The Secret Between Us

by Barbara Delinsky

  “It’s tomorrow night. You’re going to that, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Grace might have said that she didn’t think it was appropriate so close to the death of someone they all knew. But that was only half the truth, and half the truth seemed to describe all of her life lately.

  But she wasn’t about to tell Kyle that. He would just tell all the other kids what she’d said, which would only give them reason to ask more questions.

  “Because I don’t want to,” she finally replied. Jogging the last few steps to her mother’s car, she climbed in and closed the door hard.

  Subdued after the service and exhausted from a week with too little sleep, Deborah passed out on the sofa. When the phone rang, she woke with a start, so disoriented that it wasn’t until a second ring that she identified the sound and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello?” she asked groggily.

  “Grace?” came her ex-husband’s hesitant voice, then, “Deborah?”

  She sank back to the cushions. “It’s me.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No. Sleeping.”

  “It’s only ten-thirty.”

  “Some of us lead busy lives, Greg. We have kids to take care of. We have family to worry about. And please, don’t tell me I work too much. I just wear lots of hats.”

  “One being ‘bitch’?”

  She swallowed hard. He was right.

  Relenting, he said more gently, “You don’t have to work. You don’t need the money.”

  “It isn’t about money.” She put an arm over her eyes. Funny, she and Greg always used to talk at this hour. It was one of the few times when he wasn’t either on the phone or at the computer. She hadn’t minded it then. It bothered her now.

  “Okay,” he said. “I keep trying Grace. Is something wrong with her phone?”

  “She’s had it off. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

  “You mean to me.”

  “She won’t talk to her friends, either, since the accident.” Deborah massaged her forehead. “She’s like a turtle, pulled into her shell.”

  “That’s swell,” Greg said. “What do you plan to do about it?”

  Plan? Deborah might have laughed. She was coming to think it was useless to plan. “I’m giving her time.”

  “Maybe she needs to talk with a therapist.”

  “She doesn’t need a therapist. It’s only been four days. There was a service at school tonight. The accident is still fresh.”

  “Okay. But I want to talk with her.”

  “Try tomorrow morning.”

  “How can I get through to her if she won’t answer her phone?”

  Deborah wondered at the man’s lack of imagination. Quietly, she said, “We do have a house line, Greg. Call her on that. She’s running in a big meet tomorrow afternoon. Why not call in the morning to wish her good luck?”

  Chapter 8

  The weekend wasn’t a good one for Deborah. She had to race to the office when her father, whose turn it was to see Saturday morning patients, called at the last minute and asked her to cover. Back home worrying about him, she argued with Dylan, who didn’t want to go to his piano lesson, and argued with Grace, who, in her absence, had refused to talk with her father on the phone, prompting Greg to call Deborah to complain. She snapped at Dylan when he couldn’t find his baseball glove to take to practice, then felt guilty when he said he couldn’t see where it was. She fought with Grace when she said she had cramps and couldn’t run in the cross-country meet, then, after insisting she try, felt guilty when the girl dropped out halfway through and, demoralized, shut herself in her room the instant she got home.

  Needing therapy from a friend, she met Karen for coffee, but, of course, since she couldn’t tell Karen about Grace or her father or her sister or Hal, she ended up feeling worse.

  Saturday night, she might have taken Dylan to see a movie at the mall, a perfect treat for a child who needed things large and bright. But Grace continued to insist that she didn’t want to go out with her friends, and when Deborah finished arguing with her about that, she felt so bad that she couldn’t leave Grace alone.

  They had pizza delivered to the house, but it was a joyless dinner, followed by a TiVoed movie that was so violent Deborah turned it off halfway through. Dylan argued that he had seen worse. Grace insisted that everyone knew about the violence and Deborah shouldn’t have TiVoed it in the first place. Both children retreated to their rooms, Dylan to play “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” over and over and over again on his electronic keyboard, until Grace went to Deborah in tears to complain. When Deborah tried to console her, she refused to talk, and when Deborah asked Dylan to stop playing—the music was depressing her, too—he grumbled that his dad would never tell him to stop.

  After all that, it was no wonder Deborah didn’t sleep well. She kept waking to a knot in her belly and the awful thought that she was losing a grip on her life. Things were going from bad to worse, and she couldn’t seem to stop the descent.

  She hoped Sunday would be better. It was a beautiful day to usher in May. The air was warm and clear, the oaks were beginning to leaf, and the azaleas in the front beds were swelling with buds. Contrary to the random havoc wreaked by storms, when the weather was calm there was a feeling of order. On days like these, she felt more in control.

  Over the years, Deborah had taken to making Sunday brunch. She planned it as an anchor for the kids. Traditionally, Sunday was the one day of the week when she had time to cook, when Greg’s presence could be counted on, when her parents came by. After Ruth died, Michael had come alone, and now that Greg was gone, the children needed their grandfather all the more.

  This Sunday, Michael begged off. He sounded hungover when he called, and Deborah was stretched too thin to let it pass. “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sound…bad.” She couldn’t get herself to say hungover.

