Life by Chance

By Tania L Ramos

Twenty-four-year-old Elsa is a nurse who misses belonging and being wanted. Depressed and frustrated with the woman she has become, Elsa desperately wishes for someone to enter her life who needs her. One night while at work, her wish comes true as she holds the dead body of an abandoned newborn boy named Chance.

As Elsa prepares the baby for the morgue, he revives in her arms. The event is deemed a miracle, but Elsa soon discovers a paradox: she must be within twenty-three feet of Chance at all times or he will die again. When she reluctantly takes custody, Elsas dark world is suddenly transformed by motherhood. With help from new and old friends, her small community, and a vigilant doctor, Elsa learns what it means to survive and sacrifice, all while trying to remain detached. As the years grow so does the permitted distance between Chance and Elsa. But when Chance matures into a teenager and meets Juliette, he makes a wish of his own that changes everything once again.

Life by Chance shares the poignant tale of a young nurse and an abandoned newborn boy as their lives intertwine and the power of a mothers love forever alters their destinies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532000133

Tania L Ramos

Tania L. Ramos earned her Bachelor of Science in Nursing. She is a registered nurse who fosters stray/abandoned cats through SoxRescue.org, supports local indie arts, and speaks about the importance of following one’s dreams. Tania lives in Southern California with her children and pets.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

J ULIETTE DROVE, INSISTING Chance was in no position to drive, but he knew better. There was the matter of the time he drove to seduce death, and the time he nearly died out of the blue—still fresh in his mind. Maneuvering the serpentine highway wasn’t easy, but she handled the curves like a seasoned NASCAR driver. He was impressed, only screaming out twice. Juliette scolded him for being a baby. With a laugh, he professed his undying love and vowed to marry her if they survived. At those words, she slowed down by nearly half, causing him to grin from ear to ear.

As they maneuvered the right turn past Crest Park, she slowed until they entered the winding, narrow, residential roads. Every house was shadowed under an umbrella of firs, and for the first time in his eighteen years, Chance opened his eyes to the beauty he lived in. The smell of fresh pines filled his nose as he lowered the window and felt the cool mountain air wisp his face. The place was familiar, but he didn’t recall ever truly taking anything in. They wound down the tiny streets then finally turned past the conference retreat center to the closed-off dirt road. The thick rusted chain link was still broken after a decade. Most kids parked along the dirt road, ran through the forest, fooled around under the stars, and eventually trekked to the wishing well. But Juliette, in her vibrant youth, pummeled the gas pedal and took the bumpy dirt and pine needle road as if it were smooth glass.

Slow down! he shouted.

The car drifted; his hands braced against the dash and window as she kicked up a whirlwind of dirt coming to a complete stop just short of a massive pine trunk. He looked at her with delighted concern as he blurted out, You’ve done this before.

"I may have borrowed my mom’s car once or twice senior year, she said. Then, with a playful slap to his cheek: I’m not always the good girl. I can be bad."

He watched, impressed—mostly turned on—as she exited the car, a speeding vixen. The girl was definitely not an open book, and he loved that he didn’t know everything about her. After catching his breath, he walked to the cobblestone well where Juliette was waiting. The romance of the well had long since left his discombobulated world. All he saw was a rustic enigma of piled stones. The picture of terror tormenting his mother for years was nothing more than slate gray cobblestone and earth. Still, the way the well nestled against the towering aged trees and patches of wild growth allotted unease.

Juliette ambled over the uneven ground, quickly wrapping around his waist. She was nervous. The way her arms twitched as she buried her head into his chest was telltale. Maybe he did know her after all. The well sat in the middle of a clearing, as if nothing else dared approach, save for brave wild vines that undoubtedly crept down in search of a quenching drink. Slowly, the daylight in the clearing began to fall, making way to looming darkness. The breeze kicked up to a slow storm. Chance looked up to see dusky grim clouds blocking out the afternoon sun.

That’s bizarre, Juliette said. Her eyes were glued to the formation of thunder clouds. It’s supposed to be clear and sunny all week.

The burden of breathing began to take its toll on Chance’s lungs. Something was wrong. He dropped to his knees at the precise moment Juliette’s phone blared out. Answer it, he insisted. Answer it!

