For the Rest of My Life

by Harry Kraus

  “What is this, John? Are you breaking up with me? Pulling away again?”

  A gasp escaped his throat. She watched as his hand went to his mouth before he continued, his voice on the edge of control. “Me? You know I did not pull away before. I asked for my ring back long after you—” He halted. “Listen, I don’t want to rehash the past, but you have to see I’m only responding to your lack of willingness to give yourself to me.”

  “You’re blaming this on me?”

  “I’m not blaming you. I’m asking you to understand. I pulled out of our relationship when I thought another man had taken my place. I came back here because I thought I could win your trust.” He paused. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

  She turned and studied his eyes. She didn’t want him to go. She longed to reach for him and beg him to stay. But she knew he could sense the war within her. She wanted to trust him, but couldn’t find the voice to reassure him of her confidence in his love.

  His eyes were open, pleading for her to reject his statement, waiting for the argument she wanted to make but couldn’t seem to find amidst a sea of suspicion.

  Instead of arguing the point, she clenched her jaw. “Go ahead, John. You’ve given it a test. You’ve tried living around me.” She feigned nonchalance and shrugged. “It didn’t work. Now try living without me again.”

  “Claire, I—”

  She opened the door and climbed out, not bothering to turn again to face him. When Della met her on the porch, she just pushed past her without speaking. Behind her, she heard the Mustang’s engine rev and the spray of gravel as John accelerated down the driveway.

  Away.

  And out of Claire’s life again.

  That evening, John returned to his apartment with a heavy heart. He’d spent a great deal of energy pursuing Claire McCall, but every time he thought a lasting commitment was within reach, she seemed to pull back, not always physically, but emotionally, with John’s heart on a yo-yo string. He tossed a stack of unopened junk mail on the kitchen table. He was tired of the ride. He had hoped that telling Claire that he was thinking about moving back to Brighton would cause her to tell him to stay. He sighed. So much for that little idea.

  Brighton was only an hour away, and he might even see more of Claire after his move because it would force her to actually schedule time to see him, instead of just assuming it would happen, which never seemed to work.

  He opened the refrigerator and stared at a lonely milk carton and a box of leftover pizza. He cautiously sniffed the milk and shrugged, setting it on the table beside a box of natural oat flakes, a cereal he’d bought out of guilt, and the only one remaining since he’d snarfed the last of the sugar cereal that morning for breakfast.

  He sat and sampled the heart-healthy mix. It was a choice that would make Claire smile. After one bite, he added two tablespoons of brown sugar; after another, he added two more, until each flake was coated with a sweet, granular texture. He shook his head, satisfied with the improvement. He chewed mechanically, listening to the crunch of the cereal and thinking about Claire. The move to Stoney Creek was, by first intention, a temporary situation, a testing of the water on the way to a lifetime swim with the woman he loved. And contrary to his liking, John was starting to realize the answer to the test may not be yes.

  A blinking red light on his phone caught his eye. It was probably Claire. She was famous for sending him little messages during their gettogethers, knowing he’d hear them later. Sometimes it was her way of saying something personal, a compliment she wanted him to hear, but not in front of a group. Once, on one of their first dates, they hadn’t been alone all evening, mixing with a group at a Campus Crusade meeting at Brighton University. So, knowing she wouldn’t have a chance to bend his ear alone, she’d retreated to the ladies’ room and pulled out her cell phone in the seclusion of a bathroom stall. She told him how much she’d admired the comments he’d made during the meeting and how much she’d enjoyed his company. Then, she’d wished him pleasant dreams. After hearing the message, he’d spent half the night up thinking about her. So much for dreams.

  He hesitated as he reached for the replay button. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear her voice, especially a message she’d sent before he’d driven away from her in frustration. That first phone message had set up a playful pattern for them, each one finding opportunities to encourage the other, sending secrets or other messages that would be fun to listen to later. Once John had secretly unfolded his cell phone and dialed her number as he pretended to be searching for his jacket in the car, while Claire dutifully waited in front of her dormitory. After listening to her message, he hurried up the sidewalk and took her in his arms. He recited a corny little poem he’d made up, told her he loved her, and planted a kiss behind her ear to make her giggle. All the while, he held up the phone behind her head to record his romantic good-bye. She never knew he’d done it until she got inside a few minutes later. That one had reaped consequences good and bad. Good because he let her play the same trick on him, and it forced her to write him a silly love poem. Bad because she was forever distracted looking for a phone in his hands when he wanted to steal a goodnight kiss.

