Searching for Cate

by Marie Ferrarella

  Her nerves frayed, her future uncertain, Joan was in no condition to field this latest shock.

  Avoiding the young woman’s eyes, Joan grasped at a lie. “I’m afraid that you must have me confused with someone else.”

  Then why won’t you look at me? Cate silently demanded. People lied to her all the time, attempting to avoid the consequences of their actions. Part of her job was to see through the lies and get down to the truth.

  She saw through Joan’s.

  Cate moved closer to the bed. “Are you Joan Cunningham?”

  The woman’s breathing became more audible. Like a cornered animal, Cate thought.

  “Yes, but—”

  Holding up her hand, Cate didn’t let her finish. “And are you formerly Joan Haywood?”

  The look of panic in the woman’s eyes increased. “Yes, but—”

  Cate pushed on, refusing to allow the woman a chance to regroup. “And did you live in the San Francisco area twenty-eight years ago? Did you know someone named ‘Blue?’”

  Joan dug her fingers so deeply into the bedclothes that she was pulling loose not only the white blanket, but the sheets beneath it. Panicked, unable to cope, she cried, “Get out.”

  Cate remained where she was. Rather than triumph, she felt anger welling up inside of her. This was the woman who’d given her away. People gave away things they didn’t want, not children.

  Her voice was deadly calm, even though her insides were in turmoil. “Well, did you?”

  “I said get out!”

  The order came out in almost a high-pitched scream. Frantically, Joan searched for the buzzer to summon a nurse, an orderly, someone, anyone, to come and help her. To come and save her.

  This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. She was back in her own bed in her own bedroom and this was some nightmare she was having. If she could only scream, Ron would shake her awake and tell her that this was just one of those awful dreams she sometimes had. Dreams of small girls with huge green eyes looking up at her.

  It had been a mistake ever to hold that baby, to even look at it. If she hadn’t, she would have been able to sweep this out of her life forever, like the nightmare it was.

  But she had held her little girl. Against her mother’s wishes, she had held her baby. Held Bonnie Blue to her breast. And left a piece of her heart wrapped up in those small, curled fingers when the nurse came to take her away.

  The woman looking at her had green eyes. Accusing green eyes. Joan shrank back in her bed, still frantically trying to locate the call buzzer that had somehow gotten loose.

  “I just need to know that I’m right,” Cate said, struggling to remain calm. To keep from crying because the hurt went down deep, scraping against the bone.

  Shaking now, Joan felt as if she was falling completely apart. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m too upset to deal with this—”

  “I’d like an answer, please.” It was hard keeping the emotion that choked her out of her voice.

  “Get out!” Joan screamed again. Finally finding the buzzer, she clutched it in both hands as she pressed the button frantically. Her entire body was trembling. Any moment, she thought she was going to begin convulsing.

  The door flew open.

  “What’s going on here?” Christian demanded as he strode into the room. He looked accusingly at the young woman by his patient’s bedside. He’d been right outside, about to go in when he’d heard Joan’s raised voice. Coming in, he recognized the other woman as the one he’d bumped into earlier.

  Just who the hell was she and why was she agitating his patient?

  Joan looked ready to collapse. “Oh, God, Doctor, please get her out of here,” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t deal with this right now, I just can’t.”

  Christian had no idea what was going on, only that his patient was on the verge of hysteria, which didn’t do her present condition any good.

  He turned his attention to the blonde. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Mrs. Cunningham obviously doesn’t want you here.”

  Cate continued looking at the woman fate and genetics had made her mother. Despite the frustration she felt at the moment, she was still determined to find out all she could about Joan. “I’m sure she’d rather I wasn’t anywhere. She should have thought of that twenty-seven years ago.”

  Christian had no idea what was going on, only that he needed to have the blonde leave before Joan became even more agitated. “Don’t make me call Security.”

  Cate suppressed a sigh. She didn’t want to create any trouble. And getting tossed out on her ear wasn’t going to get her what she wanted. At this point, she wasn’t completely clear what it was that she did want, other than recognition.

  Acceptance, she supposed. Something to make this awful restless feeling in the pit of her stomach go away, to help dam up this gnawing, gaping hole in the center of her being. She didn’t expect to have the space filled, but at least the rent could be repaired before she began hemorrhaging.

  Angry, frustrated, Cate turned on her heel, away from Joan and under her doctor’s watchful eye.

  It was hard not to succumb to the dark mood that was vying for possession of her. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. She wasn’t supposed to have lost her temper like this.

  But then, she supposed her nerves had been on edge ever since she’d discovered that she had been adopted. And now it was as if she was waiting for something else to happen, something to further tear down the foundations of her world.

  What foundations? she mocked herself. What was left? Between Gabe’s death and her mother’s deathbed confession, there were no foundations. Only empty air under her feet. And, unlike the cartoon characters who could walk on air until they realized what they were doing, she couldn’t. She was plunging down swiftly. Toward what, she didn’t know.

  Maybe the chasm was bottomless.

  No, damn it, it wasn’t. She was going to stop feeling sorry for herself and rally. Because Joan Cunningham was going to give her some answers.