Juliette shook her head, panic veiled her face, but she answered. The conversation was fast; he could see the marked tremors in her hands as she fell into him. A rush of pain struck swiftly like red-hot pokers stabbing into his gullet. There was agony, cramping, and the strong sensation of cooking from the inside out. Sweat formed on his body as he wriggled into a fetal position then contracted into a rigid ball of tension.

What’s … happening? he managed to drive out between a locked jaw.

She’s dying. Her voice quivered as tears flooded from her wide eyes.

Seeing Juliette so discomposed was painful. Watching her ache wasn’t how he wanted to die. The stiffness of his body became unbearable as a morbid scream escaped his throat. Juliette held him in her locked embrace, the heat from her tears slipping onto his face. This was not how he wanted to die. His insides rotted with each second. Death was not easy. Death was not as sweet as his mother portrayed the last eighteen years. He felt no welcome, no rush, no awareness of gratification. And from under Juliette’s huddled, quaking body, he looked up to see nothing but darkness lingering above. Darkness was not something he could embrace. There had to be hope. He succeeded to whisper into Juliette’s ear, A coin.

After searching her pockets, she raised empty hands. His spirits faded, encouraged to accept his fate at the well. The world turned to a haze, brushed thick by a milky white cloud over his eyes as his breathing slowed to short ominous pants. All he could see was Juliette’s red face soaked as she shouted inaudible words. There was a knocking on his chest, though the pain had fleeted. He felt his body wither under each pounding blow. He was dead, yet life had not fully escaped. Death began in twilight, calm before the reaper came to claim its seed. One after another, the sensation of a hammer striking his chest rocked his numb body. Juliette was striking down on his chest with a manic, fevered mourning in her eyes.

She’s trying to save me. Poor Juliette.

Suddenly, she leapt from his body, leaving him to gaze at the gloomy gray clouds watching above. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said a twister was forming. The rubble on the ground began to rise and spin like wildfire. He felt his hair pulling into the upheaval. The end was upon him. Whatever brought him into the world, whatever force or wish, was recalling his life. Predetermination was laying claim to the baby boy it gave life to eighteen years prior. Now fate would procure a man. He felt a smile.

She won’t be in pain anymore.

As he succumbed to the howling wind, Juliette threw herself over him, begging him not to go yet. She escaped his sight. He was alone. As he surrendered to the thought of his death, the face of his love reentered his space. Take this, she whispered into his ear. He felt something cold pressed into his hand. Don’t die. Don’t die! she shouted.

A trickle of moisture traced down his cheek until the taste of salt was at his lips. Juliette thrust her hands down on his chest and shouted once more. He couldn’t move and couldn’t tell her. She shook her head, a look of courage and determination now consumed her perfect face. Chance felt his body dragging against the ground as the sky above moved like a slow black and white film. Living didn’t seem so scary anymore, and dying was almost romantic, some tragic affair. His eyes rolled up to see Juliette at his head, dragging him with all the might she could muster. When she stopped, she stood over him and slapped his face. Her hits felt like a numb Novocain tap against his cheek.

Her mouth was moving, but he heard nothing except the roar of thunder above, cracking in the sound of a million horse whips. In an instant, his body relaxed—his mother was surely dead. Life was leaving him, but Juliette still shouted.

She loves you, he heard break from the void. The voice seemed to come from the air as a tender whisper, and he couldn’t help but feel confident at the words. You can save her, Chance. It’s not the wish.

It’s the love, he muttered low. Rolling his eyes up to see the well sitting just behind him took an insurmountable effort. Juliette managed to pull his limp body onto her lap. She raised his hand above his face to show the silver coin in his hand, the coin Mark had sent in the mail, the one that brought luck.

Make your wish, she said, as he watched her lop his hand over the rim of the stone pile.

The coin eased from his limp fingers.

Make your wish! Juliette shouted until her body fell into his. I love you, she breathed into his ear, and he felt the world go cold and black.

When he opened his eyes once more, the world was at a standstill. He felt the heaving body of his girlfriend. On his last breath was a prayer, not a wish, Please. Take me instead … she loved me.

I love her.

