by J. P. Hansen
He couldn’t shake the forbidden dream though. Most of the time, his alarm would awaken him and instantly erase his memory of the night’s dreams. Duke’s tongue bath couldn’t wipe out this one. The dream branded an indelible mark—the kind that preoccupied a man throughout the day.
Both man and dog continued their sunrise run, this time with a touch of distance between them. The sun poking through the horizon usually caused Chase to take notice. However, this morning Chase was preoccupied and Duke allowed him his space—as only his golden retriever could.
Chase chuckled, then said, “Didn’t mean to yell, buddy. You ever dream of little poodles?” Duke didn’t respond.
Brooke’s effect on him had become a twenty-four hour phenomena. Chase had never experienced a dream quite like this—even back when he was thirteen. It seemed so real. Brooke felt so real. And, too damn good.
Grinning, he hummed the popular Aerosmith song, “Love in an Elevator”—he’d never regard the company elevator the same way. Or his new vice president.
Chase slowed to a walk three houses away and his gentle tug halted Duke. Sweat circled his chest and underarms beneath his faded blue and white national championship shirt. He surveyed his home as morning dew blended with the early morning sun, radiating golden prisms and adding heaviness to the air. In another hour, the humidity would overwhelm the Carolina outdoors. But right now, Chase felt euphoric. He pulled his T-shirt from his abdomen and wiped his forehead. Glancing at his slobbering dog, he wondered if Duke experienced the same runner’s high.
“Duke, why do you love running so much?” Chase marveled at how well his trusty dog understood him—except for dreamtime. Duke raised his ears but remained focused on the upcoming fire hydrant. At his usual spot, Duke raised his leg, and glimpsing at Chase, he released a loud embarrassing sound—that reeked like week-old Mighty Dog.
Peeking both ways as if readying to cross the street, Chase scolded, “Will you behave if Brooke runs with us?” Duke trotted on.
After grabbing the newspaper off the skirt of his driveway, Chase spotted Oksana tip toeing down the porch steps in her bare feet. He called out, “Good morning.”
“Hi, Mr. Allman.”
“Call me Chase. Anything wrong?”
“No, I just wanted to speak with you before I wake up Parker.” They now stood within a few feet of each other. Chase stepped backwards, hoping his locker room stench wouldn’t bowl his nanny over. He marveled that even at this early hour, she still made a striking appearance. Nothing like Heather, but well kept and feminine. He wondered if all Ukrainian women looked like her.
“What happened?”
Oksana turned her head slightly and flipped her brown hair out of her eyes. “She called yesterday.” Chase felt a deep pang in his chest as his runner’s high dissipated. He was so caught up in Brooke that he had completely forgotten Oksana’s call yesterday.
“Are you sure it was her?” Chase bit his lower lip as he squinted into her deep brown eyes.
“I’m sure. She called twice. And this time, she spoke to me.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked for Parker. When I said, ‘who’s calling please’—like you told me to do—she hung up. But then a few minutes later, she called back.” Chase cast an eerie frown. Oksana’s lip trembled, and after a hastened breath, she continued, “This time, she asked for Parker again. When I said ‘Who is calling,’ she yelled, Who do you think you are? You’re not his mommy.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. She hung up.”
“What was the caller ID?”
“Both calls came in ‘Restricted.’”
“That’s her alright.” Chase stared past Oksana, then asked, “Where was Parker?”
“He was taking a nap and I was cleaning up the kitchen for both calls. He did not wake up so I know he did not hear me.”
“You did the right thing. I don’t want to scare you any more than you already are, but keep an extra close watch on Parker, okay?”
Chapter 5
What is she trying to do now? It had been eighteen months since Heather vanished. When she fled from the cocoon of Hazelden Treatment Center—after only three days—Chase feared the worst. He doubted his head-strong wife would ever heal on her own.
After a three month intense courtship, they married with much fanfare. “Congrats, Heather. You got this 38 year-old corporate hotshot to finally settle down,” Dixon Carter, his best man, toasted at their wedding. Heather was the most attractive woman Chase had ever laid eyes on. Stunning. He fell for her immediately.
