“Of course. And two?”
“You’ll be beside me, right? Through the surgery? I realize that means missing work, but I’d really appreciate your support. I wouldn’t want to bring up the fact I stayed at the hospital with you and then drove you home, lifting hundreds of pounds of flowers in and out of the SUV. Took time off work, spent money on gas. You know, the you owe me card.”
“Blackmailer. You should be ashamed.” She smiled, and even though he couldn’t see her, she knew he could tell. “You don’t have to remind me of my debt. I’d be happy to go tomorrow morning and, of course, I’ll be there for the surgery. You’re a good friend, Ed.”
Since he didn’t correct her, it left her wondering, once again, where they stood.
CHAPTER 68
ED RAN TENSE FINGERS through his hair as he gazed at the model Dr. Daniels had brought, and for the first time, he understood in detail what his loss could entail. His original nobility started to slip out the window with the graphic reminder of a menu of options that could go wrong. He might not heal well enough to return for the end of this year’s season. For play-offs.
There was the possibility he might not heal at all.
With a sidelong glance, he tried to read Rochelle’s face. There was a sadness he hadn’t noticed before. She must be worried about the surgery, too, or was it her conversation with his brother about the phone calls?
She had shared the details of John’s advice, but acted indifferent, as if the crank calls had become second nature. John explained to her there was almost nothing more the police could do. She’d changed her number more times than she changed her clothes. Even with the phone company’s help, the assistance of the police, phone calls came from disposable cells or one of a handful of pay phones left in the city. There was little to go on.
Rochelle touched his shoulder. “You okay?”
He smiled and nodded. Turning to Daniels, the smile melted away. “My job,” he said. “My position on the team. You said I would probably be able to finish this season if we make it to play-offs. I take a lot of hits. By more than a few big gorillas.”
Rochelle’s fingers on his shoulder slid lovingly down his arm in a way that reinforced she’d be there for him. Did she know what that small gesture did to him? With her hand scorching his skin, he could barely keep his mind on what Dr. Daniels had to say. She might not have intended for that kind of reaction, but he couldn’t help the effect it had on him.
“Barring any complications,” Dr. Daniels added.
“Yeah,” Ed said. “Complications. Okay, let’s not figure in any complications. So how long?” He didn’t miss Rochelle’s face. “What?”
Her eyes glistened and locked onto his every word.
Daniels drew their attention back to the subject. “You should return to full capacity, as I said, within two to three months. This is major surgery. I have to say be very careful, but you would do that even with an orthopedic injury, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.” Okay, that was almost the truth. He had played plenty of times on legs that weren’t quite stable, a shoulder which had been dislocated and shoved back into place all during a scuffle, and an eye that had swelled shut for the better part of a game. But he did listen to the trainer and the team doctor, and if an injury was deemed serious enough, he sat on the sideline. Miserably, but he sat.
“Your unique job is why I’m suggesting the full three months. I can’t say you won’t be ready to put in some ice time sooner, but I believe you have an obligation to be fair to your team and explain to them the worst possible scenario so they don’t count on you prematurely. And, of course, they must be aware the surgery might not go as planned. Do you realize how serious this is?”
“I’m learning.” Nothing seemed real until it happened. Like what followed a slash to the face with a stick, but he hadn’t gone down this road before. A broken bone healed in a few weeks. A cut lip mended in days. A torn ligament regained strength with therapy and the assist of a hyperbolic chamber. But what would major surgery do to his ability?
“You certainly don’t want a two hundred and fifty-pound goon slamming you in the gut a month after we close you up. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.” Daniels shifted in his seat. “For now.”
Rochelle’s voice softened. “Ed, don’t you think you should beg off the rest of the season? I mean, it’s not like having your tonsils out. We’re talking about a vital organ. Not to mention they’ll cut into a lot of muscle. Muscle that you need to skate and react with full speed.”