A distinct sound of a heartbeat echoed in Chance’s ear. The feel of burning pain ached at his back while wrists throbbed. Pain became awareness, but … he was feeling. In an instant his eyes fluttered open to find Juliette lopped over his body, crying in bereavement. But, he wasn’t dead. He felt vivaciously alive, body sore in the realization that every scrape and bump pulsated. Is she alive? Perhaps the doctors saved his mother. There was not a cloud in the perfectly topaz California mountain sky as he glanced upward.

Chance squeezed Juliette’s hand. Why are you crying? Before she could respond, he was already holding her close.

Juliette grasped him so hard her fingers felt like daggers digging into his back. He shirked under the pain, wincing then letting out a yelp. You’re alive, she proclaimed.

I hurt all over. He pushed away, wondering how that could be right.

She gave him a thorough look over then exposed his back. Road rash, she declared.

Likely from being dragged across the ground, he thought. It’ll get better as we get closer to the hospital.

She gasped, hands clasped over her agape quivering mouth. She’s alive?

Truth was: he didn’t know what to think. Nothing about their disparaged life was simple, but he hoped, for Elsa’s sake, for his mother, that was the case. They couldn’t discount the strange happenings only seconds prior. The sky. The wind. Everything was unexplainable. A strong desire to return to his mom as soon as possible took a vice hold. Like clockwork, Juliette’s ringing phone broke the thick silence. She answered, the conversation short as she let out a few um hums, and somber okays. Closing the phone, she dropped her hand and gave a blank stare.

Why are you awake? she asked, but he could tell the question was for her. Chance took her hand, breaking the trance. She wrapped around his neck then whispered, She’s on life support.

Again, the phone rang, but she seemed lost. Chance lifted her hand to see the phone. The name on the screen read: Mark.

Hello, he answered in a rush.

The voice on the other end was distant through the static. Chance? Is that you?

Chance closed his eyes, feeling a moment’s reprieve as the familiar sound of Mark’s voice carried over. It’s me, he managed.

I’m trying to … but the airport. Five hours. I’m … Come … as … home. The conversation was in constant interruption of muddled static. Chance struggled to understand, but the line went dead. He peeled Juliette off then retrieved the keys from her pocket.

I’m driving. We have to get back to my mom. His words were met with no resistance.

They arrived at the hospital, promptly met by Elsa’s nurse. She was moved to the ICU thirty minutes ago, she said. Only Ms. Perez has been allowed to visit, like you asked. The nurse took a moment before adding, It’s serious.

As Chance looked up he saw Ms. Perez hurrying down the hall. She fell into his trembling arms and sobbed. The words coming from her were muffled between crying and Spanish. He wanted to pacify her, but the need to see his mom weighed heavier.

I need to see her, he said behind an embrace.

As they rushed to the ICU, the nurse explained. Ms. Perez called. She was frantic and said your mom stopped breathing. When we reached the room all the alarms were going off. We called a Code Blue, she said. CPR was started. She was shocked three times with no response. We intubated, but that didn’t do much either. There wasn’t anything more we could do.

What do you mean? Chance asked.

We can’t explain it, the nurse said. By all accounts, she should be dead.

Then why is she in ICU? Juliette inquired.

There comes a point when all you can do is say a prayer that they go to a better place. I said that prayer. We were walking out of the room when she started to gasp. She was dead over three minutes. Purple and blue kind of dead. Like the air was sucked from her body. Her voice kicked up to an anxious rush. It was like nothing we ever saw before. The doctor placed her on a ventilator. Not that it’s doing much. It’s like she wants to die … but doesn’t. The nurse pushed open the ICU doors. Like two different forces are pulling her in opposite directions, she concluded.

They walked down the hall until they were abruptly greeted by a nurse coming from the room, a look of confusion on her narrow face. Juliette instantly questioned what was wrong. The nurse shrugged, a smile replacing the confusion. Nothing at all.

Chance raised his brow. Do you care to elaborate?

The nurse pointed to monitors at the desk. Each monitor had a room number with what appeared to be heart rhythms and vital signs. Twenty minutes ago all signs pointed to her not making it. But with each passing minute … well, she started getting better and better. Five minutes ago she was in such an uproar that the doctor had to pull the tube from her mouth. And just before you walked in, she sat up and asked for you. She pointed to Chance.

She’s awake? Juliette inhaled.

And very upset, the nurse added.