Chase completed the accelerated JD/MBA program at Duke in only three and a half years. With degrees from Duke Law School and the Fuqua School of Business, he had several career options. He decided to accept Pharmical Solution’s offer for a fast track utilizing both degrees. He started as a corporate attorney, and then was rapidly promoted until becoming CFO within twelve years. With each rung of the ladder, Chase felt the pressure of Pharmical’s culture—meaning, if you wanted a shot at CEO, you needed to be a good Baptist, with a wife and two and a half kids.
Heather appeared at the perfect time. Chase considered her more than a career enhancer. Beyond a trophy wife, she was his everything. He even introduced her as Spectacular.
Early on, the couple seemed happy. They were even tabbed “Raleigh’s power couple” in the newspaper. However, soon the age difference of fourteen years plus the pressures of the new CEO post mounted marital challenges. The couple bickered over minor things at first, then as Heather became pregnant, they fought more often than they made love. Though she had agreed to raise their children full time prior to their marriage, Heather never wanted to abandon her modeling career. At 24, she was still in high demand—doing print and television ads for a major cosmetics company. She commanded top dollar and earned every penny.
Then, she became pregnant and as her stomach grew for the first time, so did her resentment. She crossed from loving to loathing and Chase was too busy at work to do anything about it.
By the time she reached her second trimester, Heather felt an emptiness that she never overcame. After giving birth to Parker, rather than feeling natural maternal instincts, Heather despised her new existence. All of her life, she had identified with her looks. She had plenty of admirers. Modeling was her outlet, her way of gaining—and then maintaining—acceptance. Unable to transition to wife and mother, she descended into deep depression. Then, the drugs started. Her pity party worsened. More drugs. Her addictive personality compounded the addictions, and destroyed her—quickly.
Chase witnessed his beloved, and now mother of his newborn, self-destruct. He pulled some strings to secure admittance to the top rehab program in the country. Then he cut the check for $50,000 without batting an eyelash. She fought rehab at first, but then agreed she needed help. At least to him.
He never imagined it would come to this. When she ran away, she abandoned everything. Including the man who was providing her everything she said she wanted. Chase was devastated.
After being missing for one week, Chase feared she had relapsed. He understood the statistics on relapses. He knew relapse meant collapse—total collapse. After a month, Chase burrowed into defense mode. He realized the press would have a field day with the juicy story. He pictured the headlines: Drug Company CEO’s Wife Addicted to Drugs. He knew his holier than thou Board of Directors—the same people who anointed him CEO—would oust him in an instant. His whole life, Parker’s future, stood at the whim of others.
At the twelve month mark of zero contact with Heather, Chase leveraged his connections in the media to secretly file for divorce. It offered the only solution to the recurring nightmare. Heather had ripped out his heart and he’d be damned if she’d stomp on it in public. He worried about Parker’s development without a mother. Then, he met Oksana.
The Ukrainian immigrant was a Godsend. Twenty-six, educated, and in desperate need of a steady job, she was the perfect candidate to
serve as Parker’s nanny. He admired her strong family values—she still sent money back home to her parents. With what he was paying her, notwithstanding the nicest roof over her head she’d ever known, she earned more in three months than her father made in three years.
Chase appreciated Oksana the moment he met her. She had a great demeanor, and felt passionate about raising children—believing it was her calling. Oksana became an integral part of the family, a surrogate mother. Chase needed her, but he feared that his estranged ex-wife-to-be would scare Oksana away.
The question continued to haunt him. What is she trying to do now?
***
Brooke’s ankle throbbed when she awakened. After a fitful night of sleep, she felt like she was in a war zone—and, she was losing. Limping to the bathroom without the use of her crutches, she stopped in front of the mirror. “Yikes, my eyes look like eclipses.” Brooke barely recognized herself. I’m becoming my grandmother.
