Roz Fox - Family Fortune

“There must be some mistake,” Crystal said faintly.

“Nah,” Skip said, ducking his head. “It’s awful, but my mom named me Sinclair Malone West. After her daddy. I never met him or nothin’. He died when she was little.”

Before Crystal could explain that she hadn’t been referring to his name, Randy broke in. “How come everybody calls you Skipper, then? Was that what your old man called you?”

Skip shook his head and thrust his jaw out pugnaciously. “I never had no old man. So what?”

“Everybody’s got an old man,” Randy scoffed with worldly knowledge. “My mom says they don’t all stick around after they’ve had their fun bouncing between the sheets.” Over Crystal’s sharply indrawn breath, he added, “It’s plain dumb, Skipper, saying you don’t got an old man.”

The boys paid no attention to the fact that Skip looked ready to explode. Pablo injected his two cents’ worth from the other side of the room. “Yeah, dude. Even test-tube babies got a padre.”

“Well, I don’t!” Skipper shouted. He jabbed a thumb into his skinny chest. “My mom said there was just her and me and nobody else. After she got shot by the coke-head who robbed the store where she worked, there was only me.” His face had turned a mottled red.

Crystal stepped between the beds, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Then she made a T with her hands. “Time-out, guys. Randy, you and Pablo read a comic book or watch TV. I want a word with Mr. Gibson.”

Though sullen, the boys settled down. “Now,” she said to the orderly, “could you check with your office? Skip had surgery yesterday. I find it hard to believe they’d start PT today. Have they even had you sit up yet?” she asked Skip.

“Yeah. ‘Course they have.”

“Are you some busybody patient liaison sent by administration to bug me?” Gibson sputtered. “I’m just following orders from my boss, lady.”

Crystal spread her palms. “You questioned whether or not Tanner should have therapy because he was still in traction. I’m merely doing the same on Skip’s behalf. I don’t work for the hospital. I’m the business manager for Lyon Broadcasting, and Skipper’s friend.”

“Nurse Pam said Crystal is a financial wizard,” Skip put in, his temper obviously cooled.

Though Gibson muttered to himself, he looked at Crystal with new respect as he slouched over to the wall phone. In the children’s ward, patients didn’t have telephones beside their beds. Administration was probably afraid they’d run up long-distance bills. The kids came to the ward from all over the state. Pablo, like Skip, was in local foster care. Randy’s mother lived in Baton Rouge. Felipe reportedly had family in the Atchafalaya Swamp; he spoke only French, and Crystal had never seen anyone visit the boy. Barry Hodges needed more specialized care than was available in Vidalia; he had a cousin in town who visited occasionally. Moses Brown, the last of the six to be admitted, never mentioned family; he hardly said boo. Crystal knew he liked the picture of Caleb Tanner only because Moses had immediately tucked it into his pillowcase. Nurse Pam said that was where he squirreled away his few treats. Crystal had heard that Moses was Jamaican. One of a large family. He’d been injured playing street ball. Which specific sport, she didn’t know. Surgery hadn’t rescued his pitifully small body from pain-that she did know. It’d be a while before they scheduled him for physical therapy.

The orderly hung up the phone and turned. “Dr. Snyder ordered this young man to start upper-body exercise today. That way he’ll be able to balance on the bars in two weeks when they cut off his cast.”

Skipper’s eyes glazed in sudden fear. He grasped Crystal’s hand. “I’m scared it’ll hurt. Will you come with me?”

She glanced at the orderly. “Is that permissible?”

Gibson hitched a shoulder. “It’s a big area. If the PT who’s scheduled to work with Skipper has any problem with you being there, he or she will ask you to wait outside. There’s a nice waiting room. We do a lot of outpatient work, as well as inpatient care.”

“Then I’ll go.” She smiled at Skip, who still had a stranglehold on her fingers. He didn’t let go, either, which made it awkward when Gibson tried to transfer the boy to the wheelchair. The man worked around the inconvenience. He kept up a line of banter without making Skip feel like a baby for needing to hang on to someone. For all his size, the man was gentle.

“You’ve obviously been at this job awhile,” Crystal said.

“Six years. I hope to be a physical therapist someday.”

“It’s a tough course, I understand,” she murmured sympathetically.

The man rolled Skip’s chair into the hall. “It’s finding the time and money to take classes. I have a family to support.”

“No wonder you’re so patient with Skip. You have children.”

“Yes. And I’m responsible for two sets of parents who are getting on in years.”

“That’s rough,” Crystal said. “The broadcasting company I work for ran a series recently on what’s being called the sandwich generation. I caught part of it. Mostly people talking about the difficulties involved in juggling care for both.”

He grinned at her. “I wish they’d talked to me. We bought a big house in town. All of us live together. My kids know their grandparents. They’re learning early about love and compassion and helping out around the house. If you ask me, it beats the alternative of growing up in small isolated families.”

Skipper leaned back in the wheelchair so he could look up at the man who pushed him. “Your place sounds neat. I don’t s’pose you have room for one more?” The wistful tone of his voice caused Crystal to tighten her hold on his hand.

“I’m afraid all the beds are taken,” Gibson said lightly. He raised a brow at Crystal as if wondering what he’d inadvertently stepped into.

“Skip is in foster care,” she informed him. Then, speaking to the boy, she asked softly, “You like living at Sandy’s, don’t you?”

“She and Mark are okay,” he said listlessly. “There’s a lot of kids and the house isn’t very big. And Mark doesn’t like us to make noise. Sandy says he takes complaints from customers all day. When he gets home he wants peace and quiet.”

“But they treat you well?” she pressed.

“Yeah. Mark don’t hit any of us like Leroy did at my last house.”

“Good. Because if you were having problems, I’d call Rachel.”

His face brightened. “I forgot you know my caseworker real well. Ms. Fontaine is nice. Not grouchy like some of ’em are.”

“That’s because she’s walked the walk, kiddo. She was a foster child in the house where I live. André Lyon, my boss, would’ve adopted her, but her mom refused to sign the papers. Lucky for Rachel, her mother agreed to permanent foster care. Rachel said the move to Lyoncrest changed her life. She knows the system can work, Skipper. Promise me that if you ever have problems, you’ll let her know at once.”

“Sure. Okay. Wow!” His voice rose excitedly and he tugged on Crystal’s jacket sleeve. “Isn’t that Cale over there?”

Gibson had wheeled Skipper’s chair to the doorway of a huge room that reminded Crystal of a fancy gym. She couldn’t begin to identify all the equipment, but Tanner worked at one machine that seemed designed to strengthen his upper body. Crystal didn’t want to stare. However, she couldn’t seem to help it. Caleb was bare to the waist. Ridges of muscle stood out across his shoulders as he hoisted himself from the seat of his wheelchair using nothing but his arms. Sweat glistened on his skin. A few drops pooled like tears in the rough hair that fanned his broad chest. The thatch of light brown narrowed before it met his navel. Beyond that, Crystal could only guess. And guessing made her uncomfortable.