  He pressed the “replay” button. He was right. It was Claire, but she must have called right after he left. “John, it’s Claire.” She sniffed. “I know what you’re doing. It’s just like you to make an impulsive decision like this.” Her voice cracked. “But maybe we can blame that on your Italian heritage, huh?” She hesitated. “I know you were just trying one more tactic to see if I’d respond in the right way, to see if I’d confess my undying trust.” She began to cry. “It’s my fault, John. I think it’s not that I can’t trust that you could love me. Maybe I can’t believe anyone would want me unless they know I won’t end up like my father.”

  He didn’t care that tears began to fill his eyes. He was alone with no one to impress with bravado. “Don’t say that, Claire,” he whispered.

  He could hear Claire sigh into the phone. A deep-cleansing breath, she would call it. “Don’t give up on me.” Click.

  He pressed the button to replay the message and choked out a little prayer. “Thanks, Father. It looks like maybe it was the right decision after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next morning, Randy Jensen sorted through the files involving the assaults of Stephanie Blackwell and Brittany Lewis. Similarities T abounded with drastic implications for his jurisdiction. This was more than a random act. He was dealing with a serial rapist, and one thing was clear. He needed more help. His chief of police, Manny Morton, recommended an FBI consultant, Vance Fitzgerald, from the regional office in Roanoke, Virginia. Vance, an FBI lifer, had a dozen years of profiling experience, a nose for details, and an intolerance for peripheral detractions.

  By ten A.M., Randy was seated across the desk from the balding agent in his meticulous, spartan office. There were no pictures to clutter Vance’s desk, and a six-inch pile of folders was stacked as neatly as if it sat within an unseen box. Vance frowned as he waited for a page to load on the computer screen in front of him. “Dang computer,” he mumbled. “Uncle Sam’s been promising a budget increase so we can upgrade, but I think I could walk downstairs to get what I want faster than old Nelly here.”

  “Nelly?”

  Vance chuckled. “Every computer I’ve ever owned, I’ve called Nelly.” He wiped the top of his head with a handkerchief. “It was the name of my first wife. She frustrated the life out of me. Lost my hair within two years of marrying that woman.”

  Randy let the comment pass. He’d been in the office only ten minutes and had heard the names of three different women, all of which he referred to as a numbered wife. Old Vance might have a good reputation as a profiler, but he doesn’t seem to be able to pick a suitable mate for himself.

  Vance looked over the materials as Randy gave the Reader’s Digest version of the cases. Then Vance sat back and paged through the materials in silence, pausing periodically to pound his chubby fi
ngers on the keyboard in front of him and mumble something about Nelly. After twenty minutes, he looked up at Randy, who sat picking the dirt from beneath his thumbnail. “I’ll need a bit more time. I’d like to interview this girl,” he said, circling Lena Chisholm’s name on a yellow legal pad beside his computer. “What do you think of the doctor’s suspicions about Lena’s husband?”

  “The doctor is following a red herring,” he replied, trying his best to sound confident in front of this veteran. “Her logic isn’t clean.”

  “Clean?” Vance blotted his glistening forehead again. “Have you interviewed Lena?”

  “I’ve talked to Billy Ray. He doesn’t take me as a sexual predator. He’s a beer enthusiast with a bent toward violence with the women he marries, but only when he’s under the influence.”

  Vance shifted in his seat. “Red herring.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just using the logic term you threw at me. I asked you a direct question, ‘Have you interviewed Lena Chisholm?’ and you gave me peripheral information that dances off the trail.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “The direct answer, I presume, is ‘no.’”

  Randy didn’t need a lesson in fallacies. He recognized his answer as a justification. He felt his defensiveness rising. “No,” he responded, shifting in his seat. “No, I haven’t talked to her.”

