Debbie Macomber - Hannah's List

“Speaking of volunteers,” Patrick said, glancing pointedly at the posters decorating the hallway. “The picnic’s on Saturday.”

“It’s a little early this year, isn’t it?” I asked, stalling for time.

“Not really. It’s always in May.”

I hadn’t attended last year’s. Hannah’s funeral had been only a couple of weeks before that and I was barely coping.

“We could use a few more volunteers.”

“I’ve got plans,” I said, although it wasn’t true. Again, my own reluctance baffled me. Until Hannah’s illness and death, I’d enjoyed being part of the event.

“Can you change your plans?” Patrick asked. “We’re really shorthanded. We need someone to help with the games.”

I sighed.

“We need a volunteer to flip burgers, too, if that’s more to your liking.”

I could see Patrick wasn’t going to make this easy. “I might be able to come.”

“We need every worker we can get.”

“How long would I need to be there?” I asked, hedging. If I could find a way out of this I’d gladly take it.

Patrick shrugged. “A couple of hours should do it.”

“Okay, I’ll rearrange my plans,” I said, continuing the farce. The only thing I had scheduled for Saturday was my routine five-mile run.

“Thanks, buddy.” He slapped me on the back and hurried off.

The word that I’d signed up as a volunteer at the Kids with Cancer event spread faster than a California brushfire. Clearly Patrick hadn’t wasted any time.

A couple of other physicians stopped me during my rounds to say how pleased they were that I was socializing again. In my opinion, the news that I was volunteering at a charity function shouldn’t be treated like a public announcement.

Besides, I wasn’t socializing. I’d been pressured into helping what I considered a good cause. I wouldn’t be doing this at all if Patrick hadn’t cornered me and practically blackmailed me into it. Naturally, I couldn’t say that. I smiled at the two physicians and quickly extricated myself from the conversation so I could go about my business.

I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when I noticed a couple of the nurses with their heads together, whispering. They looked up a bit guiltily as I approached them, and I realized they were probably talking about me.

“Morning, Dr. Everett,” the first one said. She seemed impossibly young and energetic.

“Morning,” I responded and picked up my pace. Over the course of the past year I’d received quite a bit of attention from certain women in the medical field. I was fairly young and presentable…and I was available, at least in theory.

Emotionally, I was worlds away from being ready for another relationship. The fact that I’d even talked to Winter on the subject of dating confused me.

I resented the way some people thought that because a year had passed, my time to grieve was over. They seemed to think I should’ve awakened a year after Hannah’s death, prepared to “move on” with my life—an expression I’d come to hate. I also hated people’s assumption that all I’d need to get over her loss was three hundred and sixty-five days. On day three hundred and sixty-six, I should be running around acting all bright and cheery as if—sigh of relief—I’d completely recovered from my wife’s death.

“I hear you’re going to be at the picnic,” the same young nurse said. She nearly had to trot to keep up with me.

I nodded, not wanting to encourage conversation.

“Our whole shift has volunteered. It’s such a wonderful idea, isn’t it?”

Again I nodded.

“I’ll see you there,” she said, sounding breathless. Before I could speak, she veered off, making a sharp turn into a patient’s room.

I made the rounds, filled out the paperwork and left the hospital with my head spinning. First Hannah, then Ritchie and now Patrick. It seemed everyone wanted to help me, and while I appreciated their efforts, I wasn’t prepared for any of this. From the hospital I drove to the office. Linda Barclay looked up from her desk when I entered through the private door reserved for staff.

“Good morning, Michael.”

Linda’s the only person at work who uses my first name. She’s nurse, surrogate mother and friend all rolled into one middle-aged woman.

“Good morning, Linda.” I walked past her, then turned back. “Why is it,” I asked, still perplexed over what had taken place at the hospital, “that everyone seems to have this opinion that I’ve grieved long enough? What unwritten decree is there that I only have one year?”

“Ah…” Her eyes widened, and I could see that my question had startled her.

“Apparently, I’m volunteering at the children’s picnic on Saturday,” I explained, inhaling a calming breath.

“Good for you. It’s about time.”

“Et tu, Brute?” I muttered, and Linda laughed.

“My family’s after me to date again,” I said, growing serious. Linda would understand. “I’m not ready.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

Her soothing voice took the edge off my irritation.

“I’ve basically been manipulated into going out with Hannah’s cousin.”

“The one who owns that restaurant?”

I nodded, surprised Linda would remember.

“Are you going to do it?”

“No.” There, I’d said it. My mind was made up. I refused to be controlled by another person’s wishes, even if that person happened to be my dead wife.

I loved Hannah—I would always love her—but that didn’t mean I was willing to get involved with Winter or anyone else just because Hannah felt I should. Like I’d told Linda, I wasn’t ready and I didn’t know when I would be.

Perhaps because the morning had started off wrong with Ritchie interrogating me about Winter’s message, I felt out of sorts all day. I didn’t intend to call her back. She was obviously in love with her Frenchman, and I clung to my memories of Hannah.

By the time I got home, I was cranky and tired and hungry. The fridge and cupboards revealed a depressing lack of anything quick or easy. I knew I should avoid processed foods whenever possible, but there were many times, such as tonight, when I would gladly have pulled a frozen pizza from the freezer and popped it in the oven.

A trip to the grocery store was definitely in order. I ended up eating a cheese sandwich and a bowl of cold cereal without milk. It wasn’t the most appetizing dinner of my life, but it filled my stomach. When I’d finished, I sat down in front of the computer, logged on and answered e-mail.

I was just beginning to feel human again when the phone rang. The sound jarred me. It seemed to have an urgent tone as if something bad had happened, or was about to.

Caller ID informed me it was Winter Adams. I stared at the readout but couldn’t make myself pick up.

Winter didn’t leave a message, which was actually a relief. I didn’t want to be rude; all I wanted was peace and quiet. Okay, so maybe I was being a jerk, but this was a matter of self-preservation. The refrain I’m not ready clamored in my head and I couldn’t ignore it.

“What is that noise?” Macy Roth asked Snowball, who’d planted himself on the closed toilet seat and studied her as she brushed her teeth. It was late and Macy was tired. She had a photo shoot in the morning; she planned to work on her knitting for half an hour or so and then go to sleep.

A car horn blared not far away, followed by the sound of screeching tires.

Macy turned off the water and then it happened again—a driver repeatedly hitting the horn.

Walking barefoot through her living room, the toothbrush clenched between her teeth, Macy decided to investigate. Peeking through the front window, she saw the lights of an oncoming car illuminate a large dog who stood, paralyzed by fear, in the middle of the street. Although Jackson Avenue was in a residential neighborhood, there was quite a lot of traffic, even at night. If the animal remained where it was, sooner or later it would be hit. Someone had to do something and, despite the noise, she didn’t think anyone else had noticed.