“As I said, the liver will regenerate. The incision is nowhere near as large as they were before. Also, we’ve consulted the team surgeon, and while he deals with orthopedic issues for the most part, he has agreed to follow along with Dr. Norris every step of the way, so he’ll be fully aware of what Ed’s facing minute by minute. Again, as I’ve said all along, you’re healthy and that helps. But I’d be lying to you if I said this came without risk.”
He couldn’t let Cody down.
And he couldn’t let the team down.
What had he agreed to?
CHAPTER 69
LATER FRIDAY NIGHT AFTER a long and difficult day of trying to keep her mind on the show and off Ed, Rochelle downed her supper like a robot. She curled into bed and enclosed herself in the quilt, unable to remember what she’d eaten.
I can’t lose another person in my life. Even if that person is only a friend. Oh, who am I kidding? I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with Ed McGrath, Christian or not. I prayed so hard for a good man and God has never let me down yet. Ed is a good man, whether or not his belief system is a strong one. I’m sure he’s a believer. I hope he’s a believer. Oh, God, please. Let him be a believer.
That model Dr. Daniels had shown them played in her head. Frightening. Unknown. She didn’t care about whether or not Ed returned to the ice as long as he returned to her, whole, healthy, and loving her as much as she loved him. With no mother to call and tell how confused she felt, she snuggled deeper into the comfort of her down quilt and started her evening prayers.
She jumped when the phone sounded. Ed probably couldn’t sleep either. “Just who I wanted to talk to.”
“Missed me, huh? I figured you would.”
She choked at the sound of the voice.
“You take my calls so easily now. I guess you aren’t that afraid of me. Any chance we can hook up again? Oops. I guess I let that secret out. We will hook up whether you want to or not.”
Rochelle gasped. Dark flecks swirled before her eyes. God. Don’t let this man control my life any longer. Let me see him through Your eyes.
And then the peace. At first, she wasn’t sure what was happening, but before he could say another word, she found herself enveloped in warmth from her fingers to her toes.
Rochelle took a second to bask in the sweetness, and then she asked the caller an all important question. “Do you know Jesus Christ died for you? He loved you so much, He died on a cross. Even knowing that you would attack a woman who had done you no wrong.” Could she mean it with all her heart? “I’m trying really hard to forgive you. Are you listening? I said I’m giving everything I’ve got to forgive you for what you did to me.”
Palpable silence and a disconnect.
Putting the phone back on the nightstand, she reached over and switched the light off for the first time in months.
CHAPTER 70
AFTER SWEATING THROUGH HIS second shirt of the day, Ed let his skates lead him on as much relaxing ice time as possible. This free-flying sensation had caused him to fall in love with hockey in the first place. Skating meant less time to worry, no time for introspection, and definitely no time to let the future interrupt the moment’s pleasure.
The few minutes of solitude passed too quickly. While he longed to feel the cool, crisp ice under his feet, the breeze skimming over his face, his arms outstretched and pulling him along, he had a busy day planned. So, he shot a wave at Trent the Zamboni driver and headed off the ice.
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Before Ed made it to the exit, Brett skated past, turned, and smacked him in the shoulder. “Not letting the surgery get to you?”
He grasped that Brett could practically read his thoughts off as well as on the ice. So he wasn’t surprised by the question. “I’m trying not to, but you know how the mind works. Convinced one minute it’s the right thing, the next minute I’m second guessing myself.”
More than he liked to admit. The thought of the procedure and all it entailed stuck him like an unreachable thorn just under the skin.
“If you’re worried about Rochelle, don’t be. She’s a tougher cookie than you think. We’ll all take care of her when you’re incapacitated. That’s so wrong, you know. Nothing incapacitates the Pain—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence.”
A Pain Machine wouldn’t be worrying about whether or not he’d live to play another game.
