Like Always

by Robert Elmer

  He pulled a grocery store tabloid from under his arm, the kind that regularly related Elvis sightings and UFO abductions. Merit wondered if her sister subscribed. She also wondered why Pastor Bud was carrying one around.

  “You actually read those things?” asked Will.

  Bud shook his head, licked his finger for traction, and flipped through the pages. “Nope. One of our people saw this when they were grocery shopping in Coeur d’Alene. Thought you should see it.”

  His grim tone made Merit pause, but her heart truly stopped as she stared down at the half-page photo of herself standing next to Fred and his runner-up trout. Across the top, a bright red headline screamed to the world: “Resort Owner Trades Her Life for Unborn Child.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to keep her head from swimming as Will took the paper and quietly read the article.

  “It says you’re defying doctors orders, refusing treatment for life-threatening cancer, and that you have less than nine months to live.”

  “Who told him that?” asked Merit. She turned to Stephanie, who shook her head.

  “Oh no, Mrs. Sullivan.” Stephanie’s face paled. “I didn’t share anything like that.”

  “But you said he asked a lot of questions, right?”

  “He did,” Stephanie answered. “But mostly it was just stuff about the resort, how long you’ve been here, what people are saying about you and Mr. Sullivan, that sort ofthing. I would never.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. It’s not your fault.” Merit turned back to her husband. “What else does he say, or do we not want to know?”

  Will looked ready to shoot someone—probably their visitor with the camera. He stabbed the paper with one finger.

  “He says you’re predicting a total recovery, in spite of what the doctors say. That you’re a fundamentalist who runs a right-wing religious library and doesn’t believe in doctors, and that you’re undergoing herbal therapy, mail order, from some clinic in Mexico.”

  “Oh brother.” Merit sighed. “That’s pretty creative. I wondered why he asked me if I was planning to be around for next year’s derby.”

  “Well, that’s a stretch.” Will read on, then grunted. “And all this stuff about the girls and Michael. Did you tell him any ofthat, Stephanie?”

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Sullivan.” Stephanie’s voice quivered and she looked down at her feet. “I thought he was from the derby committee and was just being friendly. He never said who he really was. And I never said anything about your…Merit’s cancer.”

  “Well, he found out from someone.” Will slammed the paper down on the counter. “Maybe somebody at the hospital. Whatever happened to patient privacy? Somethings really screwy here.”

  Merit looked at her husband with tears in her eyes, as if she could—or should—apologize for this man.

  “I didn’t mean for us to keep it a secret forever,” she told him. “But this wasn’t how I wanted to announce it to the world.”

  “What can we do about it, though?” wondered Stephanie.

  Merit thought for a moment before she turned to the second page of the tabloid, picked up her phone, and dialed the News Tips contact number below the New York address.

  After several levels of “to subscribe, press…” or “to leave a message, press…,” she finally got through to a live voice.

  “Luna Publishing, how may I direct your call?”

  “Chris…” She checked the byline. “Chris Davis. This is Merit Sullivan.”

  “One moment.”

  She waited for the inevitable voice mail then jumped when a live voice answered—a voice she recognized.

  “Chris Davis here. I was hoping you’d call. This is—”

  “This is Merit Sullivan. Sullivan is my real name, by the way, and you have a lot of nerve, Mr. Davis.”

  She ignored the stares from everyone in the snack bar. Will’s eyes had grown the largest.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry about the mix-up with the name and all,” Chris Davis told her. “You know how writers sometimes use pen names.”

  “I don’t think we’re talking about pen names here, Mr. Davis.”

  “Please, call me Chris.”

  “No, Mr. Davis. You violated our trust. You misrepresented yourself. You invaded our privacy, and—”

  “And the good news is that I’m talking to you and not your lawyer. You don’t have a lawyer, do you, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  “I didn’t call to sue you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Though now that you mention it, it’s not such a bad idea.”

