A Christmas Miracle

"Yes?" She looked as if she'd just woken from a nap. There was something familiar about her.

"I'm looking for Wendy Reynolds," I explained. "I'm Nick. Nick Wallace."

The young woman frowned at me. For some reason, I felt a strange compulsion to apologize for my presence.

"Do the Reynolds family live here? Do I have the right house?" I asked.

She blinked a few times. "Yes, we do. How do you know Wendy?"

"We were friends when we were kids. I was best friends with your brother, J.J. Are you Lizzie?"

"Yes, I am." She stepped aside, "Please, come in."

Stepping inside, I glanced around the wide, cherry-wood paneled entranceway and spacious parlors to the left and right.

An uncomfortable silence ensued and I wondered if I should have made other arrangements to see Wendy.

"I'm not sure if you remember this, but I attended several of your birthday parties. They were on Christmas Day."

Lizzie tilted her head. "That's right. My birthday is December 25th. Have you kept in touch with Wendy all this time? She never mentioned you."

"No," I explained. "I lost touch when your family moved away to Arizona." I glanced toward the stairs. "Is your mom here? I'd love to say hello to her."

Lizzie spoke in a low, monotone voice. "She and Dad went away for the weekend."

"What about Wendy?" I asked. "Is she around? I was hoping to talk to her about something."

Lizzie frowned again. "No."

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

Pushing her hair back off her forehead, Lizzie took a deep breath as if to brace herself for something. "She's not coming back. I'm sorry, Nick. You obviously don't know."

I shook my head. "Know what?"

"Wendy died around two weeks ago," she said. "The funeral was a week ago."

I could do nothing but stare at Lizzie in disbelief.

"That can't be right," I said still in shock. "I spoke with her around a week ago at the hospital."

"What hospital?" Lizzie asked with a shake of her head.

"St. Vincent," I replied. "I was taken there after I was shot pursuing a suspect. I'm a police officer in Middletown."

Lizzie took a good look at me, and then slowly, she began to nod. "I recognize you. You were on the news. It was a carjacking, wasn't it?"

"That's right. I had to have two bullets removed in surgery, and I was in a coma for five days. When I woke up, Wendy was there."

Lizzie shook her head, "That can't be, Wendy died in a car crash around the time you were shot."

By now my heart was pounding like a sledgehammer.

"You don't look good, Nick. Would you like something to drink?" she asked. "A cup of coffee, tea or a glass of water?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you can't be," she asserted. "You can't be fine, because I'm not fine. Not after what you just said to me."

Still not completely believing that Wendy was gone, I limped after Lizzie to a large modern kitchen at the back of the house with white cabinets and shiny granite countertops. She put a teapot on to boil.

"There has to be a mix up," Lizzie said, leaning her hip against the center island. "Maybe you dreamed it. Were you medicated?"

"At first, yes," I replied, "but I didn't dream it. She was real. I spoke with her more than once."

Lizzie shivered from head to toes.

"Did she work at St. Vincent's as well?" I asked, still feeling confused by all this.

"Yes, she was a resident there."

"Psychiatry'" I said, even when I already knew the answer.

"Yes, how did you know...?"

"She told me."

Lizzie poured two cups of tea, sat down and sipped at one. Her hands were shaking.

"I'm so sorry. I'm in shock. I swear I talked to her the day before I was discharged," I told her.

I began to feel slightly nauseous as the news settled in. Wendy... Gone...

Neither of us said anything for a moment until I opened my eyes.

"It couldn't have been a dream," I insisted. "She told me things, like the fact that she was doing a psychiatry residency. I wouldn't have known that. She said she was in third year. She also told me about your brother, J.J. not living with your family anymore."

Lizzie stared at me with bewilderment. "What exactly did she tell you?"

"That your Dad put him in a military school and he didn't let any of you attend his graduation. J.J. never came back home and you lost contact with him. I swear I didn't know that either before, and I know it's true because I had my partner look him up and everything Wendy told me checked out."

Lizzie studied my face for a moment, then she moved to the other side of the kitchen, as if to put the center island between us. "Are you sure you didn't talk to her... like a year ago? Maybe you're confused because of what happened to you. You were in a coma, weren't you?"

