Out of the Shadows

by Loree Lough

  In the hall, Patrice peeked into the hall mirror, smacking her lips and fluffing her hair before flinging open the door.

  Ten silent seconds passed, fifteen, as she stared at the guest on their porch.

  “Who is it?” Gus called.

  The visitor stood, black boots shoulder-width apart and arms crossed over a broad chest, his masked face shadowed further by a wide-brimmed hat. The steady late-October breeze pressed the billowing folds of his shirt against muscular biceps, set the red-lined cape to fluttering around brawny legs. She’d more or less figured that under the baggy lab coats and sweaters she’d seen him in so far, Wade would be built like an athlete, but she hadn’t expected this!

  Gus rolled up beside her. “Well, pinch my nose and call me a jelly doughnut,” he said, chuckling, “if it ain’t Zorro, in the flesh.”

  Two fingers to his ball-fringed hat brim, Wade snapped off a smart salute, then bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, straightening to his full six-foot height, “I parked my ride out back.”

  “Well,” Gus interrupted. “What’re you standing out there in the wind for? Bring your caped self on in here, man.”

  The oven timer jangled as Patrice closed the door. “Pizza’s ready,” she said, hurrying toward the kitchen.

  “Wait till the kids get a load o’ you,” Gus told Wade as they moved toward the kitchen.

  Wade removed his hat and mask, hung them on the back of a kitchen chair, then sat across from Gus at the table. For the next five minutes, as Patrice sliced the pizzas and set the table, the men swapped stock market gossip and sports scores.

  Halloween had never been her favorite holiday, ever since her brother had been brought to the hospital for the last time on Halloween night, but she’d always gone along with the decorations and the costumes to humor her dad. If only she could adopt her dad’s attitude and hand the whole burden over to Christ. Patrice sighed and said a silent prayer. Maybe this year, things would be different. Maybe this year, the memories wouldn’t plague her….

  Patrice poured iced tea into tall tumblers, while Wade unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled each to the elbow. She watched from the corner of her eye as he slid a slice of pizza onto Gus’s plate, then another onto hers before serving himself. Every bit the gentleman.

  “Well, I guess they’ve had their fill.” Gus shook his head. “Kids didn’t give up that easy when I was a boy.”

  “You and Mom never let me stay out past ten o’clock on Halloween night,” Patrice pointed out.

  “Yeah, well….” He chuckled and rolled himself into the foyer.

  “Silenced in the face of logic,” she teased, picking up an empty candy bowl.

  Gus yawned and stretched. “Think I’ll turn in.”

  “Without watching the eleven o’clock news?” She tucked the bowl under one arm and pressed her free hand to his forehead. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

  “Nah. All that squealing just gave me a bit of a headache.” He rubbed both eyes. “Do we have any aspirin?”

  It wasn’t like him to ask for pain medication. Wasn’t like him to turn in early, either. Especially on Halloween. Patrice bit her lower lip and frowned. “I’ll fix you a cup of herbal tea, and bring something for your headache when it’s ready.” She kissed his forehead. “You do feel a tad warm…I’m going to bring the thermometer with me.”

  “Okay.” He started rolling down the hall, then turned when he’d made it halfway there. “Thanks for helping out, Wade. Don’t know what we would’ve done without you, seeing as how Molly cancelled on us.”

  Wade drew his sword, aimed it at the ceiling. “It was a job for Zorro!” he said, announcer style.

  Gus gave a flimsy laugh. “Well, g’night. See you at dinner tomorrow?”

  Wade resheathed the blade. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, grinning at Patrice.

  She looked at her father in surprise. This was the first she’d heard anything about Wade coming to Sunday dinner the following day!

  As Gus disappeared into his room, she returned it with a halfhearted smile.

  In the kitchen, Wade leaned back against the counter while Patrice loaded bowls, glasses and plates into the dishwasher. “You want me to give your dad a once-over before I leave?”