There’s no way I’m going in to work today, she said to herself. Her reflection actually horrified her. She looked like death warmed several times over. The foot ached so badly that she couldn’t even cry, though her bloodshot eyes stung. She hobbled back to her kitchen counter and popped two over-the-counter anti-inflammatories, then wrestled with a prescription child-proof pain killer. Brooke called out, “How do the elderly do this? It must suck being old.” Finally, she popped the small circular protector off. The contents spilled all over the counter and several landed on the floor. She scooped up three pills—three times the recommended dosage—and popped them in her mouth. In too much pain to grab a cup of water, she mustered enough saliva to swallow the pills, then limped back to bed.
She slept like a teenager.
“Whenever I see your smiling face…”—her ringtone—shook her out of a deep slumber. Usually, the upbeat song brought happy memories of Tanner and going to see James Taylor on their first date. Under the stars, so romantic. Right now, she wanted to stomp on it. Without looking at the caller ID, “Hello…”
“Brooke? Is that you?” I know that voice. Oh shit.
“Hi Daddy.”
“I was calling to leave you a message. What are you doing home?”
She wanted to say, what are you doing calling me? “I’m, uh, not feeling well…”
“Oh…”
“Actually, I hurt my foot and I’m going in late today.”
“I told you not to run those stupid marathons.”
Why does he always have to auto-scold me?
“I didn’t hurt it running and I haven’t done a marathon in over a year.”
“How’d you hurt it then?”
“Long story.” The last thing Brooke wanted to do was recant the story of falling into her new boss’s boss. Think quickly. “Listen, I’m out the door and it’s illegal to talk and drive, so can I call you later?” That’s it, hit him with the legal angle.
“Okay …but Billy’s worried about you. He hasn’t heard from you in over two years.” That’s it, he’s calling to rebuke me for not calling my brother. He didn’t even want to talk to me.
“I’ll call him later Daddy, I promise,” she lied.
Brooke sensed her father’s intentions were pure, but she felt like her whole world was tumbling. She hated her job, her mentor was moving away, Tanner still haunted her, and she couldn’t clear Chase out of her mind—even with her ankle in such pain.
A different pain shot inside her. Billy, her older brother, suffered from drug addictions and alcoholism and here she was, concerned about herself. She loved Billy. Early on, he was strange—picked on at school and did weird things at home. When they diagnosed her older brother with bipolar disorder, she prayed for him constantly and always thanked God that she was normal.
Now, he lived in a trailer park and had a menial job, yet never complained. The last time he called her, he was out of it. She lost it with him. Brooke felt horrible afterwards. She’d done everything she could to encourage sobriety and when he failed again, she snapped at him.
After leaving a cryptic message on her boss David’s voicemail, Brooke hobbled across the hickory floor of her apartment to the front door. Almost outside, she realized she had better grab her crutches. I don’t want to be yelled at by Dixie-dawg.
The drive to the doctor’s office stressed Brooke. The effects of the drugs lingered but her foot still ached. She never recalled feeling this much pain in college. Getting old sucks. In her early twenties and especially her teen years, things seemed to heal much faster. Though she suffered from recurring stress fractures and minor sprains, she never missed a meet in four years at Chapel Hill. She held the mile record until two years ago.
Brooke didn’t hesitate to skip out on work; the ankle provided enough of an excuse, plus the CEO had advised her to get to the doctor today. She didn’t recall ever missing a day at GenSense. Brooke hoped she could drag this injury out. Maybe I did tear ligaments like good ole Dixie-dawg said. She dreaded that he just wanted to hit on her again.
Pulling into the office building near Duke Raleigh Hospital, she rehearsed a pep talk on handling the dawg if he strayed from professionalism. Dr. Dixon Carter shared an office with eight other orthopedic surgeons. The waiting area was packed with what looked like the walking wounded. Wheel chairs, crutches, slings—you name it. She recalled another time, when she brought Tanner in to an office just like this—only in Chapel Hill. Surveying the room as she signed in, she figured this would be an all day event. She was glad she brought the book Shane recommended.
Brooke sighed, then opened The Bliss List to page one just as a child’s coo rang out from behind her. She turned and met the eyes of an angel. Brooke said, “You’re sooooo cute. What’s her name?”
