“Marnie Thompson brought these as thanks for her treatment. I think they’re fresh out of the oven.” She carries a plate of brownies.
The smell of cocoa fills the room as Bonnie moves closer. Claire’s dizziness rages. Her heart races; her throat tightens. She can’t speak or scream.
When her eyes meet the plate, thoughts of her parents, and the accident, join forces with the ingredients on the plate. The world seems to fall away. Her eyes lock onto a cheesecake-topped brownie at the plate’s center. Eggs, cheese, butter...
Why do you fucking care? It’s just food!
She watches as Bonnie moves closer, panic in her eyes.
“Mom!” she hears herself cry. Her body seems weightless as her legs buckle beneath her.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“So what happened exactly?” Claire moves to an upright position in the bed and looks at Dr. Bergen, the mid-forties doctor who’s been treating her.
She awoke at United Hospital in Minneapolis, unsure what she remembered and what she merely dreamed. According to Hank, after passing out at the clinic she was rushed to the emergency room where she remained unconscious for several hours. Bonnie, having the wherewithal not to contact her grandmother, phoned him immediately.
Considering the situation and the panic she experienced just prior, she feels unusually calm. And, she notes, hungry.
“It seems you suffered from hypoglycemia. In severe cases, low blood sugar can cause loss of consciousness. Do you recall what you ate and drank beforehand?” He pulls a pen from his breast pocket to jot notes.
Hank’s watchful eyes feel like policemen’s flashlights in the movies. “I…hardly ate anything all day, or lately really, other than coffee and Diet Coke.” She pauses. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
“Yes, your friend here told me,” the doctor says. Claire smiles subtly at Hank. He barely knows the half of it. “Sorry to hear of your grandfather’s stroke.”
“Thank you.” As the doctor explains further details of her condition her thoughts turn to the IV machine hooked to her arm. Though nearly identical to the contraption that triggered panic in Grandpa’s room, it doesn’t alarm her. And for once she feels unafraid of food.
“I’d like to keep you overnight for monitoring purposes,” Dr. Bergen finishes. “If everything checks out, as I presume it will, you can return home first thing tomorrow. And no more skipping meals or I suspect I’ll see you again shortly.”
“Girl scout’s honor.” She smiles, raising her hand in three-finger salute.
As the doctor leaves, Hank approaches her bedside. “You gave us quite the scare, missy. Sure you’re feeling better?”
“Positive.” In fact, she feels better than she has in weeks. But why? “Is it normal to feel this great after having a blood sugar attack?”
Hank smiles. “Once it’s fixed, absolutely. Nothing feels better than getting all of your levels back to normal. You were probably dehydrated, too. They had you on oxygen earlier. Food, water, air... Not things generally considered optional.”
“Well I think it’s safe to say I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Can I get you anything?” Hank adds. “Doctor said I can stay until nine-thirty, which gives me…” He glances at his watch. “…about half an hour.”
Too little time to get into the day’s events, she decides. And besides, she’s exhausted in mind and body. She longs for normal food and conversation—no secrets to uncover, no paranoia to pursue.
“Is it okay for me to eat with this thing on?” She lifts her IV-attached arm. “I could really go for some pizza or something, if the cafeteria’s still open.”
He grins. “Thatta girl. Eating should be fine. I’ll go check it out. Anything else?”
“Mmm…Coke. Make it a regular.”
Once Hank steps out she reaches for the phone and calls the Hastings hospital. Grandpa remains stable—sleeping and no notable changes. Grandma, too, seems fine.
Hank returns toting plastic-wrapped somethings. “Sorry...no pizza. But I got the next best thing... Pastrami on sourdough from the vending machine. If you close your eyes, it almost tastes like pepperoni. At least that works for me during night shifts. And here’s your pop.” He hands her a red can.
“You’ve got the terminology down. I’m impressed.”
Though her recent food angst and panic episodes bring anxiety, she feels compelled to eat. It will strengthen you, her inner voice chides, sounding more like her own voice than the monstrous ED tone of earlier. Improved blood sugar seems to be benefitting her in numerous surprising ways. Or perhaps she senses the need for strength in the coming days—if she decides to investigate further, that is.