  Her heart pounded. Why would Wade ask such a thing—he was a doctor, after all!—unless he suspected something was wrong? “Do you think that’s necessary?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied her face. When finally he spoke, she detected a slight change from his friendly, upbeat tone. “I just thought you’d sleep better if I did a quick exam.”

  He wasn’t fooling her. That was his “doctor voice.” The one he had used on little Emily and her mother the other day at the hospital. She didn’t even bother to dry her hands before grabbing his forearm. “What’s wrong, Wade? And don’t candy-coat it. I’m not—”

  He chuckled softly. “If I hear that word again before morning, I might just have to punch something.”

  She gave his arm a slight shake. “What?”

  The smile disappeared. So did the warm light in his eyes. “The word candy. It’s Halloween, and we’ve been—”

  “Okay, all right,” she snapped. She let go of him and snatched the dish towel from the counter. “Ha-ha, I get it.” For all she knew, Gus could be coming down with a virus, and there Wade stood, cracking jokes. Even the common cold could be deadly in his condition. He’s a doctor, she thought, so he should know that!

  With the toe of his boot, Wade closed the dishwasher door and stepped into its space. “I’m sorry,” he said, sliding his arms around her, “I didn’t mean to make light of it. I know how precarious a paraplegic’s health is.”

  Pressing her cheek to the satiny fabric of his black shirt, she said, “Last time he caught a cold, he spent a month in the hospital—a week of it in Intensive Care.”

  “When was that?”

  She shrugged and took a step back, but not so far that she broke the embrace. “Last year, around this time.” She paused. “And tonight he sat out there for hours in that cold wind!”

  “You brought him a parka, gloves.” He touched the tip of her nose. “He didn’t like it much, but he let you wrap a scarf around his neck, too.”

  Turning slightly, Patrice said, “I should’ve made him go inside. Should’ve turned out the porch light to signal ‘Halloween is over at this house.’ Should’ve—”

  “I don’t know Gus very well,” Wade interrupted, “but something tells me nothing short of a hurricane would have sent him inside.”

  She sighed.

  “Looked to me like he was having the time of his life.”

  Another sigh. “I suppose,” she said. “Still…” Then she straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Thanks, Wade, for understanding. You’re a—”

  He pressed a forefinger over her lips, silencing her. “Don’t let the costume fool you,” he said. “I’m no hero.”

  She forced a grin. “I wasn’t going to call you a hero.”

  His brows rose slightly. “Oh, really. What, then?”

  Truth was, she had intended to say exactly that! She searched her mind for another word that would fit into the sentence she’d constructed. “I was about to say you’re a really sweet guy.”

  He stared into her face for what seemed like a full minute, brow furrowed, mouth taut, hazel eyes glittering with…

  With what? Patrice wondered. She’d say…self-loathing, except, what reason would anyone as wonderful as Wade have to feel that?

  “So where do you keep the thermometer?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  She swallowed. “In the bathroom across the hall. Top shelf of the medicine cabinet.”

  He’d already removed his hat, and as he headed for the hall, he took off the cape and scabbard, put them on a kitchen chair. “By the time his tea is ready,” Wade said, turning on the flame under the copper kettle, “I
’ll have a preliminary diagnosis.”

  She watched him round the corner, then folded her hands. “Please,” she prayed, bowing her head, “let Dad be all right.”

  She pictured Wade at her father’s bedside—dispensing the same friendly compassion he’d shown little Emily Kirkpatrick and her mother…in a Zorro costume.

  The image inspired a wan smile. Closing her eyes, she added, “And let Wade be ‘the one.”’

  Wade knocked softly on Gus’s door.

  “C’mon in.”

  He crossed the room in three long strides. “How goes it?” he asked, shaking down the thermometer.

  “Aw, Treecie makes too much of everything.” He gave a nonchalant wave. “I’m fine—just a little tired, is all.”

  “So look at it this way—when we’re done here, you’ll get to say ‘I told you so.”’

  That inspired a grin. “Well, now you’re talkin’ my language.”

  He opened his mouth, and Wade slid the instrument under his tongue. “I’ll ask yes or no questions, so you won’t have to talk.”