  Reaching the door, Cate looked back over her shoulder toward the woman who refused to admit to being her mother. “This isn’t over yet,” she warned, then left the room.

  “Yes, it is,” Joan insisted. Her voice broke as she attempted to raise it. A sob followed and then she began to cry.

  “Calm down, Joan,” Christian instructed, his voice low, soothing.

  The tears continued to come. Joan looked from the door toward her doctor, her eyes pleading with him again. “She’s not coming back. She can’t come back.”

  Who was this woman to her? The question echoed in his head. He knew his asking would only contribute to Joan’s agitation. He wanted her calm.

  Reaching over to the nightstand, Christian picked up the small box of tissues tucked behind the telephone. He held it out to her.

  Instead of taking one tissue, Joan took the whole box and held it against her chest, as if having it there somehow comforted her. She looked up at him, the same silent plea in her eyes.

  “No, she’s not coming back,” he told her. Christian crossed to the door. “I’ll send in a nurse in a couple of minutes with a tranquilizer for you. You need to calm down.”

  He saw gratitude enter her face as she silently nodded her thanks.

  Once outside the room, Christian looked up and down the hall. The blonde was just disappearing around the corner. Hurrying to catch up to the source of his patient’s agitation, he passed Joan’s nurse and gave her his instructions on the fly.

  “Hold on a minute,” he called after the blonde.

  Cate didn’t hear him. Or if his voice registered at all in the recesses of her mind, she didn’t realize that he was talking to her.

  That certainly went well, she upbraided herself. If she’d interviewed suspects the way she had her birth mother, the bureau would have had her mowing lawns instead of where she was.

  She did her best to calm down. Part of that entaile
d focusing on a plan. Now that she had located her birth mother, she was going to have to try talking to her again. Later, after both she and Joan had an opportunity to collect themselves.

  As she approached the elevators it occurred to Cate that she still didn’t know what the woman was doing in the hospital. She needed to get a look at Joan’s medical records.

  Christian lengthened his stride. He had considerable more leg than the woman did, but she moved quickly. He managed to finally catch up to her just as she pressed for the elevator. Rather than call out to her again, he simply got in front of her. She looked surprised, and almost as agitated as his patient.

  “Excuse me.”

  She could feel herself growing defensive. Was he about to lecture her on behalf of his patient? Right now, she was in no mood to have to listen. If he wasn’t careful, this good-looking doctor was going to find he had bitten off more than he had bargained for. “Yes?”

  There were a great many diplomatic ways to begin. Since Alma’s death, he’d lost the ability to be diplomatic and patient. Christian went straight to the heart. “Who are you?”

  Blunt. She admired blunt. Sometimes.

  “Ah, the million-dollar question,” the woman he’d just chased down said sarcastically. Christian saw the same tears he’d just witnessed in Joan Cunningham’s eyes now making an appearance in the blonde’s. It struck him that they had the same light green color. “I wish to God I knew,” she whispered. It sounded as if she’d said the words more to herself than to him.

  Chapter 10

  Because it seemed as if tears were about to spill out of her eyes, Christian took out his handkerchief and held it out to her.

  “Is that some philosophical statement,” he asked, commenting on her statement, “or do you have amnesia? Don’t worry—” he nodded toward his handkerchief which she still hadn’t taken “—it’s clean.”

  Instead of accepting it, she passed an index finger under each eye, wiping away the excess moisture that had managed to leak out despite her best efforts to will her tears back.

  Cate had never liked crying in front of people, certainly not in front of strangers. She liked losing control over herself even less. And she had done both just now, one the result of the other.

  She sniffed, then blew out a breath, collecting herself.

  God, but she wished she was ten again. Ten years old and sitting in the family room, watching reruns of some old western series her father had discovered on one of the cable channels. She remembered fondly that her dad always gave a running commentary on what was going on in case she didn’t understand. She’d understood far more than he thought, but she loved listening to the sound of his voice. It made her feel so protected, so safe from everything.

  And now she wasn’t safe from anything.

  “Neither.” The retort to his question sounded a little sharp to her ear. She dug deeper for control.

  He wondered if perhaps he should have summoned Security. The woman wasn’t making any sense. “Then what…?”

  The elevator car arrived, and Cate ignored it. “Joan Cunningham is my birth mother.”

  The moment she told him, she upbraided herself. She had no idea why she’d just shared that. No one else down here knew the mission she’d set out on. She hadn’t even mentioned it to her partner. Her acquaintances would think she’d simply just wanted a change of venue after her mother died. It went against her natural grain to share anything but the most trivial of information. Even Jeremy had had to prod her repeatedly before she had told him what she was really looking for.

  Christian looked at her very skeptically. Granted, Joan Cunningham hadn’t been his patient long, just for the past two years, but she seemed like a fairly open woman. By her second visit, he knew the names of her three children. The Christmas card he’d received from her last December had carried their likenesses. None of them had been this woman. Joan had never mentioned having a fourth child.

  “Are you sure?”