A mother in the full leg cast said, “Thanks. She’s Marielle.”
Without breaking her gaze, Brooke asked, “She’s adorable. How old?”
Marielle reached out to Brooke as her mother said, “She just turned six months—”
A voice called out, “Brooke Hart.” Brooke nearly fell off her chair. I guess being associated with Chase Allman has its advantages.
Brooke waved to Marielle while mouthing bye cutie-pie. The infant’s toothless smile froze time, until the nurse repeated, “Brooke Hart!”
Once inside, a heavy-set nurse weighed her, measured her height, then took her pulse, temperature, and blood pressure. She actually lost two pounds—not bad for my first day without exercise. It dawned on her that she hadn’t eaten anything, so those two pounds were one drive-thru away.
The nurse, trudging as if she had a hip pointer, led Brooke down a bright, aseptic, tiled hallway to an exam room. Even with an air cast, Brooke thought she could beat her in a race. Once inside, she closed the door and handed Brooke a thin cotton robe and said, “Please strip down to your bra and panties. Ties in the back.”
Brooke scrunched her eyebrows, holding the garment at arm’s length. The nurse scowled, “Do you need help putting it on?”
“No, but is this thing necessary? I just have an ankle injury.” Bile formed in Brooke’s mouth. She hadn’t showered and remembered she was wearing two day old panties.
“Ma’am, that’s how Dr. Carter examines all patients.” Nurse Kankles crossed her beefy arms and released a grunt.
“Okay, whatever. I can manage the robe on my own, thank you.” Though Brooke could take her in a foot race, but she didn’t want to provoke a wrestling match.
Brooke lifted the skimpy robe again and winced. She figured she’d better hurry so doctor dawg didn’t barge in while she changed. She could just hear him telling Chase all about her unmatching bra and panties. Two-day-old panties.
She wrestled out of her clothes in record time—ignoring the pounding ankle—and hastily tied the string behind her as tightly as she could. Her shoulder popped while doing it. She glimpsed at herself in the mirror and gasped. The fluorescent lighting and her hasty make-up job wouldn’t land her a Cover Girl offer.
Brooke eased onto the lone
chair in the small room and crossed her legs like a tourniquet. The handle moved and the door whooshed open. Then, a feeble knock landed on the already open door. Just as she expected.
“Hi Brooke.” Dr. Dixon Carter lunged toward her and extended his hand.
“Hello, doctor.” She reached out and gripped his hand. He wore the same dukie outfit: starched white button-down, baggy khaki’s, boat shoes, and those nerd glasses.
Holding onto her hand a little too long, he said, “Call me Dixon,” followed by, “Tough night?”
Brooke bit her lower lip. Hard. “Do I look that bad?” Her dark circles accentuated the narrowing of her bloodshot eyes.
Gulp. “I meant, err, the ankle. You…you look great today,” he fibbed.
“Dixon, I won’t argue with you. I barely know you, but you’re a bad liar. I look worse than my ankle feels.”
“Well, let’s take a look.” He crouched down and started to fiddle with the air cast. Brooke froze and tightened her legs together. He glimpsed up at Brooke, asking, “Does this hurt?”
“No.” At this point, she didn’t care if he amputated her leg—he was not going to have a panty peek. Two day panties. She held firm.
He deflated the cast and she welcomed the fresh cool air. The color of her foot resembled a losing rugby team. “Yikes,” Brooke said.
“Not too bad, Brooke, I’ve handled much worse.” He fondled her foot like he had a fetish.
“Well, I hope you washed your hands…”
Dixon laughed and said, “You do have a good sense of humor. Chase was right.” Chase was talking about me? Brooke raised her eyebrow as if begging more information.
“I don’t like the swelling, but I think we should be able to get an MRI today. I’ll have to ice you down first.” Staring at her cleavage, he meant to say ice it down. He hoped she didn’t notice. She did, but chose to ignore him.
“How long will it take?”
“To ice it?” He broke his gape, “a half hour. An ankle MRI is quick. Assuming you don’t need immediate surgery, you’ll be outta here in no time.”