Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Camille hardly recognized the sound of the landline. Truthfully, she wasn’t even aware The Getaway had one, let alone one in working order.
She folded the last towel, still warm from the dryer, and added it to the fresh stack.
The phone trilled again, sharp and blaring.
“You gonna get that, Millie?” Skip hollered from the reading room. That old sailor always had his nose in a book.
“If I can find it.”
“In the kitchen. On the wall by the fridge.”
Camille worked her way through the house, her hand landing on the receiver by the seventh ring, the time when most people would opt to hang up. The caller on the end of this line had a patience Camille would never be able to summon.
She lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello. You’ve reached The Getaway House.”
“Hi, yes. I’m looking for a Foster Spaulding.”
A little odd, but Camille supposed he did live here now and was welcome to receive phone calls. She shrugged. “He’s not here at the moment, but I can give him a message. Or I can give you his cellphone number if you’d like to try that.”
“We’ve attempted to reach him via cellphone, but with no luck. A message would be great.”
The long, curly cord tangled around her when she moved to the nearby drawer to grab a pen and paper to jot the information down.
For a moment, Camille worried this was some scammer calling about an extended warranty on his truck, but that fleeting fear was cut short when they said, “Can you please have him call Seascape Shores General, extension six at his first opportunity? He can ask for Patricia.”
Camille’s chin pulled back, her pen stalling over the paper. Why would the hospital be calling for Foster?
“Would you be able to pass along that message?” the caller repeated.
She abandoned the notepad. She wouldn’t need it. She would definitely remember to pass this information along. “Yes. I will do that. Of course.”
“Thank you. Appreciate it. Have a great day.”
More like have a confusing day, Camille thought as she returned the receiver to its cradle.
True to form, Camille’s thoughts set off on a spiral, worst case scenarios sweeping through her overactive brain.
Was he sick? Was this call in reply to a recent appointment?
When he’d told her he had to lock up at the construction site the other day, had that been a coverup for something else?
Even today, was he really at the preschool repairing a drywall issue, or was he at the hospital, having more tests run?
No. She shook her head side to side briskly. He wasn’t at the hospital. They wouldn’t be calling if he was already there.
That truth softened the edges of her worry slightly, but not enough to keep her mind from running through all the possibilities.
And each scenario left her more confused, worried, and scared for the man she loved with every fiber of her being.
The hospital might not have been able to reach him by cell, but she knew she could. He always responded to her texts, no matter where he was or what he was in the middle of.
Camille: You got a phone call from the hospital. Anything I should be concerned about?
As expected, his text came right on the heels of hers.
Foster: The hospital? Did they say what it was about?
Camille: No. That’s why I was texting you.
She texted him the number, along with the instruction to ask for Patricia, then waited for him to call her back while she continued her chores around the Inn.
She figured he’d call within a few minutes, but Camille had stripped all the beds, restocked all the recently washed towels, scrubbed the toilets, washed the mirrors, and bleached the showers with still no word from her husband.
Maybe he hadn’t been able to get ahold of the person he needed to speak with. He could at least send Camille a quick text to let her know he was still waiting to hear back. He knew his wife. He was well aware that just a little information would help put her mind at ease.
Camille shook her head. This wasn’t about her. The hospital hadn’t called for her. They had called for Foster. And he was allowed to have his own personal business. Camille needed to respect that boundary.
She never received a phone call back from him. Not even a text.
Foster appeared in the kitchen later that evening, his face white and mouth set in a line. His silent presence made Camille jump so high, she almost bumped her head on the hood above the stove.
“Foster!” She placed the wooden spoon on the rest. Wiped her hands across her apron. “You scared me.”
He just looked at her like he’d seen a ghost, or worse.
“Now you’re really scaring me.” She moved to her husband. “Foster, what’s going on?”
She doubted his legs would keep him up much longer. Everything in him looked like he was about to give way. Guiding him, she led him by his hand to the table where she pulled out a chair for Foster to sit. Then she took a seat right next to him.
“I called the hospital back.”
“And?”
“And they asked that I come in.”
Camille’s throat felt like it was full of sand, scratchy and unbearable. “Did you?”
“Yes. That’s where I’ve been all afternoon.”
“Foster, honey. Is everything okay?”
“No Camille, it’s not.”
That sand turned to fire, Camille’s entire chest burning with panic. “Foster, I need to know what’s going on because my mind is pulling up every worst-case scenario right now.”
