Worse Than Being Alone
a novel by
Patricia M. Clark
Worse Than Being Alone
Copyright © 2012 by Patricia M. Clark
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Edition 3 – June 2014
Prelude
Every writer knows there is some truth in works touted as fiction and some fiction in each purportedly true story. Real life experiences and characters seep into our stories because truth is stranger, and sometimes more compelling, than fiction. Then there are all those supposedly factual accounts of abuse survival or overcoming addiction eventually debunked once the facts are carefully scrutinized.
One of my best friends pitched this idea for a novel to me. It is based on an experience she is living through that she believes is true with her whole heart and soul. My friend is estranged from her father; she is convinced he is the victim of a con perpetrated by a woman and her children whose goal is to steal his money. I don’t know if this is true. Sometimes people are too close to a situation and the perceived rejection is too heartbreaking to maintain any kind of objectivity.
Now we have the heart of a story that may or may not be true. Everything else will contain snippets of truth woven into whole sections of complete fabrication. At the outset, I will give the main characters back-stories along with a certain amount of baggage and angst. Why should they escape that grim reality any more than the rest of us?
This is where it always gets tricky. Like our real children, sooner or later, the characters develop minds of their own. They begin to say and do things totally unplanned. Eventually, I lose control of them. Consequently, this plot is not really set in stone; that is the magic that happens during the writing process. I am merely their voice, documenting what they feel compelled to do and say. So, let us begin and see where it takes us.
Chapter One
I don’t remember ever being alone for the first eighteen years of my life. Shared bedrooms, a bath and a half, and limited common space virtually guaranteed there would be no reprieve from the prying eyes of my parents and nine siblings. That probably accounts for my long-held belief that the worst thing that could happen to a person was being alone. Now I know I was wrong.
My name is Kitty Talty. Roni Edelin and I are the main characters in this saga. We flipped for who would assume the role of narrator and I won; at least I think I won. I think it’s entirely appropriate because I have more angst than Roni. That means I’m more interesting, right?
I met Roni in high school when my parents abandoned life in St. Louis and moved their brood to the rural confines of Hillsboro, Missouri. I’m not sure I ever got over the move. Frankly, I’m a city girl and I don’t get the country. I can understand living near the ocean or having a mountain range to look at, but honestly, trees and cows just don’t do it for me.
I found rednecks and pick-up trucks kind of disturbing, which probably accounts for the fact I frantically latched onto Roni and her earthy charm like a lifeline the first day of class our freshman year. We quickly became inseparable and I still proudly call her my best friend.
Roni and I left Hillsboro to attend college in St. Louis. Armed with Bachelor of Sciences in Nursing, we returned to Hillsboro. Roni married Harley Edelin three weeks after graduation. I married a church deacon, James Talty, a few years later.
For fifteen years, my work involved some aspect of acute care medicine. I didn’t even mind the daily commute to a Level One Trauma Center in St. Louis. Intensive care, the emergency room, and the burn unit were favorite haunts. (Some nurses are addicted to that adrenaline rush every bit as much as cops are to a good chase or a confrontation.) Mostly, I allowed the tense and exhausting drama in the workplace to provide enough of a distraction so that I could continue to ignore how unhappy I was being married to James.
Roni is an orthopedic nurse to the core. She stayed closer to home, managing the rehabilitation unit of a local hospital. Eventually, we tired of hospital-based nursing. Too many 12 hour shifts and the endless mandatory holiday work took their toll. Roni wanted to spend more time with her family; I mistakenly thought the change would make my life better. For a few years, we toiled as case managers for an insurance company specializing in the area of workers’ compensation.
Three years ago, I suddenly abandoned my life in Hillsboro and fled to Alaska. I’m sure everyone thought I had lost my mind and maybe they were right. During my great escape, I got divorced. I came back to St. Louis after Roni convinced me we should open our own case management/investigative company.
Workers’ compensation case management is a strange arena to work in, especially for a nurse. Aside from the drug seekers and the obviously deranged, I had never questioned a patient’s veracity. Suddenly, most of the files I was assigned were injured workers who had an agenda that didn’t seem to involve getting better.
A certain percentage of clients are outright faking; some have injuries that are real enough but didn’t happen at work. Then there are those who are legitimately injured at work but somewhere along the way, usually early in the process, decide to string out their treatment as long as possible. Just to keep you honest, there are clients with catastrophic injuries such as burns, paraplegia or quadriplegia or horrible fractures. Those cases involve case management in its purest form where the objective is seeking the best treatment and the best doctors to maximize recovery.
The comp landscape is littered with fraud, waste, and smarmy lawyers whose goal is to keep their clients off work, and run up medical bills to increase the settlements so they can collect their 30 percent. We chase those suspected of cheating the system. Our hope is to build up the investigative side of our agency to the point where the only case management files we will accept are the catastrophic ones.