Once she begins eating, she’s glad she listened to her inner voice; her famished belly welcomes the meal. They dine on faux-pizza, sipping Cokes and chatting with ease until it is time for Hank to leave.
“So around nine tomorrow?” he asks.
“You’re picking me up?”
“Were you planning to hitchhike?” He smiles. “Of course I am.”
“Oh...but can you make it eight? No...seven?” Her to-do list spins open like Santa’s scroll in her mind: walk Zola, shower, see Dr. Marsha, if possible...
“I almost forgot,” Hanks said. “Bonnie said not to worry about work tomorrow. She said to call when you feel up to it and to take as much time you need. She cleared it with Sykes.”
“But Doc said first thing in the morning—”
“Stop.” He places a finger to her lips. “You need...to...rest. Didn’t you hear what the doctor said? Good thing I was here as a witness. Want me to check in on Zola?”
Her relieved grin is answer enough. “What did I do to deserve you?” She retrieves her keys from her purse and hands them to Hank.
“Uh, besides the fact that I rather like you? I seem to recall a certain someone putting up with odd hours and endless nightshifts, helping me cram for finals and...who was it that waited on me hand and foot when I sprained my ankle playing basketball?”
“That’s right,” Claire says. “In that case, mind cleaning my apartment while you’re at it?”
“Let’s not push it. The alarm code still her name?”
“It is. Thanks. And Hank, about the other night...”
“What, you mean seducing me then throwing me off the bed?” He smiles. “I told you, I’m over it. Just... rest.”
“Yes, doctor.” She sighs and drops her head to her pillow. “It’d better be worth it.”
“Good night.” Hank shakes his head, kisses her forehead then flicks the main light off as he exits.
She moves into a comfier position—or tries. At least the pillows are soft. I wish I may, I wish I might, have only happy dreams tonight…
The two women hold hands as they walk through a sunlit forest. Claire has never felt so close or connected to anyone. How she adores her best friend. She inhales a waft of spring-fresh air—sweet, perhaps the smell of berries. The lush green grass pokes at and tickles her toes through the gaps in her sandals. She glances at the pair of female feet walking with matching stride beside hers. She smiles. It’s odd, but comfortable, that they don’t need words. Their communication is deeper, as though they share the same mind, heart and soul.
As the pair continues to walk in sync, a breeze catches their hair. When Claire first glimpses the woman’s face, she’s startled, them calm...perhaps more than she’s ever been. Elle! She would have recognized her sooner, but she’s lightened her hair, and the bright sun made it difficult to see her face.
They lock eyes. She’s beautiful, Claire thinks, filling up with pride. So delighted for her kindred spirit, she feels her bliss and beauty are equally her own. Claire brushes her arm against a sharp tree branch; the woman grimaces, then laughs. “At least we’re sharing.”
The two walk farther and Zola appears. She rushes to Claire’s feet, then to her friend’s, then back at her. Her eyes dart back and forth—anxiously? Perhaps Zola needs a friend, too�
��another animal to share her heart.
A figure appears in the distance, someone familiar. Their pace quickens. Could it be?
“Mom... Mom!” Claire calls out, releasing her friend’s hand. She rushes toward her mother, tears spilling down her cheeks.
As she runs toward the figure, the sky darkens. Thunder echoes, booms like stirred-up angels drumming in the sky. She watches the storm clouds expand and darken... No, it’s not supposed to rain. It’s can’t!
She looks ahead. Mom’s image is fading. As Claire steps forward, her mother slips farther away. “Mom!”
Her mother’s mouth is moving, but Claire can’t comprehend. She reaches her arms toward her mother, wishing she could extend them many yards, touch her, reel her in.
Then...silence. The world is frozen around her, the only sound her labored breath. No thunder, no grass or trees, no fresh-smelling berries... Nothing ahead of her but endless vacant space.
She looks behind her. The ground is dark. Her friend lies on it, motionless.