  Gus nodded.

  “Feeling light-headed?”

  He shook his head…then nodded.

  “So you’re not dizzy now, but you’ve experienced the sensations from time to time?”

  “Mmm.”

  “More than once a week?

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Good. How many times a month?”

  Gus held up three fingers, then two.

  “Two or three times a month, then.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “What about nausea?”

  Another shake.

  “Chills?”

  This time, a one-shouldered shrug was the answer.

  Wade gripped Gus’s wrist, watched the second hand on the alarm clock and counted the beats of his pulse. “So the chills kinda come and go?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said through closed lips.

  “I noticed you only ate one slice of pizza. Has your appetite been off for long?”

  “Umm-mmm.”

  “Just today, then?”

  He nodded.

  “Could be you’re just fighting off one of the viruses that’s going around.”

  Gus shrugged. “Mmm.”

  “What about thirsty? You find yourself wanting to drink more than usual?”

  He thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. He pointed at the thermometer.

  Wade removed it and bent nearer the lamp to read what the mercury had registered.

  “So what’s the verdict?” Patrice asked, breezing into the room. She placed a tray on Gus’s nightstand, then stood back, arms folded over her chest, and waited.

  “One-oh-one point four.” He handed her the thermometer. To Gus he said, “Nothing to be concerned about…yet. Best thing for you is right here on this tray,” he said, pointing at the mug of tea and tumbler of water that stood beside a tiny aspirin bottle.

  Patrice shook two white pills into her palm, picked up the water glass and gave both to Gus. “Would you like a back rub, Dad?”

  He downed the medicine, gasping once he’d drained the glass. “Nah. But thanks.” He grabbed the remote, clicked on the small TV that sat across the room on his dresser. “I’ll just watch the news and—”

  “—and drink your tea,” Patrice interjected, kissing his cheek.

  “—then get some shut-eye,” Wade finished.

  Gus met Wade’s steady gaze and harrumphed. “Two against one ain’t fair.”

  Wade patted his shoulder. “Life ain’t fair.”

  She led the way from the room, flicking out the overhead light as Wade stepped into the hall.

  “But all’s fair in love and war,” Gus called through the door.

  “Hey, that’s a fair comeback!” Wade shot back.

  “Fair-to-middlin’, maybe,” said the muffled voice.

  “I’m fairly close to screaming,” Patrice teased.

  After a short pause, Gus said, “G’night.”

  Back in the kitchen, Patrice poured Wade a cup of tea. “Obviously, the fever hasn’t affected his sense of humor. I presume he’s fine?”

  “Well, fairly fine.”

  She sat across from him and groaned.

  “Sorry,” Wade said, chuckling. “Couldn’t resist.”

  Leaning forward, she wrapped both hands around her mug. “I heard you tell Dad there’s no need for concern…yet. Why the qualifier?”

  “Glad you brought that up.”

  Patrice took a sip of tea, hoping the action would hide the fear hammering inside her.

  “How often does his temperature spike like that?”

  Running the pad of her thumb along the mug handle, Patrice shrugged. “Once, maybe twice a year.”

  “When was the last time he had any blood work done?”

  “Last year, in the hospital.” She met his eyes. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “He’s probably slightly anemic, is all. Which could explain the dizziness and—”

  “Dizziness? He’s never said anything about dizziness.”

  Wade pursed his lips. “He didn’t make a big deal about it. Said it happens, but only a couple times a month—”

  She got to her feet so abruptly, the chair nearly overturned. Grabbing the phone, she hit the speed dial. “Molly? It’s Patrice. Sorry to call so late, but—”

  Nodding, she listened for a moment, hand to her forehead. “Good, good,” she said rapidly, “glad to hear it.” More silence, a few more nods, and then she said, “Yes, plumbers sure can be expensive. Thank the good Lord it wasn’t a serious leak.” When she hung up minutes later, Patrice flopped onto her chair. “Just as I suspected…he hasn’t said a word about dizziness to Molly, either.”