Chance took a step forward before the nurse advised him that there was one more thing. He waited for the words and heard the nurse swallow loud. It’s the scars, she started to say.

In that moment he darted into the brightly lit room to find Elsa ripping at the IVs in her arms. She stopped when their eyes met, then burst into tears. The expression she wore was torn between relief and anguish. In a second he was at her side.

She turned up her arms. They were gone. Every scar, every impurity had vanished. Her skin and face glowed with youth and beauty. He was dumbfounded and fell back into a chair. What was happening? The burning abrasions on his back stung; he realized the windows were open and the afternoon sun was blaring, yet Elsa didn’t cry or cower at its warm touch.

What the hell is happening? This is all wrong!

With hands bracing his head, Chance took to pacing, stopping once to study the perfect lines on the monitors. Elsa called to him, but he was unable to handle civil conversation. He blurted out patchy words: the sun is up, the scars are gone, this can’t be happening. Over and over he repeated the words, as if trying to commit them to memory. Finally, Elsa took hold of his hand when he was close. He stopped dead in his tracks.

We died, he said.

I don’t know what happened, she confessed.

With a disbelieving shake of his head, he said, We were at the well. There was such a sharp pain in my gut that it dropped me to my knees. I knew you were dying and I couldn’t do anything.

You were dying too, she managed behind a whimper. She whispered, sounding unsure, What happened?

What did happen? A logical explanation failed to come to mind, not that his tie to Elsa had any logical explanation. Yet, after eighteen years they had settled into their abnormality as fact. As life. As something without rationale. They just—were. What was different? He took a moment to reflect: though he was standing within an inch of Elsa, he still hurt and had scrapes, bumps, and bruises along his sore arms—she didn’t.

The nurse walked into the room before he could invent an answer. She was in awe, and seemed to want to speak, but no words manifested. The ICU doctor hurried into the room. Without a single word, he grabbed Elsa’s arm and examined it in great detail. Seconds later, he looked up at Elsa with a simple smile. The kind of smile someone held when they just witnessed a miracle. The kind of smile that said, I don’t believe my eyes. And yet, there she was: no scars, no blemishes; a perfect physiological woman in her prime.

The doctor extended his hand to Chance, introducing himself as Dr. Seres. Chance winced under the slight pat on the back the doctor gave. Elsa immediately jerked forward, her eyes wide as she pulled Chance close. Why’d you do that? she asked. Why’d you jump away?

Something happened, he replied. The wounds didn’t heal. He paused and glanced downward. I feel the pain.

The nurse and doctor listened like children hearing grandpa’s old combat stories. Dr. Seres asked him to explain everything from the beginning, and Chance knew he meant from the day Chance was born. Eighteen years of history would take a lifetime to explain …

CHAPTER ONE

T HIS WASN’T THE first time Elsa stared down a razor, nor was it the first time she longed for the feel of a cool blade against her warm flesh. This wasn’t the first time opening the medicine cabinet to a standoff with bottles of Ambien and Nyquil. It definitely wasn’t the first time she heard the cackle of her mother’s voice on the cell phone as it sat on the sink, while her father’s voice blared across the house phone speaker from the bedroom. They always managed to call at the exact same time. For more years than she cared to remember, Elsa had been caught up in the grueling malarkey between her parents. Hearing their squabble was never the crucial factor in seeking out the salvation of the cold shiny razor, but they pushed her over the edge more than once.

The violent screaming matches between her parents were nothing new; in fact, she worried more when there was silence. Since the divorce, given they had been divorced for years, she anticipated the verbal assaults would find their end. Nothing of the sort arose. The Hatfields and McCoys had nothing on them. Through years of being pitted and played against both sides of the fence, Elsa was at her wits’ end—again. But they were only a small part of her misery.

Placing the razor back into the top drawer of the vanity wasn’t easy, but the allure of the sleeping pills waged stronger. She twisted off the cap with her incisors then placed the bottle on the counter. All the while her parents—clueless—continued to jabber on about their immoralities. The night vastly dragged with another long, drawn-out, epic saga in the marriage and divorce of the Mararitys. The day beckoned for termination. At that point Elsa didn’t care the outcome. She simply relished the sweet darkness of night.