"I was." I held up a hand. "Please don't worry. I'm not crazy and I'm not here to harm you." Reaching into my back pocket, I withdrew my badge which I always carried, even when I was off duty. I laid it on the granite countertop between us. "There's my badge number if you want to write it down."

She stared at it hesitantly, then met my gaze. "It's all right. You can put that away."

I picked it up and slipped it back into my pocket.

We sipped our teas and regarded each other warily.

"What did she look like?" Lizzie asked. "Can you describe her for me?"

"Sure. Long brown hair, green eyes, slim, about five-foot seven. I'd estimate a hundred and twenty pounds."

Lizzie continued to watch me, then gestured for me to follow her out of the kitchen.

"There's a picture of her in the living room. Come and see it."

We moved into a large formal room. Lizzie crossed to the mantelpiece which displayed at least a dozen framed family photographs.

"Here she is," she said, handing me an 8x10 graduation photo. "This was taken when she finished medical school a few years ago."

My stomach clenched and I nodded. "Yes, this is her and there's no way I could have known what she looked like, because I swear I haven't seen her since I was ten." I handed the picture back. "I should have said this earlier, but I am truly sorry for your loss, Lizzie," I offered.

"Thank you, Nick. I understand, I'm still in shock," she said as she carefully set the photo back on the mantel. "But this still doesn't explain what you saw. Or think you saw."

"No," I replied, "and I'm a little freaked out right now."

We moved to the sofa and sat down on opposite ends, facing each other.

"I remember seeing something about the carjacking and the shooting on the news," Lizzie said, "but we were all pretty distracted because it happened right about the same time Wendy was killed in a car accident. I believe it might have been the same night."

I told her the date and she confirmed that Wendy had passed away on the same night I was brought in by ambulance.

Feeling more than a little anxious, I raked my fingers through my hair. "Wendy told me that she was working the night shift. She was the first person I saw when I opened my eyes. She was right there, leaning over me, shining a penlight in my eyes. Then she visited me every night and conducted a series of psychiatric interviews."

"Did anyone else see this person who claimed to be Wendy?"

Lizzie asked, and I wondered if she thought there might be a doppelganger out there, someone who had stolen her sister's identity. It made more logical sense than the alternative which neither of us dared to acknowledge.

"I'm not sure," I said. "There were always nurses and orderlies coming and going, but I can't tell for sure."

"You said she performed a psych consult?" Lizzie mentioned. "Did she write things down in your chart?"

"Yes."

"Then that would be in the records department at the hospital. If I could take a look at it, I'd recognize her handwriting."

"I could go in today and ask to see it," I suggested. "You could come with me if you want."

She shook her head. "They won't just release it to you. It's against hospital policy. They'll get you to fill out a form and that could take a while. Did they give you a discharge summary when you left?"

"Yes, I have it at home."

"Did you read it? Did Wendy sign her name to it?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I read over the whole thing but there was no mention of the psychiatric interviews, only the physical stuff and some details about follow-up physio treatments. They said they would send a copy to my regular doctor and I'm supposed to book an appointment with him next week."

Lizzie nodded as if none of this was a surprise to her.

"I shouldn't suggest this," she said, "but I could get my hands on it if you want me to."

"How would you do that?"

"I'm a medical student," she casually explained. "I'm in my second year at Harvard and I have a badge for St. Vincent. I've been helping out in the ER this semester."

"You're going to be a doctor, too?" I asked. "Does medicine run in your blood or something?"

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I doubt that. What I really think is that Dad always knew how to pull our strings, like a great puppet master."

She stood up and I stood up as well. "This won't be breaking any rules, will it? I'm a cop. I don't want to get you into any trouble."

"We'll be fine as long as I have your express permission to look at your chart. Do I?"

"Yes, of course."

"Okay then. I'll just go into the records department and say your doctor wants to check on something. They'll see my badge and give me the chart, no problem. I'll take a look, then I'll return it."

CHAPTER 10

As soon as we arrived at the hospital, Lizzie reached into the back seat for her lab coat. Her badge was pinned to the pocket.

I dropped her off at the main door and told her I'd find a place to park and meet her in the cafeteria.

Almost an hour later, while I sat alone at a table staring into my black coffee, Lizzie approached and sat down across from me.