  “It’s probably nothing some extra iron won’t cure. Happens sometimes with paraplegics.”

  Patrice swallowed, hard. She’d been hearing “paraplegic” for what seemed like forever. Would she ever get used to the word?

  “Limited amounts of cardiovascular exercise,” Wade explained, “has all kinds of ill effects.” He hesitated, as if uncertain whether to say more. “But I imagine you’ve heard that—and more—a couple hundred times over the years.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier to hear,” she said softly, squeezing the cup for all she was worth. In a near whisper, she added, “Especially when it’s your fault….”

  He wrapped both big hands around hers. “You’re not gonna start that nonsense again, are you? I thought you said Gus was hurt in a car accident?”

  “He was, but—”

  “What part of accident don’t you understand?”

  She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “If it hadn’t been for me, he never would have gone out that night.”

  “So let me get this straight. You, a mere sixteen-year-old kid at the time—and if you’re this tiny now, you were probably just a slip of a thing back then—forced Gus to get behind the wheel.”

  “Dad was six foot two—or was, when he could stand—and over two hundred pounds.” Wade heard the tremor in her voice when she added, “and a big ol’ softie. He’d never learned how to say no to me, and I knew it. I used that to my advantage with regularity.” She met his eyes. “I used it that night.”

  He saw her dark eyes begin to sparkle with unshed tears, felt her hands tense inside his own. Maybe pressing her to talk about it again wasn’t such a good idea, after all. “Patrice…”

  “As I mentioned the first time, it was raining and windy,” she continued in a hollow, mechanical voice, “and the weatherman was predicting a drop in temperature. Marcy’s party was my first invitation to an ‘in crowd’ function, and all the popular kids would be there. I was afraid if I didn’t show up…

  “It wasn’t so bad—the weather, I mean—when Dad dropped me off. But by the time he came back for me at midnight, the rain had changed to sleet and the roads…the roads were—”

  “Enough,” Wade said. He walked around to her side of the table, pulled her to he
r feet and gathered her close. “No need to upset yourself rehashing—”

  “We were a block from home,” she said. Standing woodenly in his arms, she repeated it in a hoarse whisper: “A block from home!”

  She was trembling from head to toe, and he didn’t know what to do but hold her closer. “Shh,” he said, smoothing her hair with one hand, rubbing soothing circles on her back with the other. “Your tea’s getting cold.”

  Patrice took a step back, looked up into his face. “When you drove over here, do you remember passing a big brick wall that said Font Hill?”

  She was gearing up to tell him it was the wall Gus had careened into that night. For the first time in decades, Wade wished he believed in God; if he did, he could ask for Divine intervention, because for the life of him, he didn’t know how to comfort Patrice.

  And he wanted that more than anything.

  “When I came to, I looked over and there he was, smiling at me. ‘You’re gonna be all right, Treecie,’ he said. ‘I heard sirens, so help’s on the way.”’ She buried her face in the folds of Wade’s shirt. “If I hadn’t been so immature, so self-centered, Dad wouldn’t be getting fevers, or dizzy…he’d be walking today!”

  She’d walked away from the accident—with a scar on her face. Wade could rattle off the names of half a dozen plastic surgeons who could’ve removed or repaired it. He understood, suddenly, that she wore it like sackcloth and ashes, as penance for what she considered her sins.

  “I’m a horrible excuse for a daughter, a terrible person.”

  Oh, God, he prayed, face burrowing into her hair, tell me what to say!

  It dawned on him then that Patrice didn’t need him to say anything. What she needed was to know, without a doubt, that he believed she was wonderful, beautiful—inside and out—regardless of what she thought.

  He lifted her chin on a bent forefinger, forcing her to meet his eyes, and with the pad of his thumb, brushed tears from her long lashes. “Y’know,” he said, lips nearly touching hers, “if I heard anybody else sayin’ stuff like that about you, I’d probably get arrested.”

  She blinked, sending a single silvery tear skittering down her cheek. “Arrested?” she said, brushing it away.