Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7)(26)
was a big deal. Of course, Linda knew and my parents, too, but I hadn't mentioned it to anyone else. Being singled out sort of embarrasses me. Always has. My goal is to be a good doctor and to make children well. That's it. I don't need any public acknowledgment. The award was to be presented at a large banquet, the type of event everyone hates but feels obligated to attend. The thought of sitting through the evening alone held no appeal. I could invite someone; I just didn't know who.
I rubbed my hands together, eager to mingle with the kids. "Where do you need me most?"
"We could use some help with the games," Patrick said, reminding me of his original request.
"Perfect."
"Then later you can flip burgers." He slapped me affectionately on the back.
Within minutes I was laughing and horsing around with the kids. I regretted my bad mood earlier in the week. I blamed Hannah's letter for that. I wanted to argue with her, tell her I'd rather forget the outside world as much as possible, and she seemed to know that. I resented, at least a little, that a woman who'd been gone a year still had the power to manipulate me into something I had no interest in doing. Yet how could I refuse her?
A couple of hours later I was exhausted. I'd participated in the three-legged race, teaming up with James, a tenyear-old boy who probably wouldn't see his eleventh birthday. We crossed the finish line first and James wore his blue ribbon proudly.
Somehow or other, I got conned into being a partner with Kellie, a six-year-old with leukemia, for the egg toss. We lost--the egg broke in my hands, much to Kellie's delight. I wasn't any luckier with the water-balloon toss, but managed to jump far enough back to avoid getting soaked. After that, I put on an apron that read The Cook Is King and stood in front of the barbecue, grilling hamburgers. I noticed James wolfing his down and saw tears in his mother's eyes as she watched her son eat. I suspected it'd been a long time since he'd had this much of an appetite.
It was the oddest thing. I could feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I'd woken that morning just like I did every day, instantly aware that Hannah was gone. She was the first person I thought of every morning and the last person every night. The pain had settled in my chest the way it always did. Yet here I was, only a few hours later, and it almost felt as if she was there with me, laughing, teasing, encouraging me to enjoy the event.
Despite the satisfactions of being with children, today reminded me that I'd most likely never have any of my own. Hannah had written in her letter that her greatest regret was not being able to have our child. I regretted it, too, and knew I'd miss out on that aspect of life. Hannah would've been a wonderful mother. I didn't intend to remarry, regardless of her letter and her list, so I wouldn't have the opportunity to be a father. That saddened me and yet, as I watched the children racing about the park, laughing and teasing one another, I couldn't help wondering if maybe Hannah was right--at least in her insistence that I stop focusing on the past and look to the future.
By this point I'd read her letter so often I'd practically memorized it. Maybe I should look ahead instead of keeping myself locked in old memories. Still, I wasn't sure that could ever include remarriage. My fear, I suppose, was that I'd never be able to recapture the special bond I'd shared with my wife. I was afraid I'd measure every woman I met against Hannah. That would be unfair to Hannah and to the other woman.
When I finished my cooking shift, I grabbed a paper plate and helped myself to a cheeseburger. Potato salad's a favorite of mine and I piled on a big scoop of that, as well as a giant pickle and a small bag of corn chips.
I found a spot and sat down on the lawn, legs stretched out, and balanced the paper plate on my thighs. I picked up my burger and took my first bite. As I glanced about the park I saw several other volunteers and friends. Each was paired up with someone else. For the first time since I arrived, it struck me how truly alone I was.
Patrick sat on the lawn with his wife, Melanie, and when he saw me he gestured that I should join them. I hated to barge in, but I didn't want to eat by myself, either, so I stood and walked toward them.
"It's so good to see you," Melanie said as I lowered myself onto the lawn. Patrick's wife is a nurse at the hospital and one of the kindest people I know.
I took another bite of my hamburger, surprised by how delicious it was. I realized I was hungry; no wonder, since the kids had kept me physically active for a couple of hours. I was actually enjoying the taste, a sensation I hadn't experienced since Hannah's illness.
"Who's that?" Melanie asked, pointing out someone else who was sitting alone some distance away.
Patrick looked in the direction his wife had indicated, and I did, too. The woman seemed familiar. I'd seen her earlier while I was involved with the children. I thought at the time that I knew her, but I didn't remember from where.
"Isn't that Leanne Lancaster?" Melanie asked her husband.
I nearly dropped my cheeseburger. "Leanne Lancaster?" I repeated.
"Do you know her?" Melanie asked.
I slowly nodded and a numbness spread down my arms. "She was one of Hannah's oncology nurses." More than that, Leanne Lancaster was the second name on the list Hannah had given me. Trying not to be obvious, I squinted at her. Leanne looked different--thinner, gaunt, pale. That must've been why I hadn't immediately recognized her.