#
Imprisoned in her cubicle, Rochelle sized up walls decorated with pictures depicting Rochelle, P.A.—Rochelle Pre-Attack. Life had become three chapters: one was before the loss of her family, one after the loss, including Danny, and one post attack. If she’d been writing a book, the divisions would have come easily.
Today, all she thought about was her segment about PhD. It troubled her. Encompassed with so many mixed-up feelings about the circumstances there, she chewed the edge of her lip. Brooke Kirnan lost a baby. Rochelle took another swig of her coffee, not the good stuff from the coffee shop, but the strong brew from the station’s one sad pot. A mother losing a child could cause all kinds of paranoia.
Dr. Reinholdt headed a remarkable clinic no doubt with losses like any other facility. A point well taken by Rochelle when going over all Brooke had told her. Remaining objective was core to any investigating. At least, that’s what she’d been taught in school.
But Lindy Lange’s suicide, added to the mix, caused an uneasiness that Rochelle couldn’t quell with glazed donuts and coffee. While suicide wasn’t exactly mysterious, Lindy hadn’t struck her as someone who might consider it an option.
With one swift stroke, she dropped the last bite of donut into her mouth. Sugar certainly offered its own type of comfort, but she had things to do and people to see.
After a particularly boring meeting where the future of two of the station’s shows hung in the balance, the morning dragged by. To help time go faster, Rochelle reread her notes to put finishing touches on her segment with the county commissioner.
Since Bennett’s removal from the Detroit City Council, there had been a shake-up in all three local county commissions, as well. People, and not just the local media, were posing hard questions to their elected officials. And too many of the answers missed the mark.
Anxious to sit down and dash together a list of the concerns she had for Dr. Reinholdt, she hurried even more. Recently, her life had become a nightmare of hustle and bustle with no end in sight.
As she dashed into the office to retrieve her mail, she snagged the notes from her slot behind the receptionist. Lots of kudos, a few irate listeners who disagreed with her conservative viewpoint, and a note from someone with Your biggest fan! written on the outside with small hearts over the eye.
“Oh, another biggest fan.” She laughed and fanned herself with the letter as Stella looked up from the phone, a grin plastered on her face.
“Honey, you’ve got enough biggest fans to fill a stadium. I guess they all think their opinion is the only one, huh?”
Rochelle tucked all but the last letter into her case. Hearts or no hearts, her stomach flipped. As she slid her finger under the flap of the envelope to open it, she swallowed hard. What if…
Sorry we didn’t get to meet up the other day.
I’d like to see you again.
When I close my eyes and smell your glove,
I remember every second with you.
Do you remember every second with me?
He had her other glove. But the staff lost it in the hospital, didn’t they?
Her phone chirped and she jumped. Rochelle didn’t want his notes, and she didn’t want to hear his voice. Forgiven or not, he had no right.
Well, she wouldn’t make a mistake this time. She checked the caller ID, drew in a relaxing breath, and closed her eyes momentarily. “Hi, Brooke.”
Glancing up, she waved to Stella with her pinky and spun on her heel to leave.
“I’ve called so much I’ll bet you have my number on caller ID.”
Rochelle nodded then smiled. Relieved it wasn’t the stalker again, she exhaled. “Of course. What can I do for you?” Her purse slipped from her shoulder, and trying not to drop it, she moved around the corner to the small conference room and sat down.
“I had to speak to you.”
“What’s wrong?” Lingering for more time than she had to spare, she nonetheless listened to Brooke rehash her baby’s death.
“Am I crazy to think of a conspiracy?”
“Of course not.” Strained muscles tightened all the way over her forehead. A cluster headache. Rochelle wished she could click her fingers and whoosh, it would all be over. Brooke Kirnan would still be pregnant, Lindy Lange alive, and no worrisome doubts about the clinic.
“This is so hard to put into words. When I started going to the clinic, I thought … well, I thought it was the best place ever. A miracle center.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I understand.” At least Rochelle tried. Not having had a baby, it was difficult to know what a woman went through when searching for just the right OB.
