Free A Stranger's Wish by Gayle Roper Page B

whistle blew, and the younger boy grabbed his mother in a panic and collapsed against her in tears. She held him gently, smiling at her husband over the boy’s head. Finally the train began to move, and the child’s curiosity overcame his fear. He settled back in his mother’s arms to enjoy the ride.
    “Has your book sold well?” I asked.
    “I don’t know. It’s a recent release. Too soon to tell.”
    “If it’ll help, I’ll run right out and buy another copy.”
    Clarke laughed. “And I’ll buy one of your paintings.”
    “Bit of a financial difference.”
    He shrugged. “It’s only money.”
    “I’ve been working on the railroad,” I sang. I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oops. Sorry.”
    “Do you often burst into song?”
    “Regularly. It’s one of my worst habits.”
    “As habits go, it’s among the least offensive I’ve run into in a long time—and in my profession I run into some doozies.”
    The train puffed to a halt on a siding behind the lumberyard in Paradise.
    “The first lap of ‘The Road to Paradise,’” Clarke said. “Now they’ll move the engine from the front of the train to the back for the ride home.”
    I leaned out the window and watched with interest as the men worked. The engine was detached from the train and steamed slowly past us on a parallel track.
    “How will they turn the engine around?” I asked. “There’s no turntable or anything.”
    “They don’t turn it around.”
    “It goes all the way home backwards?”
    “You don’t think the engineer knows about reverse?”
    “But backwards the whole way?”
    “It’s not like a car, you know. There’s no traffic to deal with, and you don’t have to worry that he’ll jump the tracks.” There was laughter in Clarke’s voice, but no mockery or sarcasm.
    I looked at him witheringly. “Of course he won’t jump the tracks. Casey Jones would never do that.”
    “Casey Jones, sitting at the lever,” sang Clarke in a loud and sound baritone. The little boys in the seat ahead turned to stare.
    I laughed. “The secret is in not singing too loudly.”

     
    After Clarke dropped me at church, I drove my buttercup car to the hospital.
    “Mr. Everett Geohagan?” I asked the woman at the desk in case he’d been moved to a regular room.
    “Coronary care, fourth floor, room 410.” She looked up from her computer screen. “No visitors.”
    I went up to the fourth floor anyway, hoping that if I appeared assured enough, they would think I belonged there. The doors to the unit parted just as I arrived, and a weeping woman walked out. I slipped in.
    My stomach was queasy as I searched for Mr. Geohagan’s room. I expected someone to grab me by the shoulder at any minute, a scary proposition for a rule-keeper like me.
    “And just what are you doing here?” this mean person would yell at me. “Don’t you understand what Family Only means? Get lost! And don’t come back!”
    But no one paid any attention to me even when I went into the room where Mr. Geohagan lay with tubes and wires fettering him to several machines. I was comforted by the steady patterns on the screens recording his heartbeat and other functions.
    His eyes were closed, his face was pale, there was a slight purplish discoloration about his lips, and he looked what my grandmother would have called “peak-ed.”
    He must have sensed my presence, because his eyes snapped open.
    I smiled. “Hello.”
    “Kristie Matthews,” he said in his whispery voice.
    “You remembered!” I was pleased.
    “Of course I remember. How could I forget the girl who’s been nice enough to call to see how I’m doing?”
    “They told you?”
    “It’s supposed to make me feel good.”
    “The first time I called, I had an awful time.” I took the chair beside his bed.
    Mr. Geohagan smiled, and his eyes moved to my cheek. “How’s your dog bite?”
    “It’s going to be fine,” I said, automatically reaching up to the bandage. “It’s certainly nothing