Counting Stars by Michele Paige Holmes Read Free Book Online

on any one stage, it might be best to come in and talk to someone on a regular basis.” Seeing Paul’s dumbfounded look, he added, “I can give you some names . . .”
    Paul stared numbly at the words on the paper. A pamphlet? That was the best they could do for him? That was all they had to offer a man with terminal cancer, premature twins, and a dead wife? He glared angrily at the list.
    Denial. Complete denial. It was the only way to cope at first.
    Sorrow. So overwhelming that it leads to . . .
    Depression. Which was really bad when you had to force yourself to get up and get to the doctor every week. And, of course, the all-consuming . . .
    Anger. Misdirected as it was and followed quickly by . . .
    Guilt. Yeah. Been there, done that one too.
    He could have written the list himself. A year and a half of hellish treatments and death at his doorstep practically made him an expert.
    “You ever have a terminal illness?” Paul asked as he folded the pamphlet and stuffed it in his pocket.
    Collin shook his head. “Uh, no. I had an aunt with—”
    “Ever have a child in the intensive care unit?”
    Again Collin shook his head.
    “You married?” Paul asked.
    “Four years.” The therapist seemed relieved that he could give a positive answer.
    “I don’t suppose your wife’s ever been hit by a drunk driver on the way home from her baby shower.”
    “Uh, no,” Collin said quietly. “Listen, I know what you’re getting at, but just because I haven’t experienced the things you are going through right now doesn’t mean I—”
    But Paul had turned and walked away, unwilling to let the grief counselor see stage four in action.
    He knew well enough that every sort of emotion was to be expected right now. And he thought he’d just about had them all. He’d imagined conversations with Tami, where together they discussed the major decisions that lay before them. It wasn’t until the woman who delivered his mail had asked if his wife was in the hospital having their babies and he had said “yes” that Paul began to face reality. That reality being his acknowledgment that Tami was actually gone and he was going it alone. After that, he hadn’t been able to get out of bed for three days.
    Then there was the day when he’d actually cried with joy. It was after Mark’s surgery, and the doctor said for the first time that Mark looked like he was going to pull through. Paul had cried like a baby himself. His son was going to live.
    But right now he was just mad, and justifiably so, at Tami. The one thing he’d said he’d never do, she’d asked of him. He picked up the crumpled note beside the computer and reread the familiar lines without really looking at them. You know who their father should be. She hadn’t said his name. He could find someone else—some nice young couple longing for children.
    Paul set the note down again. Trouble was, Tami was right. He did know who should raise their twins. Pete. Funny thing, how a person could nearly hate a family member yet have incredible respect for him at the same time.
    Paul drummed his fingers on the bottom of the keyboard. It was 12:17 now. Doctor Kline would tell him off for sure if he found out the hours he’d been keeping. And the twins weren’t even home yet. Soon he’d be up at night with babies. His babies.
    He thought of two-and-a-half-pound Madison and two-pound Mark lying in their side-by-side isolettes in the NICU, ventilators whooshing congruently. He thought of the unassembled cribs, the car seats still in boxes, and the piles of unopened baby paraphernalia in the other room. He thought of his chemo treatments and the dire predictions of time allotted to him that had already passed.
    Paul swallowed a lump in his throat along with the last of his pride. His eyes scanned the screen again, rereading the email one last time.

Date: Sat, 6 September 2003 12:43 AM
From: “Paul Bryant”
To: “Peter Bryant”