  “All we’re doing at National Exposure is giving the public inspiring true stories, Mrs. Sullivan. Yours is one of them, and you’ve got to embrace that.”

  “That’s pretty tough to do when half the story was made up, and the other half was private information.”

  “Your employee didn’t seem to have any problem answering my questions.”

  “Let’s not bring her into this.”

  Merit could feel her blood pressure rising. Only Will’s hand on her arm kept her from melting down. He motioned for her to hand over the phone, but she shook her head and held on.

  “Well, like I said,” Chris Davis continued, “I’m sorry you’re upset, but when I heard about your story, I knew it was hot.”

  “Hot is the last word I’d use to describe this. In fact, there are so many mistakes and outright lies in your article, I don’t know where to begin. That’s only secondary, though, to the way you deceived us.”

  “But you like the photo, don’t you? I thought it turned out really well, with the fisherman there and everything. Really cute.”

  “Cute?” She felt the pressure returning. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? If you were going to pry into our lives, why didn’t you at least have the courtesy to identify yourself and then ask your questions?”

  “What would you have told me if I’d done that?”

  Merit didn’t hesitate. “I’d have told you to jump in the lake. Although you seemed quite capable of doing that on your own.”

  “Uh…I’m not always that clumsy. But see? You wouldn’t have given me the time of day. I rest my case.”

  “That still doesn’t give you the right to invade our privacy, Mr. Davis. And how did you find out about us in the first place?”

  He didn’t answer right away, then laughed. “You know how it is with the press, Mrs. Sullivan. We all have our sources.”

  “Even slimy tabloids like yours.”

  “Even…tabloids like mine, yes. So what do you say to a follow-up interview to set the record straight?”

  So that was his tactic—publish a bunch of lies as bait, then sucker the victim into another interview.

  “I wouldn’t talk to you again if my life depended on it, Mr. Davis,” Merit said.

  “But you’re talking to me now. And you called me, which I really appreciate. You don’t mind that I’ve been recording this conversation, do you?”

  “I do mind. Good-bye, Mr. Davis.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re not going to be rude and hang up on me, are you? Tell me your opinion of Rita Fedrizzi. You know about her, don’t you?”

  Rita Fedrizzi. For a moment it stung her almost to tears to realize what was going on. She even almost answered him. But she would not be a poster child for the cause, especially not in this man’s horrid tabloid. It was much more satisfying to slam the receiver down, making sure Chris Davis knew she had done so.

  And then she hung her head over the phone and wept as Will wrapped his arms around her. Stephanie and Pastor Bud headed for the door.

  “No.” Merit reached out her hand and called to them through her tears. “Please don’t go. Not yet.”

  They stayed, and the four of them waited for the storm together, knowing it had just begun.

  twenty-six

  Faith is like radar that sees through the fog.

  CORRIE TEN BOOM, in Tramp for the Lord

  The storm hit even sooner than M
erit had imagined and with more ferocity than she could have dreamed. It slammed into Kokanee Cove the next morning as Merit and Will stepped into the Mercantile to pick up a few groceries.

  Foster Mooney didn’t turn as they entered. His focus remained glued to the portable radio parked on the shelf behind his register next to the clock with fisherman hands that ran backward. Merit ducked as a sparrow of some kind dive-bombed them and then settled on the storekeepers shoulder.

  “They’re talking about Kokanee Cove on the Ross Aden in the Morning show,” Mr. Mooney said without looking at them. “Can you believe it? National talk radio!”

  “Already?” Merit whispered to Will with a look that told him she would turn around on the spot if he would too.

  Mr. Mooney swiveled to see who they were, and his mouth dropped open. “Oh! I didn’t realize. I…”

  “That’s okay.” Merit held up her hand. It was time to face the storm. “Turn it up. I want to hear too.”

  She didn’t, but the notoriously liberal talk show host had already put another caller on the air.