"Well?" I said. "Were you able to read the chart?"

She leaned forward, folded her hands on the table and stared at me directly. "Yes."

"And? Was it Wendy's handwriting?"

Lizzie's chest expanded and contracted with a heavy sigh.

"No, because there was no record of any psychiatric consultations at all. No notes about any of the interviews you described. There was no sign of Wendy in your chart. I'm sorry, Nick."

"Great. Now you must think I'm a total nutcase. Completely delusional."

"I hate to tell you this," Lizzie said with a smile. "But it's a little late for that. Since the moment you walked into my house, you've been suggesting you had conversations with my sister's ghost."

"I never said ghost. That's your word, not mine."

"Fine." She held her hands up in surrender. "I just think we should call a spade a spade. Do you really think you talked with her?"

I nodded.

"That's why you came by the house today," Lizzie went on, "To see her again because you liked her."

I nodded again. "She told me where you were living and gave me directions to find your house."

"You have good taste, because Wendy was the most amazing person I ever knew."

I decided to bring the subject back to my records. "Would the psych notes be somewhere else, like in the psych department?"

"No, the only place they'd be is in your chart. In the records department. I did see the notation for a consult, but there was a line drawn through it, so someone obviously cancelled it. I'm not sure why. Maybe you could talk to your doctor about that."

Now I was beginning to wonder if I really was losing my mind.

But that wouldn't explain all the things Wendy had told me about her brother J.J. and how I knew where their house was.

"I need to talk to Dr. Russell," I said, rising from my chair. "I want to ask him why he cancelled the psych order."

"Would you mind if I came with you?" Lizzie asked.

"You've come this far," I replied. "You might as well stick around for the rest." I gestured with a hand for her to follow.

CHAPTER 11

"For some reason," I said to Dr. Russell when I found him, "when I got up this morning, I remembered that you had ordered a psychiatric consult when I woke up from my coma. Do you remember that?"

I glanced over at Lizzie who was waiting discreetly by the elevators.

"Yes," he replied, and stopped to face me. "But now that you mention it, I don't recall seeing any notes on that," he said. "Did someone come and see you?"

"No," I answered. "I thought maybe you'd cancelled it."

He stared at me for a moment, then frowned. "You should definitely have talked to someone. I can set that up for you now, if you'd like."

I shook my head. "No, it's not really necessary because I'll be seeing someone through work." I wasn't absolutely certain about that, but I assumed it would be the case.

Dr. Russell regarded me intently. "Have you had any other experiences like what you described to me when you first regained consciousness?"

I looked down at my shoes. "No, I think it was a dream, like you said. I feel better now."

"Good to hear." He nodded. "Just make sure you follow up with your regular physician in a week or two."

"I will. Thank you, doctor."

"So it wasn't Dr. Russell who cancelled the order," Lizzie said as we got into my car. "It

won't be easy to find out who cancelled it. You'd have to confront everyone who worked those shifts when you were in recovery because it was just a line drawn through the order in regular blue pen. No one initialed it or anything."

As we walked to the car, I told Lizzie about my near-death experience.

"Maybe I was dreaming the whole thing with Wendy," I said as I inserted the key into the ignition and started the engine. "Or maybe I need professional help."

"I'm not suggesting that," Lizzie said, somewhat defensively.

"No, but you're thinking it and I can't blame you. What I'm telling you is crazy. It's beyond crazy. "I still can't believe she's gone," I softly said as I stared blankly at the car in front of us. "And she died on the same day I arrived at the hospital. Don't you think that's strange?"

"I do," Lizzie replied in a solemn tone. She sat quietly until we merged onto the exit that led into her neighborhood. "God, something just occurred to me, something I read in your chart."

I turned to glance at her while still keeping most of my attention on the road. "What was it?"

"I skimmed over everything, Nick, but what's almost too coincidental to ignore is the fact that you were brought in by ambulance and admitted to the ER at the exact hour of Wendy's death. She was also brought to St. Vincent."

I pulled into Lizzie's driveway, parked the car and turned off the engine. "What are you suggesting?"