  The FBI agent nodded silently, apparently pleased with his read of the situation. His silence was a stabbing judgment finding a mark in Randy’s gut. He tapped the side of the monitor and mumbled again, “I’d put a magnifying glass on this boyfriend of Dr. McCall’s.”

  Randy wanted to say that the agent was only pointing out the obvious, but found himself nodding and writing a note. Superiors liked that.

  Vance closed the folder of information Randy had brought in and slid it across his desk toward Randy. “Start with Lena Chisholm. I’ll do some looking around. I’ll see if I can find a similar MO for rapists from our database.” He nodded.

  Randy cleared his throat. The brief consultation was over, just like that?

  After a moment, Vance must have sensed the detective’s discomfort. “I’ll be in touch. If I can free up some time, I’ll be up myself, maybe interview a few of the players.”

  Players? This isn’t Hollywood. Randy needed an antacid. He stood up and held out his hand. “I’ll let Chief Morton know to expect your call.”

  Vance didn’t stand to shake his hand. He kept his seat and offered a perfunctory wave before turning his attention back to Nelly. Randy turned to go. The initial consultation wasn’t what he’d expected. He walked to the door of the office, not pausing to say thanks.

  When he stepped into the summer humidity, he checked his watch. He still had plenty of time. Perhaps with a few phone calls he could figure out how to find Lena Chisholm to set up an interview.

  He unfolded a cell phone. The only thing more annoying than an arrogant consultant was an arrogant consultant who was right.

  Claire McCall, M.D., slogged mechanically through the morning patient list, barely able to concentrate, supporting her heavy eyelids by refusing to sit down and guzzling extra-strength coffee. She’d finally slept at three A.M., having mentally rehashed and examined her relationship with John Cerelli from top to bottom without insight. She was left with a bubbling turmoil of emotion. Love pulled against fear, desire against rationality, heart against head. Now she found herself fighting back a yawn, her eyes watering from the effort. She was used to operating on an empty tank. The surgery internship had done nothing if it hadn’t prepared her to run on fumes. She coped with the news that John was contemplating leaving town in typical Claire fashion: immersion in her work. If she loaded her mind with her patients’ problems and concerns, she wouldn’t obsess over her lost love, her risk of Huntington’s disease, or the Stoney Creek rapist.

  Claire reached forward and took the hand of the elderly female patient sitting on the exam table in front of her. For the previous ten minutes, Olivia Rodriguez had spilled her story of losing her mother to cancer the same week as she had found a lump in her own breast. Claire knew she was a believer in Christ. She’d seen her at Community Chapel with her husband, Roy, on numerous occasions. “Would it be okay if I shared a Bible passage with you?”

  “Of course.”

  Claire opened a pocket New Testament to Romans 8 and pointed to a verse she had underlined in red. “See what it says here? ‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?’” She continued to the end of the chapter, then looked up. “See, nothing, not even our health problems, can separate us from his love. If anything, they force us to cling even tighter to the one who loves us best.”

  Her patient nodded.

  “May I pray for you?”

  Olivia bit her lower lip and bowed her head.

  Claire prayed for wisdom, understanding, and strength for her patient as she faced this new potential challenge to her health. Claire prayed that Olivia would face the future knowing God’s grace was sufficient, that she would be confident that his arms of love were wrapped tightly around her.

  When she looked up, Olivia was beaming. “Thank you, Dr. McCall. I know my future is in his hands.” She paused and squeezed Claire’s hand with a grip that belied her seventy-five years. “I can tell you believe what you prayed. I’m glad you’ve come back to us, Dr. McCall.”

  Claire nodded, feeling the first twinge of an accusation from her conscience. You fraud! She paused and set her eyes on the chart in her lap. I do believe my prayer for Olivia. But why can’t Iseem to walk in the same light for myself?

  Just as she was helping her patient down from the exam table, her nurse notified her of a phone call. Claire nodded. “Could you see to it that Mrs. Rodriguez gets an appointment with Dr. Branum for a breast biopsy?”