“No!” She rushes toward Elle, tries to communicate in the way they always have—by being, thinking, feeling. But their connection is lost; she feels naked. Rushing back toward her, Claire spots a man standing over her. He drops down on top of Elle, causing her to scream: “Help me!” She reaches a frail hand out toward Claire.
Claire stands there, paralyzed, watching as the man thrusts his groin against the woman’s. It’s so vivid and horrific, Claire can feel the pain inside herself.
Sensing wetness beneath her, she looks down. Her own underwear is overflowing—a magenta flood. Her thoughts fade...she’s slipping into a deep slumber. Or perhaps...it’s death.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
What’ll it be tonight, he thinks, scrolling through his car stereo collection. Romeo and Juliet?Haunting, but...too romantic. Pavane Pour Une Infante Defunte?Too cliché. He chuckles inwardly at the translation. The Dead Princess indeed. Ah... Here we are. He hits play and the lilting trills of Clementi’s Sonata in G Minor ring out. Now we’re talking. Tonight calls for flamboyance, celebration...
While he waits for Claire’s arrival, he marvels at his ability to track her. People think they need fancy GPS programs and computer chips. But common sense paired with others’ gullibility comes free. He’d phoned Peterson under the guise of scheduling a session with Dr. Fiksen and gained her availability in a snap. A quick call to the Hastings hospital revealed that Gil Adolfsson’s granddaughter had left for the night. Sheep. Every one of them.
He runs through his equipment, his mental checklist, reviews the transplant protocol he’s virtually memorized. If he must, he’ll do the procedure in the comfort of Claire’s own home. But conducting surgery anywhere but a hospital or his lab poses numerous risks, from damaging the kidney during transport to passersby hearing something they shouldn’t. Unless absolutely necessary, he will bring her home with him. And then...the adventure begins.
As time ticks on, he grows concerned. She should be here by now. Just before his concern turns to fury, he sees them: headlights cutting through the darkness. A car pulling into Claire’s spot. “Here, princess-princess...”
A man steps out. No!
The bastard wanna-be-doctor boyfriend. Not that he can’t handle this pathetic student. But there’s no sign of Claire. He imagines her and Hank together, naked and entangling. He shudders. She may be part of Gil, but she deserves more than a half-ass wimp for a beau.
Minutes later, when the bastard steps out of the building with Claire’s dog, his suspicion is confirmed. She’s not home.
The dog looks at him straight on as they pass by, then bolts toward the car, stringing Hanky Panky along like a caught fish. The animal jumps up on its hind legs.
“Zola-girl, down!” Hank says, yanking the leash like he knows what he’s doing.
He cracks the window open, but stays out of view. “Think you can control your dog? Some might say you’re disrupting the peace.”
“My apologies,” Hank says, not sounding sincere.
“Asshole.” He rolls up the window and zips off.
Less than two hours later, he’s back home in his kitchen. Rachmaninoff plays from the stereo, doing little to soothe him. He lifts his wine glass and smashes it on the countertop, sending Chianti and glass shards flying, causing his knuckles to bleed. Not enough. He picks up the stereo, yanking the cord from the wall, and thrusts it to the ground. Arching his back, he releases a long, loud wail. Then, with eyes closed, he drops his face forward, sucks in a long breath, eases it out. Another. Then another.
Obstacles, not walls, he thinks. Not the finish line—not nearly.
He feels his body relax, confident of one thing. Tomorrow will be the day, no matter where, when or how. He’s going to make it happen.
After cleaning the mess and scouring the kitchen surfaces until they shine like stars, he heads to his bedroom. Once his head meets the pillow, his thoughts cling not to his love, not to the voluptuous body she’d soon have again, but to Claire. Her absence tonight hadn’t merely disappointed or angered him—he’d felt rejected, infuriated at the thought of her in bed with her hot young doctor man.
He envisions her naked body standing in the corner of his room. She stares at him, beckoning him with her index finger—wanting.
