by R. M. Ridley
I didn’t believe her.
My dad had had his leg broken, then his cast removed only to have another “accident” and broken his arm, and then dislocated his shoulder, all in separate incidents. At that point, I was seriously frightened that my half-baked idea about Adelaide being ill with Munchhausen Syndrome by Proxy wasn’t just a fantastic theory.
In doing research, I’d combed the Internet, studying that mental illness. I had interviewed two different local psychiatrists, both of whom had different points of view on treating the same illness, something I couldn’t understand. But one consistent element throughout all my research was that the patient needed to be needed, and drank up the praise that came from taking care of that sick or injured person. He or she would go as far as making or keeping that person sick or injured in order not to lose that feeling. By the time I had finished the last chapter, I had no doubt Adelaide fit that neurotic profile. But would Dad believe me if I told him what I suspected about his wife? That I did doubt.
I took the entrance ramp to the I-10 freeway and stomped on the gas. “It’s okay, he’s okay,” I whispered, trying to convince myself Adelaide hadn’t killed him this time. Dad had always been healthy. It couldn’t be a heart attack. It must’ve been something else.
An old-fashioned ring-tone echoed loudly. I reached for my cell phone with one hand without taking my eyes off the taillights of the cars in front of me. With a click of my thumb, I answered without checking who called.
“Hello?”
“Claire! Why aren’t you here at Costco?” Brianna, my best friend asked. “There are several people looking at your books.”
“Bria—” I glanced over my shoulder and merged into the next lane. “Dad’s in the ER.”
“Your stepmother broke his neck this time?”
Brianna knew my theory about Adelaide. “She isn’t my stepmother. She’s my dad’s wife. I was twenty-five when they ran off together. I hardly needed a mother then.” I shook her head at the slow truck in front of me. “And, no, she told me Dad had a heart attack this time.”
She gasped again, just as loudly. “Can she give him a heart attack?”
I merged over into the next lane and accelerated around the truck. “From what I’ve learned doing research on Munchhausen Syndrome by Proxy, taking care of a sick person is just as mentally satisfying as taking care of an injured one when you have people looking at you as a hero for being so self-sacrificing. And you know how many times Adelaide’s been told she’s such a good wife? She needs to be needed. That’s her sick life.”
“Oh, I bet Adelaide will be taking control over everything in your dad’s life with this stunt.”
I sighed. “If it was her doing. Maybe all these falls have taken a toll on his heart, and he’s really . . .” —tears burned my throat when I thought about my dad lying in the hospital— “d—dying.” The taillights blurred. Blinking rapidly cleared my vision, but it pushed the tears down my cheeks.
“When are you going to tell your brothers about your new book you wrote? I saw it on Amazon this morning.”
My heartbeat quickened, stopping my tears.. Fear was a great motivator for many things. Brianna was in my writer’s critique group, and she’d said the story disturbed her so badly she had had nightmares. I took that as a compliment—in a sad sort of way.
“I don’t ever plan on telling them about it. You know that already, or I wouldn’t have written it under a pseudonym. Besides, my dad would never believe me, and neither would Neil. Jarrod doesn’t even want to talk about it—he made that clear the last time I tried to discuss it with him.” I squeezed the steering wheel tighter. “Dad would hate me for thinking Adelaide could hurt him intentionally. He loves her.”
“Claire, you don’t think that maybe one of your three siblings might read it out of curiosity and recognize their dad and step—uh, Adelaide?”
I snorted a very unladylike laugh. “I don’t really think anybody will buy this book anymore than my two previous books.” I stopped laughing when I had to admit a sad fact. “I barely make enough from writing to earn gas money, certainly not enough to close my editing service.” I lowered my voice and said, “Although that would be super if I could.”
“I heard that,” Brianna said. “I agree, but unless you find that certain niche and write a bestseller, you should be happy just writing. I am.”
I let a smile touch my lips. Brianna, a stay-at-home mom, had another chapter to go before she would finish writing her first book—a romance. She was one of only five people in my writer’s group who knew my secret—six, if I counted her publisher, but Bria would go down fighting for me.
“I gotta go. I’m coming up on my turnoff.” I glanced over her shoulder before merging into the exit lane. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Do you want me to sit in your chair and sell some of your books?”
“Oh, Brianna! Would you?”
“Sure, no problem. Did you sign any?”
“There are ten under the table in the box that I signed.” I shrugged and sighed. “I was hoping for the best tonight.”
“I’ll talk you up right, Claire. But don’t worry, I won’t pretend I’m you.”
“Ha! Thanks. Later.”
“Bye . . .”
I touched the red icon and disconnected our call. If I missed out on an important book signing all because Adelaide did something to my dad, I’d . . . I’d get the police on her butt, that was what I’d do.
By the time I pulled into the ER parking lot, Grant stood outside the double-glass doors, smoking. I didn’t see Emma standing with him. I’d heard her beg him to call the smoker’s hotline so he could be smoke free before their baby came next month.
The rain started again in earnest before I reached the ER doors. The cold weather coerced Grant into crushing out his cigarette and came inside with me.
