by Harry Kraus
I squinted at him. “You remember that?”
He nodded slowly. “That’s about it,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “The next thing I knew, I was here.”
“You remember the lesson?”
“Why?”
I tried to act barely interested. “You seem to have retrograde amnesia. I just wondered where your memory picked up.”
He seemed to be concentrating on his Jell-O. He rubbed the back of his neck. “The accident must have wiped out everything just as I was heading for your house.”
“Yet you don’t remember your fiancée.”
“The blonde? She looks vaguely familiar.”
“I used to be blonde, Jack.”
He looked down. “You were blonde? I wouldn’t take you as the type. When I see you, I think what you see is what you get.”
I put my hands on my hips. This was the very phrase I’d used the last time we were together before his accident.
Before I could comment, he spoke again. “What should I do about Yolanda?”
“Do about her?”
He looked at me. “She seems nice enough, and quite attractive, but she seems quite stuck on this wedding thing.” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can marry her. I don’t know her.”
I cleared my throat. “Perhaps you’ll have to delay the wedding a bit.”
“Until I can remember why I must have liked her?”
I held in a smile. “I guess. You can’t marry someone you don’t love, Jack.”
He pushed away his tray. “Everyone tells me your husband saved my life. He seems like a wonderful guy.”
“Sure,” I said quietly. “The perfect man.”
I looked away. I didn’t exactly feel comfortable discussing my feelings about perfect Henry with Jack.
I listened to the electronic chirping of his cardiac monitor and watched a glowing green line dance across a monitor. Beep, beep, beep. Steady Jack.
“It must be difficult for you,” he said.
I looked at him and frowned.
“I mean being the pastor’s daughter in such a big church.”
“Where did that come from?”
He smiled. “Just insightful, I guess.”
“I guess.” I shuffled my feet. “Maybe I should go. Let you get back to your dinner.”
“Don’t go. You didn’t answer my question.”
“You noticed.” I took a step towards the foot of the bed and folded my arms across my chest, aware of my defensive posture. “I’ve lived most of my life trying to meet other people’s expectations.”
He nodded. “I’m the church choir director, Wendi. I know exactly what you’re saying.”
I allowed myself to smile. “Fair enough.”
“But I think we’re different,” he said. He waited until our eyes met to explain. “I believe what your dad preaches.”
I kept my arms folded. “And you think I don’t?”
He shrugged without taking his eyes off me. I felt exposed, but not threatened. “Tell me, Wendi. I want to know if you struggle.”
I forced a chuckle. “Do you have a few months?”
He smiled. His lips were chapped, but his teeth were gorgeous. Even in the fluorescent light with a two-day growth on his scalp, his features looked so fine.
I didn’t feel like burdening him with my life story, but I couldn’t seem to lie to his beautiful eyes. So I summarized my life in three words. “I’m a fake.”
I let the words hang without explanation.
He didn’t argue, didn’t laugh, didn’t speak at all. He just waited for me to go on.
“I don’t want to be. It just happened. I’ve taken a thousand little steps, each one a small compromise, a separation of my heart belief and my mouth.” I sighed. “Before I knew it, I’d become just like the hypocrite I accused my mother of being.”
I heard the curtain move behind me. It was Brenda, Jack’s nurse. “Guess what?” she said. “It’s moving day.” She began disconnecting wire leads from Jack’s chest. “Dr. Stratford has given the order to send you to the floor.”
“Where will you take him?”
“East 421.”
She continued working, scurrying about the bed, readying Jack for the move. “You’ll be able to have visitors more than two at a time.”
Hooray. I can visit with Jack’s parents and Yolanda at the same time.
I took Jack’s hand. “I’ve got to go.”
I pressed back the urge to kiss him. I wanted to tell him how thirsty my soul was for the attention he gave me, how it had been years since Henry wanted to know how I was on the inside, only caring about my bottle-blonde exterior. His eyes met mine, and he gave my hand a squeeze. Not fast, but firm. I was here to cheer him up. He was passing strength to me.
“Bye,” I said, returning the squeeze. My eyes met Brenda’s. She raised her eyebrows.
Outside, it seemed the air around me was thick with guilt. I was sharing my soul with another man. He may have forgotten my overt proposal, but I hadn’t, and my heart felt sick. I’m a married woman. A Christian married woman. Christian women aren’t supposed to have affairs. They’re not even supposed to want to.
I walked down the hospital corridor promising myself that I wouldn’t visit Jack again. I’d settled my question. He really didn’t remember my outrageous behavior. All I was to him was a piano student and the wife of his wonderful surgeon.
I nodded my head to myself, telling my soul that it was the right thing to do. Henry was a good provider, after all.
I’m doing the right thing. I’ve been given a second chance. I sniffed. I’d laid aside my dream. Henry was my guy.
So why did it all seem so unreal?
CHAPTER 15
On day five of my wonderful Caribbean vacation I used Dr. Henry Stratford’s name to get an urgent appointment for Rene with a University obstetrician. Alfred Bird specialized in high-risk obstetrics. I wasn’t sure HIV constituted high risk, but I’d heard that Bird was the best, so I insisted on an office visit for my sister.