  Damn it, she was going to cry again. What was the matter with her? She’d thought that she’d used up the last of her tears at her mother’s funeral. There shouldn’t have been any moisture left inside her, not after all the tears she’d shed over her mother and over Gabe. Where was all this water coming from?

  Cate sighed, jabbing her index finger at the elevator keypad again. “Right now, I’m not even sure if the sky is blue.”

  The woman before him looked pale and shaken. His main concern in Joan’s room had been getting her away from his patient. Now that he had, he should just let her go on her way. But there was something about the look on her face, especially in her eyes, that kept him from murmuring some trivial phrase and walking away. He saw pain there. It held him fast.

  Christian glanced at his watch. He had a little time before his first patient was due. With his office located on the hospital premises, he didn’t have far to go. He made up his mind.

  “Why don’t you come this way with me?” Without waiting for her to answer, he took hold of her arm, about to lead her over to the nurses’ lounge.

  Cate interpreted his actions in her own way. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to cause any trouble.” Moving her arm out of his hold, she began to dig through her purse. A minute later, she produced her wallet and opened it to her ID. She held it out to him. “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  Just like Lydia, he thought, although he refrained from saying so. Small world. “Then this was bureau business?”

  “No, it’s private, like I said.” She looked down at his hand. He’d taken hold of her again. Was he afraid she was going to go running off to Joan’s room? “You’re holding my arm again, Doctor. I told you, I’m not about to cause any trouble.”

  His expression didn’t change. She didn’t like the fact that she couldn’t read it. “Then you’ll come this way.” He began walking.

  There were a hundred different ways to separate herself from him. For the moment, she employed none of them. Curiosity had gotten the better of her. “Which will lead me where?”

  He brought her to a door and indicated the sign. “To the nurses’ lounge.”

  As far as she knew, only nurses were allowed in the nurses’ lounge. She’d had a friend at one of the local hospitals in San Francisco who’d been very territorial about the small room that bore a similar sign.

  “I’m not about to change professions,” she quipped.

  The half smile that came to his lips intrigued her. She wondered what he looked like when he actually allowed his mouth to curve. Some people had smiles that were better left unused, others had the kind that lit up a room. She had a hunch that he leaned toward the latter.

  “They have coffee there,” he told her as he pushed open the door.

  “And you’re prescribing a cup?”

  “That—” he continued to hold the door for her, waiting “—and maybe a slight change of attitude.”

  She looked at him sharply as they crossed the threshold into the lounge. The room was small, no bigger than nine by twelve, and for the moment, empty. A few chairs were scattered around with no apparent pattern in mind.

  The doctor walked over to the small table where a pot of coffee sat on a burner. The pot was half full.

  And she felt half cocked. Where did he get off, judging her?

  “What would you know about my attitude?” she asked. It took effort to keep her anger under wraps.

  After pouring the coffee, Christian turned around to face her. “Not a thing,” he admitted, his expression still giving nothing away. “How do you take it? The coffee,” he prompted when she made no answer.

  Cate pursed her lips. She supposed she had nothing to lose by accepting the cup of coffee. She hadn’t eaten since this morning and that had only been a piece of toast. “Black.”

  Nodding, he handed her the cup. He took coffee the same way, the way he took life. Unadorned. “Anything else I can get you?”

  Taking the cup from him, a slight smile curved her lips. “The
truth would be nice.”

  He took half a cup of coffee for himself, then placed a dollar into the empty coffee can beside the pot. “Truth is all relative.”

  Cate rolled her eyes. Philosophy, that was all she needed. “Oh, please. What is that, Zen?”

  His shrug was careless. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank before answering. “Navajo.”

  Cate looked at him sharply. A Native American. Like Lydia’s husband. There was a resemblance, she realized. The same rugged planes and angles making up the face, the same high cheekbones and straight, almost blue-black hair, worn a little long, no doubt in tribute to their heritage. The only thing that threw her was that she would have expected his eyes to be brown or almost black. They weren’t.

  “You have blue eyes.”

  Christian shrugged casually. “Yes, I do.” His mother’s father had been only half Navajo. The other half had been an Italian woman who hailed from the northern region, where Italians were fair-skinned, fair-haired and blue-eyed, unlike their Sicilian brethren to the south.

  The doctor looked comfortable in his own skin, she decided. And why shouldn’t he? Life probably held no surprises for him, threw him no curves out of nowhere. “I take it you know your family history?”

  Christian thought it was rather a personal question, but given the situation, he allowed for it. When they were both younger, his brother had had no use for stories of the Dine, which was the name the Navajo gave themselves. At the time, heritage hadn’t meant anything to him. In one of the few times that he could remember, their mother had grown stern and laid down the law to him. He was to learn and be proud of who and what he was. The lessons had stuck.

  He nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  She laughed softly. He heard no humor in the sound. “That makes you one up on me. I thought I knew mine—until a month ago.”

  As she spoke, he studied her. He had the impression that she ordinarily kept rigid control over her reactions. When people like that finally let go, it was a fearsome thing to witness. He wondered if she had some sort of a release valve.