Jarrod stood inside the waiting room with his arms crossed over his chest, his face clouded in concern, or anger. He had on his blue City of Phoenix police uniform, indicating that he must be on duty. Emma sat in a plastic chair with her eyes closed and her hands on her rounded belly. One more month and my niece would arrive. I didn’t see Neil, but chances were good he was inside with our dad.
“Any news?” I stared into Jarrod’s pinched face. “Is Dad . . . alive?” My heartbeat escalated at the thought that Adelaide had gone too far.
“He’s having a test done,” Emma said, looking up from her chair. “It’s called an angiogram.”
“That sounds bad,” I said.
Emma slowly stood up. “Doctor Harrell explained what they were going to do to your dad and it didn’t sound like fun.”
“So . . .” I swept my hands over my head, pushing some of the cold rainwater from my hair. “He did have a heart attack, then?”
“That’s not clear,” Grant said from behind me. I turned and gave him my attention. “The doc told us it probably would be a while before he could tell us anything for sure.” He nodded over to Emma. “I probably should take my wife home. There are too many germs here. It’s not good for the baby if she gets sick. You could call us and tell us the results.”
Yeah, sure, he’s really worried about their health, I thought. He still reeked of smoke. I didn’t know why he came to begin with.
“I’m staying,” Emma said. “Don’t even bother trying to talk me into leaving.”
I looked over at my pregnant sister-in-law. She sat back down and closed her eyes.
“Where’s Adelaide?” I asked.
Emma said, “You know she won’t leave your dad. She’s probably standing outside the door of the angiograph exam room.”
I shivered at the gentle way Emma spoke about Adelaide. How could she not see what had happened over the past ten months since their marriage? I took a deep breath and tried a different tack. “I didn’t know there was any heart related trouble in Dad’s side of the family. Grandma and Grandpa are still alive and pushing into their 80s, and healthy—not counting Grand
ma’s knee replacement a couple of years ago.”
“Sometimes these things just happen,” Emma said softly.
Jarrod shifted leaning from his shoulder to his back, but stayed quiet. I looked over at Grant, but I couldn’t find him. He’d left.
There wasn’t anything to do but wait. I sat next to Emma, but Jarrod kept standing. I’d look up at him every so often. His jaw muscles would twitch and he wouldn’t catch my gaze. His anger didn’t lessen even after Adelaide came out with the news of Dad’s mild heart attack. He’d survive. He needed rest and a strict low-fat diet. She told us to leave, and visit him in a few days at home. And then we were dismissed like children.
~*~
Beginning of December
Phoenix, Arizona
I finished my fourth blog tour in the last month. The last two were solely for Relative Evil that Max had set up for me two months earlier. He was a planning genius. I appreciated how efficient he was with my schedule, since I was still marketing two books at the same time—three, if I counted my very first publication almost three years ago.
He’d also sent me a full schedule for Relative Evil signings, so I’d have my pick of which day I wanted to “drop in” and have Ryan Albert Williams sign my book. Oddly, they were mostly scheduled at the Barnes & Noble, and Weller’s Books, starting in Utah. I hadn’t signed in those stores before, only in Costco’s. There were a few scheduled in Arizona, too.
Would he know my name when I told him? Did he even know who really wrote the book? Well, I’d find out one way or the other after I walked up and passed him that first copy I took out of my box of complimentary free books.
Packing for my trip to Utah wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. Dad had recovered from his supposed heart attack and had been home taking it easy for the past few weeks with Adelaide by his side, of course. And he hadn’t fallen or gotten sick since then. My hopes were high for an uneventful week away from home while I fulfilled my contractual commitments for the least fun part of my job . . . out of town book signings. My idea of fun wasn’t meeting a store full of strangers, and smiling to get them to buy my book. I’d rather sit in my apartment and write.
But that wouldn’t help me achieve my dream of being rich and famous. So once more I packed my suitcase and gassed up my truck, and plugged in my GPS—destination, Salt Lake City, Utah.
~*~
At the end of last March it had snowed in Utah, which was one of the reasons I bought my new truck. At least, I justified the reasoning for the expensive buy—I knew I’d be driving around in snow again at some point in my writer’s career, and my old Chevy sedan had had too many close calls—and was too small.
So far the streets were clear for the beginning of December. My Grand Cherokee had four-wheel drive and room enough to lug around a respectable sized folding table, two padded folding chairs, and one box each of my three published books, plus all my luggage and extras. I could even sleep in it in a pinch, but not on this trip. I was staying with another writer for my weeklong scheduled signing around the Salt Lake valley.
For the past two years, I’d had an arrangement with Velma Barnes, an octogenarian widow of twenty-some-odd years. I got to sleep in one of her three guest bedrooms, as long as they weren’t being occupied by any of her family, and in return, I would edit the memoirs Velma had been working on for the past decade—or more. I even had my own remote to the garage, which proved fortuitous since I arrived in Draper after ten o’clock at night. Velma was already asleep.
The house was warm, and smelled of chocolate and peppermint. With a touch of a switch near the entrance from the garage, the kitchen lit up brightly. An oversized mug full of hot chocolate was sitting on the island counter with a spoon in front of it. A candy cane sat next to the spoon. Velma always had some ready for me when she came, no matter what time of year.
