His name was written in familiar, flowing cursive on the front. Dare he open it?
With trembling fingers, Jack reached for it. He lifted the top and read the words there, his vision growing blurrier with every word.
Dear Jack,
I knew you would come back to me. I love you, always, mo croie beloved.
Kathleen
Then Jack Callaghan did something he hadn’t done since he was a boy. He broke down and cried.
Chapter Eight
September 2015
Pine Ridge
“Can’t you just leave me be?” Jack grumbled when yet another nurse came in to take his vitals.
“Your numbers spiked,” the nurse calmly explained as she checked the wires and tubes and machines. “How’s your pain level?”
“Hurts like hell.”
“You can use the morphine pump if you’re uncomfortable.”
Jack grunted. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? It’s not doing a damn bit of good.”
“It’s regulated so you don’t give yourself too much. I’ll talk to the doctor.”
“You do that. And then maybe I can get some rest and you can stop pestering me.”
The corners of her lips quirked. “My, you are a bear tonight, aren’t you? What happened to the charming man who used to sneak me candy?”
Squinting, Jack tried to read the name on her ID badge. Christine McIlvie. It wasn’t familiar.
“You don’t remember me,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
Some of the irritation faded as he realized he was being an arse. “No, lass, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a long time ago. You knew my grandmother. You used to come by on weekends sometimes, do some work around her house when she needed it. She loved those visits.”
Jack looked closer, his eyes widening when the pieces fell together. The red hair. The freckles. The mischievous eyes staring down into his. She could have been Fitz’s sister, but she was far too young.
“Chrissy? Ginny Fitzsimmons’ little girl?”
“Yep, that’s me,” she grinned.
“Good Lord, lass, I didn’t recognize you without your pigtails.”
Christine touched her short, practical cut, laughing. “I forgot about those. They’ve been gone a while now.”
“I am an old man with old memories. How is your mother?”
“She’s good. She moved down to Florida about ten years ago, said her bones couldn’t handle the winters around here anymore.” She swapped the nearly-empty I.V. bag with another while she talked. “She still talks about you, you know. How much you helped my grandmother. It meant a lot to her.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. The woman had been like a second mother to him, and Fitz wasn’t there to do it...
“You knew my uncle, didn’t you?”
Knew? That seemed such a poor word to describe the kind of friendship he and Fitz had shared. They were brothers, in everything except parentage. Not a day went by that Jack didn’t think about him at least once, but he didn’t want to go into that. “Aye.”
Whether she sensed that, or was just a kind soul, she readjusted his blankets and laid her hand over his. “I’m going to see about those meds. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.”
Little Chrissy, now Christine McIlvie, R.N., slipped quietly out of his room. It was another reminder of how fast the past forty years had gone by. The last time he’d seen her, which didn’t seem that long ago at all, she’d been a skinny, little thing with a face full of freckles, flame-red pigtails, and the same green eyes and impish smile that Fitz had. It was a shame that Fitz never got to meet any of his nieces or nephews, or have kids of his own.
Jack sighed into the semi-darkness and sank back into the pillow. Through the blinds, he could see hints of moonlight. How he wished he could get up, detach all of these bothersome sensors and tubes, open the window and breathe in the scents of autumn. If he never smelled antiseptic again, he would be a happy man.
At least things seemed to be quiet. Other than a few muted sounds from down the hall, the occasional sound of hard rubber wheels rolling along in tandem with soft-soled shoes, he could almost pretend he wasn’t laid up in intensive care. Barring any surprises, he had a few hours before Chrissy or someone else came in again.
He suspected he knew why his machines had started squawking. Because he’d been dreaming of Kathleen again. That seemed to be happening a hell of a lot, even more than before. Each time he closed his eyes, whether willingly or not, his mind was reliving those early days. He wondered if it was some kind of sign, then realized he didn’t care.
He gave the morphine pump another squeeze and closed his eyes, willing her to come to him again.
––––––––
January 1975
Pine Ridge