Roni’s story began on a beautiful April morning. Despite my big picture feelings, there’s really nothing like spring in the Midwest: tulips and daffodils springing up everywhere along with flowering bushes and trees adding to an ambiance of renewal. This is the time of year I always felt the need to get my hands in the dirt and plant something. Too bad I have lost the urge to take care of the vegetation by July. Every year, I’m victimized by my family’s pool of recessive farmer genes.
I had just left my West End loft in St. Louis and was happily cruising along in my bright red Cabriolet convertible, headed for the South County office of Dr. Heidi Mirren, orthopedic surgeon. Impulsively, I called Roni to firm up our plans for later in the day.
“Hey, Harley, it’s Kitty,” I said after I recognized his voice. “Go tell Roni to stop milking the cow so she can come in and talk to me on the phone.”
“We don’t have any cows.”
“You live in the country, Harley. All I see when I go to the country are cows and trees. Do you have any idea how boring cows are?”
“I guess I never really thought about it,” he said. “I like trees and cows and peace and quiet. It’s the city I can’t stand.”
“Getting tired of our city versu
s country banter?” I asked.
“I live for this.”
“Good,” I said. “I’d hate to think we couldn’t be friends despite our differences. So, is Roni there?”
“She’s in the shower.”
“Will you tell her I’ll meet her at your place at two?” I asked. “I’ve got a new referral. I have to go to Dr. Mirren’s office first.”
A brief pause and Harley answered. “Sure. I know you don’t like trees, but why don’t you park under that Bradford pear tree in the front yard? That way you’ll be able to keep the windows open and your car won’t get too hot on the inside.”
“Thanks, Harley. I’ll do that,” I said. “See you at two.”
I closed the flap on my cell and checked my lip-gloss in the rear view mirror. After vigorous dieting and daily workouts, I was 30 pounds lighter than when I fled. My cornflower blue eyes complement my newly blond hair very well. The day I got my divorce papers, I had my boobs done. I looked good!
When I arrived at Dr. Mirren’s office, I found out my new client had changed her appointment to the next day. Armed with that information, I jumped in my car and got on the highway again, heading to Roni’s house to switch hats from case manager to investigator.
Quite by accident, a factory manager had spotted one of his injured employees playing softball in another county. The employee in question had been off work for six months with a back injury so severe he claimed he couldn’t even tolerate light duty, which involved answering the phone. Angry and feeling betrayed, the manager hired us to film the next softball game scheduled for that afternoon.
My mind wandered during the two-hour drive. I thought about Roni and how lucky I was to have her for a friend. Easy to spot in any crowd, Roni used to allow her curly red hair free rein. These days, containing the masses in a ponytail seemed to be the plan.
Naturally thin and wiry, Roni walks everywhere and eschews a formal workout program. I have to work at looking good; Roni has a natural beauty that brings out the green monster in me. Couple that with an aura of complete contentment and I found it hard sometimes not to want to smack her upside the head just to see an expression other than bliss.
Roni wears her contentment like a prom queen wearing her tiara, which is extremely irritating to those of us who can’t quite seem to keep it all together, at least not all of it at the same time. I have been restless my entire life, which causes even more worry about the state of my mental health.
I finally arrived at Roni’s house and retreated to her home office to make a few phone calls. When I was done I found Roni on the porch, staring into the woods and looking a little sad for a change. The fact I found this oddly comforting as if her dysfunction might exceed mine for once made me feel guilty. I called her name, but she didn’t seem to realize I was there.
“Earth to Roni,” I said as I waved my hands in front of her face. “You’re not paying attention. What’s wrong?”
“I’m really distracted. My mind was a thousand miles away. What did you ask?”
“I saw that box propped open with a stick down by the pole barn,” I said. “What’s Harley up to now?”
“Oh, that. He’s trying to catch some kind of animal that keeps sneaking into the barn. He can hear it moving around in there while he’s working on lawn mowers. It’s driving him crazy. He’s hoping it will try to take the bait and trip the stick.”
“What’s he going to do with it if he catches it?” I asked.
“Hopefully, he’ll take it for a ride and let it go.”
“I’m rooting for the animal,” I said. “We better get going. The softball game is about to start and it’ll take us half an hour to get there.”
Roni sighed and said. “I’m really jealous. Maybe I should have the mother of all mid-life crises and get breast implants like you did. Then I could wear the revealing shirts and flash the twins until I get our target’s attention. Then you would have to film some stupid man showing off, trying to slide and diving for balls.”
With Roni trailing behind, I started walking toward my little red convertible, conveniently parked under the Bradford pear tree just as Harley had suggested. When I spotted the bird poop all over the car, especially the mirrors, I started screaming. Roni jumped and dropped the video camera she had been carrying.
“Harley, get out here you son of a bitch,” I shouted as I placed my hands on my hips.