I touched the mug. It was cool. Smiling, I heated it in the microwave and used the candy cane to stir the chocolate into a calming bedtime snack.
Morning came much too quickly. The drive up from Phoenix had been a hard one, but someday I’d have enough money to fly. Someday. Eating breakfast with Velma was a highlight of the morning before I took off to my first book signing. Sandy wasn’t too much of a commute, not factoring in the rush hour traffic. Bright lights and the hustle of customers already shopping greeted me. Sarah, the assistant manager, helped me bring in my signing necessities.
One of the first things I always did was walk down the book aisle to make sure the store had a good supply of my own books stacked neatly on their long, flat display tables that passed for bookshelves. While looking for my books, I went along and straightened the other authors’ novels—just to keep things orderly.
I happily discovered that Love Reignited was down to just six copies, and there wasn’t a single copy of Choices, my first published romance. I continued looking through the other books just in case they’d gotten covered up and misplaced. While I was happy that I was selling out, it wasn’t right the store didn’t reorder them when the stock got low. The store had a contract with my publisher, and, in essence, with me.
I took out my phone and sent Max a text.
>>I’m in Sandy @ Costco. They need to resupply both Love Reignited and Chances. Can you email them?>>
I hit send and slid my phone into my skirt pocket. I returned to the little area near the end of the book aisle to continue setting up my signing table. It didn’t take long. After two years, I had it down to a science. It still didn’t stop the butterflies from forming inside my stomach as people passing by with their grocery carts stared at me. I smiled, and pass them a bookmark that matched the front cover of my newest release. Sometimes they’d take it. Sometimes they didn’t.
Four hours passed, and I sold twelve books I’d brought with me, signed six more that women bought from the store. Now the Costco was completely out of my books—either title. Not a bad day in a life of an unknown author.
I checked my phone. Max hadn’t returned my text. I’d go by his office tomorrow and tell him about the book supply, giving me a legitimate reason for being there. Plus, I could ask about that date like I just spontaneously thought of it.
I had the rest of the afternoon off. A squirmy, excited feeling crept inside me as a plan formulated in my thoughts. I had Ryan Albert Williams signing schedule on my phone. He, whoever he truly was, was sitting behind a table similar to the one I was taking down right now, and smiling at complete strangers while trying to sell copies of my book. How well was he doing?
I scrolled to the schedule of Relative Evil. It would be the last one of the tours in Utah, and was at the Barnes and Noble in Orem. I’d been there a couple of times. It was impressively big. For kicks, I’d had a cocoa at the café while reading a book I had no intentions of buying. It was a travel book to Scotland, with pictures of gray castles that looked cold and depressing surrounded by the most amazingly green landscape.
~*~
There was a line outside the Barnes and Noble building. That wasn’t something I had expected. It was only after I stepped inside the store that I discovered all the people outside were in a line heading for a table in the back of the room. I shrugged my shoulder bag higher and looked closer at the hands of the people in line. They carried hardbound books. The dark blue color of the dust jackets made my heart flutter.
“Excuse me,” I said. “May I see your . . .” I motioned toward the book in the older woman’s hand.
“Yes,” the woman said, lifting up an obviously used copy of Relative Evil. “I’ve read it twice already.” She leaned closer to me. “I swear Mr. Williams wrote about my insane neighbor,” she said, grinning. “It was so thrilling!”
I couldn’t help but smile. “He’s here doing a signing.”
The woman nodded. “I’ve been waiting since noon.”
I glanced at my watch, and gasped. “You’ve been in line for three hours?”
“I have, but I don’t mind. At least now I’m indoors.”
The clerk smiled and rushed away—toward the head of the line. Could he have been bringing more of my books? I suddenly regretted eating all the free snacks at the Costco and not having a real lunch—I felt dizzy. Walking parallel with the line, I slowly made my way to a large table surrounded by people standing.
The faux Ryan Albert Williams’s smile was as natural and warm in person as it was in his photograph. He had an assistant taking a book from the next person in line, who in turn handed it to him to sign, all the while they talked and laughed.
I moved another few steps closer, taking out my copy of Relative Evil from my bag. When I was close enough to the assistant, I placed my copy in her hand, cutting ahead of an older man who must’ve waited as least three hours, too. I was too stunned at all the books I was selling to notice if I’d ticked off the man with my rudeness. He didn’t say anything, at least.
“What’s your name?” the assistant asked in hushed tones.
“Huh?” I pulled my stare away from faux Ryan as he signed on the title page of the woman’s book ahead of me.
“I’ll need your name if you want Mr. Williams to personalize his autograph.”
I looked down at the yellow sticky note she was ready to write on. “Oh . . . Claire Abney.” When I looked back at faux Ryan, his startling blue eyes were staring straight at me—and the smile had dropped off his lips.
More from Debra Erfert’s Relative Evil coming in July 2104 to Xchyler Publishing.
Table of Contents
Copyright
To my wife, without whom, I wouldn’t be.