Father John pulled me back into his arms. “Let’s focus on Cara now, Sam. She’s safe. Both of you are safe.” He took my hand and led me to a chair in the corner.
Then I noticed that we weren’t alone in the waiting room. It was packed: mothers with crying babies, teenagers hanging over chairs like old coats, older men chatting in quiet voices.
We reached our seats, but he didn’t let go of my hand. He started patting it like he was soothing a small child. “She had surgery to set her bones, but she’s scared. And she’s broken more than physically.”
The nurse came and led us to Cara’s room. She looked small and fragile, with theblip beep blipof her monitors making the only noise. Father John took her hand and whispered a prayer. I stood by the door and watched. As he crossed the room to leave, Cara glanced at the door and noticed me.
“Hi, Cara,” I whispered.
“I’ll visit tomorrow, Cara. You rest tonight and chat with Sam. God bless you, my dear.” Father John left us.
I crossed the room and stood next to her. “I’m sorry, Cara. Can I help? Somehow?” I waved my hands around the room, the monitor again the only noise.
She turned to me, tears running down her face. “Why are you here, Sam?”
“I’m here because this is where I should be. I never gave you enough credit, Cara, and I left you when I should have helped.”
“It happens.” She laughed, small and bitter. “No one ever sticks around.”
“I’m changing that, Cara. I’m sticking around for anyone who means anything to me. It’s tough, but I’m learning to do it.”
“Do I count in that group?”
“Sure. Why not?” That’s who I want to be—a friend who sticks—sticks to Kyle, to Ashley, to the Muirs, to Alex. I want to be someone to count on—someone with permanence.
“You won’t last,” Cara cried.
I tentatively reached out and stroked her hair. The gesture felt too personal, but it’s the most comforting feeling in the world when you’re sad or hurt. Mrs. Chapman used to do that.
“I thought Ric would last,” Cara said. “I thought he would marry me.”
Poor Cara still reminded me of Lydia Bennet. Lydia thought Wickham would marry her too, and it “did not much signify when.”
“Did he push you to make you leave?”
“He’s hated me for months.” She shook her head back and forth. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you.”
“You don’t need to. Stop. Don’t tell me anything.”
I chatted with Cara until the nurse kicked me out. As the Metra sped me home, a new memory flashed with each bump of the tracks. I saw the differences in Cara’s life and mine. I saw the similarities. I saw Josh and Ric, my Willoughby, her horrific Wickham. The window dressing may change, but as Austen shows us: human nature remains the same.
I visited Cara again after work today and snuck her some ice cream. As I got ready to leave, I decided to give her some advice—not that she ever listened to me before.
“Here it comes,” Cara groaned.
“What?”
“You’ve got that ‘I’m-going-to-solve-your-problems’ look.”
“How do you know that?”
“You always thought I was too dumb, but I listened, Sam. And I know that look.”
“Oh.” I remembered some of the ways I had dismissed her in high school. “Since you know it’s coming, here it is . . . You need to go back.”
Cara blanched. “He’ll kill me.”
“Not to him. To Grace House.”