Harley Edelin, scraggily beard and long gray hair tightly controlled in a braid that trailed down his back, strolled out of the barn and wiped his grease-stained hands on a towel. A beefy man, he had huge, mirthful, magnet-like brown eyes that immediately captured everyone’s attention.
Harley started laughing when he realized the reason for my anger. “Wow, I forgot about those damn bluebirds. I think it’s the mirrors. They seem to zero in on them for some reason. I’m sorry, Kitty.”
“You’re not sorry, you did it on purpose,” I said, stomping my right foot in disgust, relieved that I had decided to put the top up when I arrived.
Trying to feign innocence, Harley said. “That’s really harsh, Kitty. I can’t believe you’d think I’d do that. And to think I’ve been smoking meat all afternoon for your dinner.”
“Nice try, Harley,” I said. “You’re the biggest drama queen I’ve ever met. Trust me, I’m going to get even with you.”
Still fuming, I climbed in the car and waited until we reached the highway before I said anything.
“So, Roni, are you going to try and convince me Harley didn’t do that on purpose?”
“Not a chance,” Roni said. “Harley loves to torment you.”
Three hours later, we had bagged our slacker and were headed back for barbeque. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or actual fingers of smoke that seemed to guide the way. Even a city girl appreciated the incredible smell of meat smoking.
“How did it go with that guy at the softball game?” Harley asked as we dug into pulled pork sandwiches.
“I ended up feeling sorry for the guy,” Roni said. “He had no idea what was happening. Kitty kept jumping up and down and I’m sure he thought the twins would escape any minute. He was playing first base and Kitty stood near him, smiling and winking. Eventually he started to show off, diving for balls and running at full speed.”
“All those things someone with a real back injury wouldn’t be able to do,” Harley observed.
“You got it,” Roni said. “I recorded the whole thing. The poor guy played his heart out, probably hoping to hand it to Kitty when the game ended. I’m sure he was dismayed when he realized Kitty had suddenly disappeared as soon as the game ended.”
“Isn’t that entrapment?” Harley asked.
“We prefer to call it justice,” I said.
“Or, what goes around comes around,” Roni said.
After a satisfying meal, we sat on the hi-back rockers on the porch and watched the sun slide below the horizon amid a scarlet and pink blush. Tree frogs began their nightly lament, joined by frogs from the nearby pond that had been hatching at a furious rate.
Reluctantly, I said goodnight and headed for my car, feeling mellow, and for once, almost understanding the allure of the country. I climbed in and started driving down the gravel road that led away from their house.
Sudden awareness I wasn’t alone caused an immediate adrenaline rush and the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. An almost inaudible scratching sound caught my attention. Afraid to stop, I continued driving without picking up speed, both hands on the wheel as I constantly checked my rear-view mirror.
A mewling sound that slowly crept up from the floor in the back seat increased my terror, causing me to brake suddenly; my only thought was escaping the entity in the back of my car. I had barely placed my left hand on the door handle when I sensed that something had jumped on the back of my seat. I started screaming when I felt the sharp claws dig into my shoulder.
Chapter Two
The next morning, as I headed back to Dr. Mirren’s offic
e, I remembered my dark, terrifying encounter the night before that had caused several vivid nightmares. Bristling with fear, I had stopped screaming only because it occurred to me the animal clawing my shoulder might escalate its attack due to my continued shrieking. Too scared to breathe, I waited for my attacker to act. Suddenly, a calico cat jumped down into my lap, purring and meowing as it burrowed in next to my arm.
Relief replaced my terror until I started laughing so hard I was sure I was going to pee my pants. Eventually, my relief morphed into a slow burning anger. Visions of Harley laughing while he recounted my discovering the cat added fuel to the fire.
As I stroked the cat, I considered simply turning around and putting the animal back in the barn. I decided to give the matter more consideration. After all, revenge was supposed to be sweet.
“We’ll have to give this some thought,” I said. “I think I’ll call you Harley. I hope you are a Harley. In the meantime, you can live with me until we can come up with an appropriate response. That son of a bitch is going to get it this time.”
As soon as I had arrived at my condo and let Harley in the door, he headed for my closet and made himself a bed on a pile of old towels. I watched as he dragged and dug his way into his own comfort zone. Satisfied, he promptly fell asleep. I made a mental note to either take him to the Humane Society or get a litter box and cat food.
When I woke up, I felt a warm body nuzzled against my back and turned over. Harley and I both stretched at the same time. As I got a better look at Harley, I realized the name I had given him was totally inappropriate. Harley was a very pregnant female. Looming motherhood sealed the deal. Litter box and cat food it would be.
Later, arriving at Dr. Mirren’s office, I parked in the crowded lot and got in line at the reception desk. Peggy, Dr. Mirren’s perky, sarcastic assistant, greeted me warmly after I finally made it to the front.
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