We sat in the waiting room reading outdated Newsweek and National Geographic magazines and spied on the other patients waiting to be seen. After forty-five minutes, my cell phone rang. It was Michael Chin, an insurance agent with State Farm.
“Hi, Michael,” I said. “I’m on vacation. You’re not supposed to be bothering me.”
“Good morning to you too,” he said, followed by a rapid chuckle. “You shouldn’t answer the phone if you are on vacation.” He plunged forward before I could protest further. “I’m in Ruck-ersville to file a claim for a client.” Wind whistled in my ear, telling me Michael was outside, and probably walking. “A tractor-trailer cab coasted down a hill and slammed into some trees at the edge of a field. I’m no expert, but things don’t quite line up here. The damage seems more severe than what I would have expected. I called the office and they suggested I see if you were available.”
“I’m flattered. But I am on vacation. At least I’m supposed to be,” I groaned.
“Come on, Wendi,” he said, his voice low. “It looks to me like the truck has been scrubbed, but someone didn’t get all the blue paint off the truck fender.”
I looked at Rene. She was squinting at me and shaking her head. I couldn’t leave her alone. “I’m sorry, Michael. Why don’t you call Scott Jacobs? He — ” I stopped and looked away from my sister’s scorn. “Did you say blue?”
“Yeah. A small chip of blue paint is lodged in a crease in the bumper.”
Jack’s Honda Accord was blue.
“Can I come later?”
He sighed. “How long is later?”
“An hour,” I said. Rene kept shaking her head, now faster. It would take me thirty minutes to travel up 29 to Ruckersville. “Two hours tops.”
“For the best, I’ll wait.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Michael. Don’t move a thing. I’ll call you when I’m a few minutes from Ruckersville for directions.”
“I owe you.”
“Big time,” I said. “I’m in Jamaica.”
I flipped off my phone.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting with Rene across from Dr. Bird.
He had a gray goatee and a generous waistline. He smiled when he talked and leaned forward when he listened. Perhaps his hearing was going the way of his balding head.
He nodded as he read the notes recorded by the nurse interview. “OK,” he said, holding up one finger. “You’ve got HIV.” Up went finger number two. “You’re pregnant and,” he said, lifting a third finger, “you’re scared.”
Rene nodded without speaking.
“I’m here to debunk the myths.” He started raising fingers again, one by one. “First, HIV is treatable. It is not a death sentence. It is a chronic, controllable illness. Second, it is highly unlikely, if you follow my advice, that you will pass HIV to your child. Everything you’ve heard about AIDS orphans and babies dying with HIV in Africa is true. But this is Charlottesville, Virginia, and you have access to good medicine.”
“Define ‘highly unlikely,’ ” Rene said, forming quotation marks with her fingers.
“If we put you on three-drug therapy, your baby has less than one percent chance of contracting the virus.”
“Do I have to have a C-section?”
Dr. Bird leaned back. “We’ll check the viral load in your blood. If there are less than one thousand viral copies per ml, then there will be no benefit from a C-section birth.”
Rene and I exchanged glances. This all sounded better than we had hoped.
“Of course, we will have to start you on antiretroviral medications right away.”
“I don’t feel sick.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s a precaution to keep the virus in check to diminish passage to your baby. During labor, we’ll put you on IV AZT, and after delivery we’ll have to treat your child with AZT and Bactrim. It’s all part of a well-worked-out protocol.”
Rene sat quietly for a few seconds. “I want to breast-feed.” Her eyes met mine. “If I keep the baby.”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. That would be risky to your child. You can pass the virus that way.”
Rene looked at me again. We’d talked about this issue, and I’d given her different advice. I spoke up. “But I just saw a documentary about Africa. Uganda or some such place. The health workers are encouraging HIV-positive mothers to breast-feed.”
“Again,” he said. “That’s Africa. This is America. You’ve got good water and formula. They don’t. Stopping breast-feeding in Africa means the baby is likely to suffer malnutrition and die sooner than if it contracted HIV from its mother.”
I nodded.
“Now,” Dr. Bird said while picking up a folded patient gown. “Unless you’ve got other questions for me, I’m going to ask you to put this on.” He stepped to the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to examine you.”
He left, and Rene and I fell into an embrace. “Stop crying,” I chided, before tapping on her stomach. “Did ya’ hear that, Junior? You’re going to be alright!”
I arrived at the country home of Jesse and Linda Anders at one o’clock. There, I stopped at the edge of a long gravel lane behind Michael Chin’s Dodge Dakota pickup. Michael joined me in the Mercedes and briefed me as we drove towards a single-story ranch perched on a small knoll. Two large dogs, a slobbering mutt and what appeared to be a Doberman, escorted us as we neared a home long overdue for a fresh coat of paint.
“Mr. Anders is a real case,” Chin said. “I told him that I wanted an expert opinion about the accident and that I wanted you to examine the evidence. I mentioned your name and he got spooky on me.”
“Spooky?”
Michael shrugged. “He made me repeat your name twice. A few minutes later he said he needed to make a run into town. He jumped in his pickup and he left me standing in his driveway.