With an abysmal sigh, she hung up the cell and house phone without as much as a goodbye. She shuffled her aching feet back into the bathroom, swallowing back however many Ambien poured out, chasing them with a hearty gulp of cherry-flavored Nyquil. One for luck. The drink burned her throat, settling hot onto her stomach. Not seeing the need to tidy up, she left the open bottles on the sink then made her way into the slop-ridden bedroom. The house phone rang once before going straight to the message machine.

Elsa, its Donna, the ER night manager. There was a pause through an audible sigh. We really need to talk. I can’t fix this one.

The way Elsa turned out wasn’t her fault, she rationalized, pulling the blanket halfway over her body. No. That took years of torment and angst from the inhumane onslaught of the normal life her parents offered. She half-laughed at the novelty of a normal life. What was normal about watching her mother sneak in and out of the house with different men? What was normal about her father guzzling down half a bottle of Vodka to take off the edge? What was normal about pushing her limits to the edge without falling over? What was normal about living in the dark?

Elsa assumed life was normal, occurring in every household. She had no reason to think otherwise, that was all she knew. A miserable life reminisced to the low din inside her ears. The so-called normal life her parents preached was a facade for a living hell. Her father had always been good to her, but it grew evident that his love for a child not his own caused a jealousy with her mother. In the end, it was the darkness that made life unbearable, being hidden from the world. Perspective always came just before the medications kicked in, and yet the storm always raged in her head. For the time being, the soft silence resounded so clear in the tiny apartment that she could hear herself breathe. Wearily gazing out the window to the darkness speckled by the tiny lights of cabins set in Rim of the World, she began to feel comforted by the laziness her eyes now felt.

The house and cell phone rang simultaneously again; her eyes burst open with stinging pain. With one fluid movement, she removed the pillow under her head then placed it tight over her face. Enough was enough. There wasn’t one reason to ever want to spend the rest of her life with another person the way her parents did all those contrite years. Such a waste. Love was colored in misery, a frigid shade of blue that ran ice cold. Yet every part of her still desired that. She missed fitting in. She missed belonging and being wanted. Life would have been easier if she didn’t remember that place. Then, as the rewarding relief of the medications took hold, her hand felt heavy and fell aside.

Maybe this time.

CHAPTER TWO

M ISTY WAS THE name she gave at the counter; Misty Day. By the disapproving wince on the nurse’s face, she wasn’t buying it. Not that Misty expected her to or cared, but the labor pains were real enough. The time for delivery was imminent. Sweat dripped down her face while contractions rolled through never ending waves of electricity. She leaned on the desk, ready to collapse. The nurse hollered for a wheelchair.

Misty opened her eyes to a laboring room with a crowd of nurses. Everything was silent and fuzzy. She felt like she watched as a bystander, but the pain was a nagging reality. The nurses appeared calmly anxious as they seemed to shout commands, but Misty was hard pressed to read their lips. A surge of thundering electricity and fullness instantly focused on her pelvis. She became aware of the doctor between her legs and the nurse pushing her knees up against her swollen and angry belly.