  “Hey, thanks for taking my call.” At first the caller sounded perky and upbeat, and Merit breathed a little easier. That quickly changed. “I just wanted to comment on that whacked lady in Montana.”

  “That would be Idaho,” the host corrected. “Out in the wilderness where shotgun polygamy is still a way of life.”

  “Whatever. Me, I can only handle one woman at a time.”

  The host laughed as his guest continued.

  “Anyway, I just think this has to be one of the sickest examples of how the anti-abortion crowd has gotten out of control.”

  “So you’re saying, caller, that you don’t support this woman’s choice not to seek treatment for her cancer?” Even through the radio, they could hear the snicker behind the host’s voice.

  “Hey, she can kill herself for all I care. That’s one less right-wing, religious wacko to worry about. The only thing that worries me is what this says about the mind control these Bible thumpers have over their people. That’s the one thing we need to do something about. I heard she was a member of a cult or something.”

  “Oh brother.” Will clenched his fists.

  Merit felt another headache coming on, and she rubbed her temples. She wouldn’t be able to listen to this garbage much longer, and the host’s response didn’t help.

  “I believe you’re talking about the Catholic church, caller. And I have to agree with you, because in this case we’re dealing with a hierarchy that is cheering this woman on. I mean, if you can believe it in this morning’s statement, which I’m going to read here in just a moment…” The sound of chanting monks came up in the background as the host continued his rant.“…the Catholic church is actually praising this woman’s decision to spit in her doctor’s face. You might understand that happening in a backward, third-world country like Slobovia or Outer Momboland but not here in the USA.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the caller, obviously fired up by this time. “That’s gotta stop.”

  “Thanks, caller. Let’s hear what the rest of you think. Everyone has the right to death with dignity. But should we sit by as church officials—who, by the way, did a lot of sitting on the sidelines as hundreds of children were abused at the hands of priests—pull strings to influence an obviously mentally disturbed woman—perhaps spiritually coerce her—into a church-sanctioned suicide? What about this woman’s kids? One report says she has five.”

  “Three!” Will blurted. “Three, you moron. If you can’t get even that detail right, you’d better—”

  “Will.” Merit gripped her husbands arm, holding him back as she might have done if he was about to hit someone.

  “What’s going to happen to this woman’s kids?” the talk show host asked. “I think somebody better tell her church that she has a sacred duty to them too, doesn’t she? Tell us what you think. We’re taking your calls live on Ross Aden in the Morning, your sane alternative for the rest of us…”

  “That slime…” Merit could almost see the steam pouring from Will’s ears. “He doesn’t know the first thing about sacred duty. If he wants to know a little truth, I’ll call him and—”

  “No, Will.”

  “But you heard that garbage,” Will said, waving a hand at the radio. “They’re just building one lie on the next, whipping people up with their warped agendas. Where does it stop? Somebody needs to set him straight.”

  “Just let it go. This is our fifteen minutes of fame, but I’m not going to let them pull you into the mud.”

  Mr. Mooney stared at them as if they’d never met.

  “Never heard Kokanee Cove mentioned on the Ross Aden in the Morning show before.” He erased a quick smile with a hand to his face. “I mean, they had no right to say those kinds of things about you.” He paused. “Did they?”

  Merit had completely forgotten what they’d come to the Mercantile for in the first place. She grabbed her husband’s hand and pulled him outside, only to be hit once again by the storm. A young woman in a brightly painted Channel 3 Eyewitness News van pulled up to the store and rolled down her window.

  “I’m looking for the Kokanee Cove Marina,” said the woman, slipping on a pair of designer sunglasses. “Someone named Sullivan. Any idea where I can find them?”

  Merit pointed at the gravel road that led past the Buttonhook Inn restaurant and out of town—the opposite direction from the resort. Plenty of potholes and a couple of nice switchbacks. Good four-wheeling territory.

  “Up that road about three or four miles, all the way to the end,” she told the newswoman, who smiled her thanks and headed off in a cloud of dust.