  She went to the hall and picked up the phone. “Dr. McCall.”

  “Dr. McCall, I’m sorry to have to call during your work time.”

  She recognized the voice of Deputy Jensen. “It’s okay. I was actually curious about your work. Any leads in the case?”

  “I’m workin’ on it. That’s why I called. I’d like to talk to Lena Chisholm. Can you help me find her?”

  Claire bit her lower lip. “Uh . . .” She stopped and thought about patient confidentiality. “I’m not sure.”

  “Listen, Dr. McCall, you’re the one who raised concerns about her husband. If I’m going to make a serious effort at finding the truth, I’m going to need to follow every possible lead I can. Help me out here.”

  Claire had promised Lena that her whereabouts would remain confidential. She chewed the inside of her cheek. Suddenly, a compromise popped into consciousness. Lena wasn’t at the shelter. She was in the university hospital. She could pass on that information without breaking a promise to Lena. “You’ll find her in Brighton University Hospital.”

  Jensen huffed. “Of course. I remember now. You told me Billy Ray went to see her there.”

  “She had emergency surgery.” Claire looked at the floor. Because I missed the diagnosis staring me in the face.

  “Is she able to talk?”

  “I think so.”

  “Thanks, Dr. McCall. Thanks.”

  She heard the phone click. Jensen wasn’t much for pleasantries like “good-bye.”

  Claire rolled her eyes and set the phone in its cradle, then picked up the record of the day’s appointments.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Lucy chided, snatching the list from her hands. “You know it’s bad to start counting how many patients are left.”

  “How did you know I was counting?”

  “I just know. Now go to A to see if Jane Altmeyer has pneumonia.”

  Claire sighed. “I want to visit Lena Chisholm. Want to go with me to Brighton after work?”

  Lucy laughed. “Not a chance. My grandson has a baseball game.”

  “Right.”

 
“Where’s Cerelli? You shouldn’t be asking your old nurse to travel with you when you’ve got that man at your beck and call.”

  Claire stayed quiet and nodded. Not anymore. “Ms. Altmeyer’s back?”

  The nurse smiled. “Sheesh. Just mention that man’s name and you forget what I’ve told you?”

  Claire feigned a smile and headed to room A so she could think of something besides “that man.”

  Della knew this day would come. And she knew she’d feel terrible when it did. Wally needed more than she could provide, didn’t he? Claire wasn’t home as much as Della expected, and even if she was around every evening, Wally was just too much for them. He needed care twenty-four/ seven. Wasn’t that justification enough?

  So why couldn’t she feel relief when she saw the van from G and W ambulance service pulling up their gravel lane? Della sighed and let the curtain fall back into place. Standing at the window when the staff arrived to transport Wally to Pleasant View Nursing Home would only make her look anxious to be rid of him. She turned and straightened the already meticulous room, adjusting a family photograph by a millimeter and trying not to listen to her own conscience reciting a vow she’d made more than thirty years ago . . . in sickness and in health, ’til death do us part.

  Once the decision had been made, things progressed at a speed that left Della feeling like she’d better tighten life’s seat belt. There were curves ahead, and whoever was in control seemed to be accelerating. For Della, the only comfort she took in the speed was that it didn’t give her more time for regret. An application was filed, Claire had arranged a weekend chest X ray, and an opening was expected within a month or two, not a day or two. But two days it was, and the only clue Della had that the nursing home might call was the obituary in the morning’s paper. Old Paul Hollingsworth had passed unexpectedly. The vacancy was Wally’s if Della wanted it.

  Della paced and reassured herself again. Things had worked out so easily and efficiently, it had to be the Lord’s will, didn’t it? Everyone at the nursing home thought Doris Stevens would be next to go. She’d been too weak to get out of bed for days. Either God wanted Paul back home or wasn’t ready for Doris, or he just wanted a place for Wally in the nursing home bad enough to . . . Della shook her head and chided herself for even trying to figure it out. The Lord’s ways were the Lord’s ways. Period. And the way was open for Wally to get the care he needed. So why was her stomach knotted with regret instead of relief?