All at once every sound came through, blaring and prevalent. The nurse on the left had the authority of a drill sergeant, ordering Misty to push. The nurse on the right ordered her to breathe in drawn out pants. Then, with one laborious push, the pain reached its blinding pinnacle; she was sure she would die in agony with a baby stuck halfway out. There was a scorching burn in her abdomen followed by a horrific, unimaginable pain in her pelvis. Then the pain immediately subsided and the world faded to black.

~~~ *** ~~~

Where did she go? a nurse called out from the hospital room door.

Kelly, the clerk, looked up. Who?

Misty. She’s gone.

Kelly ran to the room, pushing past the door to find the room empty. All that remained was the newborn boy swathed in blankets. The women scattered, checking bathrooms and halls, each location turning up empty. Kelly walked into the room to find the nurse cradling the nameless infant. She was obviously distressed, judging by her red-tinged eyes.

She left a note, the nurse said. Mom was just a baby herself, poor kid. She didn’t even give him a name. She didn’t even give him a chance.

I loved his father with all my heart, but he didn’t love me. I was young and fell for his words. He turned out to be horrible. I wanted to kill myself then I found out I was pregnant. I couldn’t do it. You might think I was selfish to leave, but I wanted my child to have a chance. I don’t. Please find him the mother he deserves. A mother who would die for his happiness.

CHAPTER THREE

N IGHTS WERE THE worst shifts. The shifts Elsa hated most. Given she managed to wake up after a pseudo-lethal cocktail, the night wasn’t exactly off to a good start. Nights were the shifts she was placed on more regularly. The shifts she was punished with as a result of years of bad reviews and complaints. Not that being a nurse was paying off in any kind of psychological way, or nurturing her mutilated psyche. Whatever nursing was supposed to be—the fairytale sermonized in school— held no real-world premise to the insanity of working the ER swing shift for years. A new career was high on the priority list, but low on the ability-to-accomplish list. Motivation was in short supply.

This week she was punished with another night on the medical surgical wing at Valley-Mission General Hospital. The thought made her skin crawl and lodged an unremitting, burning, nauseating wad of acid the length of her esophagus. Another night of chewing Tums. She choked down the last chalky tablet from an economy-sized bottle, while tugging on scrub straps that felt all too tight at the waist. Stupid three a.m. dinners. She shifted under a snug scrub top, pinching the newly developed fat fold hanging over the drawstring pants. Night shift float pool nursing was taking its toll on her once thin waistline.

Elsa sized herself up in the dressing room mirror. She looked much older than her young twenty-four years of life. Small lines formed at the corners of her downward eyes. The blue, green, and brown swirls of her iris were surrounded by thin, red, stressed veins. Small pink scars across her arms resembled old cigarette burns. They reflected a silver tint under the light, crosshatched over by thin trails of self-inflicted raised scars. She pulled down the sleeves, rolling her eyes before letting out a laden sigh. Hating the job was more prevalent each passing day. Strangling herself with IV tubing was vastly becoming a real solution to end the wasteland of a miserable life. IV nooses might do the job her sweet eternal sleeping meds wouldn’t, she snickered.

The clock on the wall read 10:22 p.m., three long minutes past the last time she glanced up from the dinning of the all-too-bright computer screen. She took a mental note: only eight and a half more hours left. One-fourth of the shift was over; conversely, three-fourths of the shift was left. Her head bobbed at the calculations. Seeing the cup as half full was not in her scope. There arose a rancorous strain as each eye rolled back and a quiet plea for help escaped her lips.

Mark, another night shift sap, peeked around the station wall, shouting that the woman in room 258-B was calling—again. Elsa huffed. This was the third time in one hour that the woman called. The night was on a highway of bad luck and heightened suicidal ideations for Elsa. The patient in the room was obnoxious and had a way of thinking she was the only sick person in the hospital, which explained why the burden was put on the outcast nurse. Elsa knew the managers were trying to edge her out. If there were some other options lined up, she would have gladly walked out the front doors, leaving nothing but a crude flick of a finger and flamboyant words.

Yes, Mrs. Wanderly? Elsa asked, hands saddled to her hips like industrial magnets held them in place.

This television is nothing but static. Now I asked you to get this fixed earlier, but nobody seems to care. I’m all cooped up in this godforsaken place, the least I can have is some decent television, she shouted.

Ah, quit your blabbering, hollered the woman in the next bed over.

"Was I talking to you? Was I talking to you? Mrs. Wanderly shouted back. Everybody is in everybody else’s business around here. I paid taxes my entire life and this is the kind of treatment I get in my old age: shoved into the furthest room down the hall with little Miss Nosey Body and a nurse with an attitude. Can’t even get proper television as I die," she muttered.

Elsa romanticized jumping on the woman and strangling her. The night was too young to be receiving attitude. Up until this point, she had been unequivocally polite with the harpy. She glanced out the window to the lit-up skyline, fantasizing about jumping out. Meanwhile Mrs. Wanderly sounded distant, but no amount of deep fantasy could completely drown out the ranting.

Are you even paying any attention to me? Mrs. Wanderly asked. Her voice pitched with a heightened attitude. Look at you! Looking out the window like life is passing you by. There’s probably some party you’re missing—

Mrs. Wanderly? Are you in pain?

Pain? What are you talking about, pain? See, you young people don’t even pay any attention, do you?

Elsa shifted her weight. "Because I can help with pain, but I can’t help with the static on your TV. Nor will I make any