  Will gave her a wry smile as they climbed into the Land Rover, but they both knew they had only bought a few minutes of peace.

  The peace lasted an hour and forty-five minutes before the now dust-encrusted news van came roaring down the hill toward their resort. When the van’s windshield wipers cleared dust to each side, Merit could see the determined face of the newswoman glaring out at them.

  A moment of understanding passed between them as the van rocked to a stop, and Merit realized the trade-off might not have been worth it.

  “You go inside,” Will told her, leaning against the shovel he’d been using to transplant a lilac bush next to the parking lot. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Thanks, honey,” Merit shook her head, “but I’ve got to apologize to her first.”

  Merit remembered the day after she got her driver’s license when she’d borrowed her dad’s brand-new Ford Pinto and scratched the side against a shopping cart in the Save-On Foods parking lot. The week she’d remained silent about the accident had been one of the longest in her young life. She also remembered the distinctly nettled expression her father wore the day she’d finally offered a confession. It looked just like the one worn by the woman now emerging from the van.

  Abby and Olivia ran out from behind the house to greet their visitors.

  “Are you really from Channel Three?” asked Olivia, wide-eyed. Her older sister held her back a respectable distance.

  “We’ve seen you on the news,” reported Abby, her arm around Olivia. “You’re the one who’s always standing in front of car wrecks and stuff. But you’re prettier in person.”

  That softened the attacking journalist. As a cameraman climbed out of the other side of the van, she paused for a moment to fix her hair and smile down at her two young admirers.

  “I’m Shanna Tomkins.” The news reporter held out her hand to the girls. “What are your names?”

  Abby knew enough to look for permission from her mother. Merit nodded her okay as she stepped up to the van herself. The girls told the woman their names and shook Ms. Tomkinss hand in turn. Finally, it was Merit’s turn.

  She held out her hand. “Merit Sullivan, and this is my husband, Will. That was a mean trick. I feel foolish. I apologize.”

  The newswoman flashed a brilliant TV smile. The
girls were right. Even without stage makeup, she was beautiful.

  “Not a problem, actually. We got some really nice scenic shots from up on that overlook, didn’t we, Barry?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Barry the cameraman didn’t look up as he replaced the battery pack on his shoulder-mounted camera and adjusted a compact boom microphone. Did they just assume it was okay to march in, ask questions, and take pictures?

  “Girls, you can watch from the front porch,” Will said pointing. His serious gaze dampened the newswoman’s smile.

  “Actually,” she countered, “it would be very nice, with your permission, if we included the girls in a couple of shots. Give it a family flavor.”

  Will shook his head and told the girls to hurry along. “We’ve already heard a lot of half truths and things that don’t match up with reality.” He squared off with the reporter, his voice level and strong. “All Merit and I want to do is set the record straight. We’ll keep the girls out of it.”

  “Whatever you’re most comfortable with.” Ms. Tomkins glanced at her cameraman, who hoisted the camera to his shoulder and adjusted the eyepiece. The red light on the front of the camera told Merit he was already rolling, that he had already caught a shot of the girls running toward the porch. “But you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions.”

  Her voice, though soft and reassuring, didn’t turn up in a question at the end of her last word. Merit shivered as the rose-colored camera eye stared their way and Shanna Tomkins held a Channel 3 microphone toward them.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, I first want to confirm what we’ve already heard: When did you learn you were pregnant? Was this before or after you found out about the cancer?”

  Merit bit her lip, then opened her mouth to answer at the same time as Will. He gestured for her to go ahead.

  “The same time.” Merit nodded slowly. “We learned about both things at the same time.”

  “The doctor told you what you needed to do to live, is that correct? What did he advise you?”

  This response came harder, though they all knew the answer already.

  “She told me to…” Merit looked at her feet and felt Will’s arm around her. “She told me to kill my baby if I wanted to live.”