  Michael cleared his throat. “I must be fighting off the same bug the Burkes came in with last week.”

  “Is that all? I’m thinking of those mornings last week—”

  “Those mornings last week had to do with your accident,” he shot back, but quickly softened. “This weekend it’s just a bug. Thanks for worrying, though. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He hung up without her mentioning his drinking, leaving her feeling like a total coward—and a complicitous one at that, when she had to tell more half-truths to the kids.

  Grace was happy not to have a formal breakfast and returned to her room with half a bagel, but Dylan was upset that Poppy wasn’t there. He retreated to his room after eating only a bite of the French toast Deborah had painstakingly made.

  Alone in the kitchen with the remains of what should have been a family meal, Deborah was more discouraged than ever. When the doorbell rang and she looked out to see the man who had ousted her from the funeral, she wondered what else could go wrong. Already a coward in her own mind, she decided simply not to open the door.

  That plan was thwarted by Dylan. Hoping against hope that his father had come, he bolted from his room and came running down the steps. Halfway down, he lost his footing and tumbled the rest of the way. Deborah helped him up and had to physically hold him still to make sure he was all right. But Dylan was dogged. Pulling away from her the instant she would allow it, he opened the door before she could stop him. Instantly crestfallen, he said, “Oh. I thought you were my dad.” Sliding Deborah a woeful look, he plodded back up the stairs.

  Resigned, she let the man in. As she remembered, he was tall and had his brother’s sable hair and eyes. Yesterday’s dark suit had been replaced by a pair of slacks and a lavender shirt, open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to his credit after a glance at the now-empty staircase.

  Deborah kept her chin up. “Not your fault.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

 
; “That depends,” she warned and, having nothing to lose, added, “It’s been a bad week. Quite honestly, I’m feeling a little battered. So if you’ve come to say that I shouldn’t have gone to the funeral, please don’t. I got your message Friday.”

  “That was too harsh. I came to apologize.”

  Startled, she drew back. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. That was what I was trying to say Friday.”

  “Yes.”

  “I really am sorry about the accident. It was a very bad driving night.” In that instant, she forgot Friday’s humiliation and was glad he had come. This was the condolence call she hadn’t been allowed to pay. “I’m sorry for your loss. And sorry for Calvin’s wife. How is she doing?”

  “She’s okay. Upset. Angry.”

  Angry made Deborah think of lawsuits, which made her think of Hal. If he hadn’t wanted her talking to John, he would not want her talking to this man.

  But Hal wasn’t here. And Deborah wasn’t entirely naïve. “Did she send you?”

  “Selena? No.”

  “Does she know you’re here?”

  “No. And she wouldn’t be happy if she did. I came because I’m trying to understand what happened.” To his credit, he look genuinely puzzled. “I read the police report. Did you not see him at all?”

  “Not until the second before impact. It was dark and pouring.”

  “But he was running. You should have seen movement. Were you and your daughter talking? Distracted somehow?”

  “Like putting on lipstick?” she asked, referring to his remark at the cemetery. She pointed at her mouth. “Do you see lipstick here?”

  He gave a small smile. “This is Sunday morning. You’re at home.”

  “That was Monday night, and I was heading home,” Deborah countered. “Why would I be putting on lipstick? I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. We were watching the road, both of us, which is what you do in weather like that. If Cal was running without reflective gear, we wouldn’t have seen him in the rain. It’s as simple as that.”

  The brother didn’t give up. “Did you talk with him while he was lying there in the woods?”

  “I kept calling his name, kept begging him to open his eyes, kept telling him to hang in there, that help was on the way.”

  “Did he respond in any way?”

  “You said you read the police report.”

  “Police reports can be wrong.”

  His eyes were very dark. Deborah could no more look away from them than she could keep her mouth shut. “Only if the person filing them lies about whether we talked. Why would I lie about that?”

  “It’s a good question.”

  “Here’s another,” she said, piqued. “Why was he running that night? Why in that rain?”

  Again, that small smile. “Those are two questions.”

  His answer provoked her. “Here’s a third. Did you know he was on Coumadin?”

  His smile faded. “No. It looks like he chose not to tell me.”

  “Why wasn’t he wearing a med alert bracelet?”

  “He wasn’t planning on being hit.”

  She touched her chest. “I wasn’t planning on it either, which is why people carry medical IDs wherever they go. We might have saved him. His wife must have known he was on Coumadin. Why didn’t she say something?”

  “I can’t answer for Selena.”

  “Then why wouldn’t your brother talk? The doctors said he was conscious. I have patients on Coumadin and, trust me, they’d say that first thing. If they didn’t, I’d wonder if they weren’t self-destructive.” She regreted the word the instant it left her mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why did you?” he asked sharply.

  “Because I don’t understand this either, and it’s wreaking havoc with my family.” Pushing her hair back, she tried to find conciliatory words. None came, and when the brother did nothing to break the silence, she continued. “I keep taking responsibility for the accident, but am I the only one who is? Why didn’t your brother make sure he could be seen on the road, or let the doctors know he was on Coumadin? Why didn’t his wife tell the doctors if he couldn’t tell them himself? Why didn’t you know he was on Coumadin?”