“Rochelle, I’m positive it happened exactly as I told you a dozen times before, but everyone’s tried to convince me I hallucinated. I did not hallucinate.”
People showed dissimilar sides of themselves to different people. One thing was certain; she wouldn’t make snap judgments about a situation when she hadn’t been there. “I have an appointment with Dr. Reinholdt after my show on Monday. If you’d like to give me a call later in the day, maybe I can ask him questions that would clear up any misunderstandings.”
“You’re still going back to PhD for your show? So you don’t believe me.”
“That’s not it at all. I want to see all this from an outsider’s perspective.”
“You’re insane if you think I want a different perspective.”
“Brooke. I’m trying to be objective. I’m wired to look at all sides. I realize how traumatized you were. Maybe I can do a bit of snooping at PhD.” Brooke should want the truth.
“I know you aren’t judging me, and I can tell you’re trying to help.” But her voice was prickly and aloof.
“Brooke, trust me.”
“At this point, I don’t trust anyone … and you shouldn’t, either.”
CHAPTER 71
AFTER HIS LAST DELIVERY, Erik actually looked forward to home. His own bed for at least a couple hours. With a flip of the switch, he illuminated the white marble foyer which led into his two-million-dollar house off Jefferson. He entered through the front, hoping to avoid Margaret. Long ago the mammoth showplace ceased being home. And he no longer recognized the two strangers living here.
His future plans didn’t include reconciliation; he could always list the house on the market, whatever that would bring in the grim Michigan economy. Though he was sure his attorney would see he made out well enough. But to do that, Margaret would have to ask for the divorce or … she’d have to be put away … for good.
Strolling into the sitting room at the far side of the foyer, he stopped short. On an antique loveseat with a drink dangling from her hand, thin from too much booze and too little food, Margaret lounged. A small Tiffany lamp near her head had been knocked over and an empty bottle of his most expensive wine leaned across the glass shade. He snagged the bottle and righted the lamp on the table. The crack at the top of the shade would need repair.
Her hooded eyes answered any questions he might have had concerning her condition. Yes, Margaret drank with her sleeping pills. Yes, sh
e was rapidly slipping farther away. No, he couldn’t be sure what she might do next. And yes, that most certainly scared him. “Margaret?”
She started and her gaze narrowed. “Who? What?”
He leaned closer and out of habit sniffed at her breath. “Are you awake?”
“S’pose. What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He straightened and didn’t try to hide the disgust. “Did you sleep downstairs all night?”
“Well, so you do live here,” she said, wiping a hand over eyes, now open and blinking rapidly. “I forget sometimes.” Her hands fluttered in the air like the maestro conducting the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. “If it isn’t the great Dr. Mengele. How goes it, Doc?” She giggled and slapped a hand over her mouth. “That was bad, wasn’t it? And I should say I’m sorry, but let’s not pretend.”
A chill ran through him. “Enough, Margaret. This drivel isn’t funny. Hand me your glass.” He snatched at her hand but missed as she yanked back. “Margaret. Give me the glass!”
He expected some sort of contrition; that was not to be. If only he could commit her, but she’d have to do something serious enough. Perhaps, threaten him. He must be the one to remain cool and dispassionate.
She proffered a sarcastic salute and wine splashed in her hair and onto the loveseat. “To the good doctor. May he be the first obstetrician to bring a superhuman baby into existence. May his cup runneth over with millions of dollars brought in on the backs of trusting mothers and the umbilical cords of innocent babies.”
“Stop it. You’re drunk, as usual. And you have no idea what you’re talking about. How many sleeping pills did you swallow?” He should never have written the prescription, but anything beat the constant nagging. Writing the script had been easier than listening to her suspicions all night long.
Maybe he’d go back to the clinic and sleep on his couch.
Fear Is Louder Than Words: Her stalker taught her fear. Her suspicions taught her terror. Page 21