busy with the preschooler to call her sick daughter.

Their dogs, Tipper and Dusty, curled up beside Angie—no barking or wagging tails. It was as if the hyper Maltese and toy fox terrier knew Angie was ill and they protected her the only way they knew how.

“Can we call her?” the child persisted, snuggling deeper beneath the flowered comforter.

He’d tried to reach Denise numerous times, but his ex-mother-in-law refused to give him the new phone number. “I’ve already called your grandma and asked her to tell Mom you want to talk to her.”

Thanks, Denise, for leaving me to figure out how to keep from breaking our daughter’s heart.

Angie sighed, with relief or sadness, he wasn’t certain. “Is she mad at me? Because of the brain tumor?”

“Nooo, honey!” He cupped her pale cheek with his hand. “It’s not your fault Mommy left. You had nothing to do with it. She’s fine. I don’t want you to worry about her, okay? Just think about getting better.”

“Can’t you be friends again?” Angie suggested. “Maybe you could say you’re sorry and Mom would come home.”

If only it were that easy.

“We would both have to want that, and right now, Mommy doesn’t.”

In all honesty, he didn’t want it, either. Not after the pain Denise had put him through by leaving him for another man.

Angie nodded, her hollow eyes a haunting remnant of the bouncing girl she’d once been. He’d give anything if it were him who was sick, instead of Angie.

“Dr. Shields is nice,” she told him.

He flashed her a smile. “Yeah, Emma always was nice. And very smart. She knows just what to do to help you get better.”

What a blessing they had found Emma. The moment he’d seen her standing in her office, he’d felt complete trust in her abilities. Though she’d been reluctant to accept Angie as a patient, Mark had no doubt God had sent them to her. With her help, and through God’s grace, they would get Angie well again. He refused to believe anything less.

Mark fingered the thin braid at Angie’s right temple. His throat clogged with tears when he thought of how kind the nurses from Angie’s last surgery had been, making a big deal over an inch-square of long hair because it was all Angie had left on her head. The neurosurgeon had shaved the rest off, replacing it with a melee of stitches.

“Don’t worry, Daddy. It’s gonna’ be okay,” Angie whispered and patted his hand.

Mark blinked. She was comforting him?

The center of his being swelled with hope. If she could have faith, then so could he.

He kissed her cheek and murmured against her ear. “I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

Tears blurred his vision.

Please, God, don’t take her from me. He prayed the words over and over in his heart.

“What’s up for tomorrow’s schedule?” Angie yawned, her eyelids drooping.

“Tomorrow, we go see Dr. Shields for your first chemo injection.”

Mark had decided not to keep things from Angie. She had a right to know what the doctors were doing to her and why.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be brave.”

Emotion washed over him and his throat felt like sandpaper. She was the bravest person he knew. “Of course you will. Now, are you ready for prayers?”