  “The answer is another question. Should I have been responsible for knowing? Are there limits to responsibility?” He was looking at her in a challenging way.

  She held up a hand. “If you think I have answers, think again. In any case, my lawyer wouldn’t want me talking with you.”

  “Why have you hired a lawyer?”

  “Not hired. He’s a friend. For what it’s worth, he advised me not to go to the funeral. He said I might upset the widow. Apparently, I did.”

  The brother waved dismissively. “She was upset before the funeral.”

  “I can understand that.” Deborah didn’t know whether death was worse than having one’s husband walk out on a day’s notice, but there was certainly a finality to the former. “Will she stay in town?” When the brother didn’t answer, she said, “They haven’t lived here long, at least not by Leyland standards. Does she have friends elsewhere?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Does she have family?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Do you have any family besides Cal?”

  The brother shook his head.

  That made McKenna’s death even more tragic. “He was a great history teacher,” Deborah said. “My daughter liked him. He was very bright. It’s a loss for the town.”

  “He was actually brilliant. It’s a waste. And yes, I’d guess that Selena will stay here until things are settled.”

  Again, the specter of a lawsuit. Deborah realized Hal would definitely not want her talking to this man and was about to ask him to leave when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Dylan was coming down, one hand on the banister now and each foot carefully placed. Something was wrong.

  “Sweetie?”

  His eyes rose. “I can’t move my arm.”

  Determinedly calm, she met him at the bottom of the stairs and began probing his elbow.

  He gasped. “Ow!”

  “It’s dislocated,” she said in dismay.

  “Again?” His eyes, magnified by his glasses, were glistening with tears. “Why does this keep happening to me, Mom?”

  “Because you’re loose-jointed. That’s a good thing in most every other regard.”

  “Don’t snap it back,” he ordered. “It hurts.”

  “Only for a split second. Come on.” Deborah glanced at Cal McKenna’s brother but didn’t know how to tell him to go. So she simply led Dylan to the kitchen, sat him on a chair, and efficiently snapped his elbow back into place. He yelled at the pop, and whimpered while the pain faded. Bent over him, she kept his head pressed to her until she felt him relax. Then she cupped his face and kissed his forehead. “Better?”

  He mumbled a begrudging, “It would have been worth it if Dad was the one at the door. Is he ever coming to visit?”

  “He will. You’ll see him next weekend.”

  “Up there, because the puppies are there, but I want him here.” Rebecca’s golden retriever had had pups two weeks before and Dylan had been talking about them ever since, which made his comment all the more poignant.

  Deborah didn’t know what to say.

  Dylan slid off the chair and left the room, walking right past Tom McKenna, who had been watching from the kitchen door.

  “That must have hurt,” he remarked when the boy was gone.

  Hurt him? Or me? Deborah might have asked, but she was feeling dizzy. Suddenly clammy, she sat down and hung her head between her knees.

  “Are you all right?” came a distant voice.

  After a minute, when the risk of fainting had passed, she straightened up.

  “You’re very pale,” he said.

  “At least I’m still sitting here. I’ve been known to pass out on the floor.”

  “Doctors don’t pass out.”

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nbsp; “Moms do. I have trouble when my kids are in pain.” She rubbed the back of her neck and took a slow, full breath. “Panicking doesn’t help,” she said aloud. It was a mantra of sorts. “Dylan’s fine now.”

  “He doesn’t need to ice the elbow?”

  “No.”

  “He seems like a vulnerable child.”

  “He is.”

  “Bad eyes?”

  “He’s always been severely farsighted. When he was seven, he developed lattice dystrophy in his right eye. It’s a disorder of the cornea where lines form on its back side. They grow thicker and coalesce, so vision in that eye gets very hazy. We can’t do anything about the dystrophy until he’s old enough for a corneal transplant, but the results are remarkable. If the dystrophy returns after that, it can be treated successfully with lasers.” With a dry glance, she pushed herself from the chair. “Not that you wanted to hear any of that.”

  “I asked,” he said. “It must be hard for the boy.”

  Taking a glass from the cabinet, she filled it with ice water from the refrigerator door. After several sips, she turned. “He has trouble with things, like stairs and baseballs.”

  “And divorces.”

  A week ago, she might have winced. Now Greg’s leaving seemed minor compared to the other problems in her life. Helpless, she gestured toward the food still on the table. “Hungry? There’s plenty left over. Brunch was not exactly a success.”

  “It smells good. You have enough for an army.”

  “Kind of like throwing a party and having no one come,” she said. “I find that hard to believe. To hear tell, everyone in this town loves you.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “My sister-in-law says your husband wanted to move, but you refused to go.”

  Deborah took another small drink before saying, “That’s right.”

  “Was that what broke up the marriage?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, though for a time she had blamed it on that.

  “She says your kids want you home more, but that you insist on working, and that your father sends you out to see patients at their homes, so that he doesn’t have to share an office with you.”