“It’s Jim.”
She yanked her chin back. “Your brother?”
“Yes. He was one of the sailors on that boat.”
That didn’t sound right. From what Camille knew, they were wealthy businessmen on this expedition. Not burnt-out druggies.
“Is he okay?” She forced the words out even though she truly wasn’t sure she cared to hear the answer.
She knew the havoc Foster’s brother had wreaked on his life.
How he’d been responsible for so much of Foster’s heartache, anger, and eventually, apathy.
In truth, she honestly didn’t care if he wasn’t alright.
He was not a factor in their lives anymore.
“He’s not okay,” was all Foster replied.
She took her husband’s hands, those strong, calloused fingers that could still turn tender when they were on her. But now, they were cold. Rigid. They gripped onto her like they would never let go.
“I thought they’d reported that most of the injuries the men sustained were minor,” Camille said.
“They were. And his are, too. Some lacerations and a few broken ribs.”
“Seems like he’ll heal.” Of course, she didn’t want the man to be in pain, but these injuries were relatively insubstantial. She was well aware Foster had inflicted worse so many years ago.
Her husband had been looking at the table, as if memorizing the scars and knots in the wood. But at that moment he lifted his eyes to hers, and she saw something in them that she’d never seen before. “He has cancer, Camille.”
“Oh.” That was sad news. Of course, it was.
But Camille wondered if she had learned of it apart from this harrowing rescue and all the drama surrounding it, if it would have the same sting.
After all, from what Camille knew, Foster still hated the man.
Hated him for all the pain he’d caused in others’ lives.
Hated him for how careless he’d been with the people Foster loved most. Hated Jim enough to end up behind bars for letting that hate get the better of him.
“He needs a liver.”
“He has liver cancer?”
Foster just lifted his head in a single nod.
She wondered if all the years of substance abuse was to blame. Either way, it wasn’t any of her business.
“He needs my liver,” Foster clarified, his voice completely monotone.
“Don’t you need your liver?”
“I need part of my liver.” He just shrugged. “He needs the other part.”
“Are you even a match?”
“That’s what they were calling about. They want to run tests to see if I am.”
“Do you even have a choice in that?”
Foster pulled his hand out of Camille’s and speared his fingers through his silver hair, gripping the ends of the strands in frustration. “Of course, I have a choice. That’s the entire problem.”
“Because you don’t know what to choose.”
“I don’t know what to choose.” There was a sorrow in her husband’s eyes unlike anything she’d ever glimpsed. A turmoil brewing much like that storm hovering over the seas. Dark, building. Uncontrolled.
“You can say no.”
“Can I, though?”
She reached for him. “Of course, you can say no. If the roles were reversed, I guarantee that man wouldn’t so much as donate a dollar to you, let alone a vital organ.”
“But the roles aren’t reversed, and now I’m faced with a decision that will not only affect his life, but the lives of those I care about.”
Camille chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking. “Do you think you should talk to the kids about this? Ask them what they think?”
“I could.” He cleared his throat. Shifted in his seat.
“But I think they’ll say the same thing.
That it’s my decision. That they support me no matter what.
” Like he couldn’t take a full breath, Foster pressed his spine to the back of his chair and his palms to his thighs, drawing in the largest inhale.
“God, Camille. I thought I was done paying for my sins.”
That made her own breathing stutter. “Foster. You do not owe Jim anything. You understand that, right?”
“How can I live with myself, though? How can I hold my head high as a man, knowing I could have helped out my brother and chose not to.”
“You might not even be a match.”
“But if I am?”
“One step at a time. Do the tests or whatever it is to see if you’re compatible. Then we can cross that bridge when we know what we’re dealing with.”
Foster’s strong jaw worked, that ball of muscle clenching. “So many years ago, I prayed for this.”
“For this opportunity?”
“No, Camille. I prayed for him to die. For Jim to be out of our lives forever. To be completely rid of him. I can’t help but wonder if all those prayers had something to do with the situation I find myself in now.”
She frowned. “I don’t think that’s how it works. From what I know of God, he’s in the business of restoration. But I don’t think you’re entirely wrong. I do think it might have a little something to do with your situation. Or more accurately, the opportunity you’ve been given.”
Foster groaned. “The opportunity to give up my organ to a man who doesn’t deserve it?”
“The opportunity to give your forgiveness to a man who doesn’t deserve it.”