"In some cases I studied," she said as she got out of the car and shut the door, "patients described floating out of the room and seeing things that were happening in the hospital. Maybe Wendy saw you enter the ER, recognized you and wanted to stick around to make sure you were okay. Unlike you, she never returned to her body."

We walked to her home and she unlocked the front door.

"I hope you don't have plans for tonight," she said, "because I'd love it if you could stay for supper. Clearly there's a lot to talk about and I'm all alone here anyway. At least for tonight." There was a melancholy look in her eye, and I knew she was missing Wendy.

"I don't have plans," I said.

"Good. Are you hungry now? And are you okay with leftovers?"

"Sure," I replied. "I'm a policeman, I eat pretty much anything."

I followed her to the kitchen and I slid up onto a stool. My leg was stiff and throbbing and my abdomen was sore. I'd definitely done too much walking.

"Are you okay?" she asked, glancing at my leg. "Is that bothering you?"

"I'm fine. It just aches sometimes when I overdo it."

"Stay seated, then," she said. "I'll take care of everything."

Lizzie uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. She opened the fridge and withdrew a pan of garlic butter chicken and potatoes wrapped in foil which she carried to the stovetop.

"How thoughtless of me," she mentioned as she pressed the power buttons on the oven. "I didn't even ask if you liked white wine before I poured it."

"White wine is good," I replied, reaching for the glass in front of me.

"How long were you in a coma?" she asked.

"Five days. I was reliving my life like in a fast motion movie. Then Wendy started saying things like, 'Open your eyes, Nick. Can you hear me?' Then I opened my eyes, there she was."

She drank a sip of wine and asked, "Do you think there was some sort of overlap between your memories and your return to the real world?"

"Maybe."

I then recounted everything I could remember about my conversation with Wendy that first night. I also told Lizzie about the questions she'd asked when she returned the next day to conduct the first interview.

"She seemed to do everything by the book," I said, "ticking off boxes, asking standard questions. She seemed very competent. It never, not even for a single second, occurred to me that she might not be a genuine doctor."

"She was genuine," Lizzie said. "She was brilliant. She graduated at the top of her class."

"What about you?" I asked. "You must have done pretty well for yourself."

She shrugged indifferently "I just worked really hard. You wouldn't believe how strict my dad was about homework and extra-curricular activities."

"I do believe it," I replied, sensing some obvious bitterness. "Remember, I lived down the street from you, so I knew your father. I still feel guilty about the fact that your family moved out of our neighborhood. For a long time, I blamed myself for that."

"Why?" She tossed more lettuce into the bowl.

I went on to tell her about J.J. and me.

"After that, your father warned me to stay away from J.J. A For Sale sign went up the followings week, and that was the end of our friendship."

"I can't say I'm surprised," Lizzie said with a shake of her head. "But I'm sure there were other reasons why my dad wanted to move. I saw pictures of that house. I suspect it wasn't quite good enough for his lavish tastes. He always demanded the best. Still does."

"Like this place," I noted, glancing up at the chandelier over the kitchen island.

By this time, a delicious aroma was filling the kitchen's air. Lizzie grabbed a couple of oven mitts and removed the pan from the oven.

She spooned up two servings, and said, "We can eat in the kitchen if you'd prefer. It's more casual."

"Works for me," I replied.

"Wendy spent a lot of time talking to me about J.J.," I carefully mentioned. "She told me she regretted not trying to contact him when she had the chance, and made me promised I'd look him up after I got out of the hospital."

Lizzie inclined her head. "I can't believe she told you all that. None of us have spoken to J.J. since he got out of military school. He didn't come to Wendy's funeral, but I doubt he even knew about the accident. I don't know where he is so I couldn't call him. Dad don't let us talk about him."

Looking down at my plate, I nodded with understanding and thought about whether or not I should even tell Lizzie what Bert had discovered about her brother's fate after graduating from military school. She didn't sound like she wanted to know, which was exactly how Wendy had described the situation.

"It wasn't easy for me to hear about J.J.," I explained, "because he was my best friend for a good part of my childhood."

"That makes me sad," she thoughtfully replied. "I never really knew the boy you and Wendy must have known. I think my parents were relieved when he moved out because they didn't want him to be a bad influence on me."

I finished my dinner and sat forward with my forearms on the table. "That was delicious. Thank you."