STOP. He jolts upright in bed. Hands trembling, he pulls Dawn’s photo from his nightstand. Yes, he thinks, stroking himself. How can he allow himself to be tempted when he has her? His beautiful angel.
His body relaxes in relief, and soon he is asleep.
A storm breaks in his dreams. Visions not of one, but both women, taunting him like sirens in the ocean. “We’re heeeere….” They sing together, their naked bodies huddled close, flesh upon flesh, their voices blending into a harmonious one. They stand at the end of his bed, sucking each other’s hard nipples, purring like kittens in heat. They turn and bend over. Pointing their rears in the air, they peer around to look at him, seductive eyes luring him, begging him to join them. As he crawls toward them, they turn toward each other and kiss hungrily.
No! He shoots up in bed, awake, his breath heavy, body dripping with sweat. What does it mean? He looks at his hands—trembling. He pulls them into fists and glares at his doctor’s bag. He cannot afford to shake.
Wretched women.It’s all their fault. Their strategic prowess could ruin everything. Unless...
Were his dreams a sign? Some sort of celestial guidance? Who says he has to capture Claire, remove her kidneys and kill her? Women aren’t the only ones who can tantalize. Why not lure Claire into his life?
A revised plot plays out like a filmstrip in his mind, bringing it all into perspective. Why kill Claire when he can reunite them as he’d planned years before? His dream was right. They belong together. No wonder his plan to take her earlier hadn’t worked. He needed to hone a better plan. And besides, starting the process in the Hastings house feels right. Gil deserves that—to lose Claire from the same place he lost Dawn. He always had to mess things up for him...BASTARD! Perhaps he deserves another visit. Gil will be so close, yet unable to protect or save his Claire-belle.
With renewed vigor and an erection as thick and insatiable as his will, he leaves his bedroom, headed for the stairs.
“Darling...”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Claire. Claire, can you hear me?” A woman’s voice.
Elle? Claire lays still, her heart pounding. Then she jolts to an upright position. She glances around the room. The hospital. So much for peaceful, happy dreams.
“Is it morning?” she asks the nurse.
“Just about. You must’ve been having some serious dreams. You were mumbling and your heart rate bumped up a bit. I’m just going to check your blood pressure.”
“I was...talking?” Details of the dream’s dark ending surface as the nurse wraps the device around her arm. She quivers, wishing she could forget.
“It happens sometimes, especially while sleeping in an unusual place. You were p
robably exhausted, too. Sleeping hard and dreaming hard. They go hand in hand.”
She pumps the blood pressure monitor several times, letting the numbers rise and fall between. “There we are. One-ten over seventy...healthy as can be.” She checks Claire’s temperature and pulse, recording the results on her chart. “It’ll be another hour or so before Dr. Bergen will be in to see you. Can I get you anything before then?”
“No, thanks.”
“All right, get some rest then.” She switches the light off and exits.
Claire reaches for her phone and calls Elle. Voicemail. She dials again. Still no answer.
Elle is in danger—she feels it. “Elle, it’s me. Are you okay?” She tries to suppress the tremor in her voice. “I...had another stupid dream. For some reason, I’m...worried about you. Should I be? Call me.”
She lies fully awake as the next hour creeps by. Finally, Dr. Bergen appears at her door.
“Good morning, Claire. Rest well?” He crosses the room, pulls the drapes open then approaches her bedside.
Observing the puffy white snowflakes drifting down outside the window, she says, “I slept all right, thanks.”
He checks her vitals and writes on her chart. “I see Nurse White came by earlier. You were…talking in your sleep?” He squints at the nurses’ notation.
“That’s what she told me. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before.”
“Well,” he continues, guiding her torso forward and placing his stethoscope on her back. “You probably slept heavily after your episode. Breathe in for me?” He listens. “Good, and again.”
The metal round feels like an ice cube as he moves it about her back. Though she believes she can trust him rationally, emotionally she feels invaded. Get your hands off me, she thinks, but doesn’t say.
“Everything sounds good,” he says and takes a step back. “You’re feeling well? No nausea, dizziness, pain?”
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