“What’d he tell you about the accident?”
“He said he found it down there this morning.” Michael pointed over a grassy field to a group of trees at the bottom of a gentle slope. “Anders claimed he parked it here at the edge of his driveway last night. Must have forgotten to set the brake.”
The distance to the truck cab looked to be about one hundred meters. I decided to look at the truck first and get out my Nikon Total Station and record the measurements after the vehicle inspection. I opened the trunk and retrieved my digital camera and began walking across the field. The grass was long, and laid over in two discrete tire tracks leading to the truck.
I estimated the slope at under five degrees, something I could confirm later with my total station. With the tall grass, the truck’s speed would have been hampered, making a high-speed impact improbable. The right front grille and the fender were dented, and the right headlight smashed. The truck rested against a large walnut tree. I photographed the scene, returned to my car, set up the total station, and did measurements. After an hour, I was ready to have the truck moved. I wanted a closer look at the front end. Chin was right; there was a dime-size speck of blue paint deep in a fender crease. Around it, the fender seemed to have been scrubbed with steel wool. Curiously, the bumper seemed to have been spared much of the impact. I knelt to the ground and looked beneath the front bumper. There, attached to the front frame, seemed to be some sort of mounting bracket. The damage to the fender was significant. But I couldn’t understand why the bumper hadn’t taken more of a hit.
Close inspection of areas of the dents on the wheel well revealed what looked like oxidation that had already started on the exposed metal. This had to be more than one night old for rusting to have started where the primer was scratched off.
It came to me as I walked back up the hill through the long grass.
“Does Anders have a garage?”
Michael pointed towards a large separate building behind the ranch house. “There, I guess.”
“Let’s take a look.”
I followed him into a tall garage. It was dusty and smelled of motor oil. I found what I was looking for on the floor next to a workbench burdened with tools.
It appeared to be a metal grille, a substantial piece made of forged two-inch steel. Bolted to the front of a truck frame, it could have protected the truck from significant damage. It was scuffed with blue paint and flattened along one side.
“What is it?”
I smiled. “Just an old truck grille. Hmmm.” I photographed it from six angles.
Michael just stood back and shook his head.
I walked back to the Mercedes to call Chris Black. “I think I’ve just been given a gift,” I said to Michael.
“Whatever,” He said. “Do your eyes always do that when you work?”
“Do what?”
He laughed and imitated me. His eyes darted back and forth over my Mercedes like he was reading a book.
I groaned. “Shut up.”
In another minute, I was on the phone with Chris Black. “Detective Black.”
“Chris, it’s me.”
“What is it this time, Wendi?”
“I’ve got news.”
“Why don’t you come down to the station so we can discuss it? I want to collect on my double mocha latte.”
“I think I’ve found the truck involved in Jack Renner’s hit-and-run.”
I listened as he sighed. “Do you read the paper?”
“Sure.”
“Well then you know I’ve got my hands full around here. A law student hung himself over the side of Beta Bridge down on Rugby Road.” I listened to him tapping his keyboard. “What makes you think you’ve found the guilty party?”
“Some guy up in Ruckersville is trying to pull an insurance fraud.”
“Ruckersville? What’s the name?”
“Anders.”
“Evidence?”
“A little. Mostly a hunch at this point.”
“What do you have?”
“A truck with a blue paint chip the same co
lor as Jack’s car. It’s a truck cab, could have been pulling a silver trailer like the one I saw hit Jack’s car. This guy has a huge detachable metal grille covered with the same blue color. I found it in his garage.”
I listened to the detective sigh. I knew he wasn’t convinced.
“I haven’t worked it up yet. I’ll bring it by once I’ve finished my CAD drawings.”
The detective coughed. “Do you have pictures?”
“I’ve always got pictures.”
“Bring your camera by. We can download them here. I want to see what you’ve got.”
“I need a chance to look at them first. I’ve got guests at home. I’ll put them on my computer and bring them by your office in the morning.”
“Bring the latte,” he said.
“Fine. Nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
Iarrived home to find a tearful Yolanda sitting on the couch between Steve and Miriam Renner.
She looked up as I arrived. “You’re so blessed,” she said. “You’ve got the perfect husband. He’s got looks, a great job. He’s so compassionate and,” she added with her voice cracking, “he’s crazy about you.” She buried her face in her hands.
I traded glances with the Renners and mouthed, “What’s going on?”
Miriam put her arm around Yolanda in a motherly gesture and looked up at me. “Jack has suggested they cancel the wedding. It’s understandable. He was so sorry to hurt her, but he said he just couldn’t follow through until his memory returned.”
Steve nodded. “There, there,” he said, patting Yolanda’s knee. “Think about it from Jack’s perspective. It would be like marrying a stranger. How weird would that be?”
“Steve!” his wife scolded. “Once Jack has a chance to get to know her again, I’m sure he’ll feel the same.”
Yolanda shook her head. “What if he’s changed?” She stared at the Renners and me as if we could answer. We didn’t have an answer, at least not one she wanted to hear. Jack could have changed. No one could have predicted his amnesia. Head injuries do weird things to patients.