by Harry Kraus
“What good will it do to confront her with the past? I’m not even sure she would remember.” I paused. “We’ve never spoken about it since the accident. She spent days in a coma. She may not even remember that I was pregnant. So if I bring it up, I’ll only risk her being mad at me being the reason we were in the car in the first place.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want to be real? Then be real. Don’t keep pretending to be something you’re not.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but I had nothing to say.
“You want to stop being a fake? Start by telling your father who you really are.”
“And let him judge me like he judged you?”
“Or let him forgive you like he forgave me.”
Daddy forgiving? Judgmental yes, but forgiving? “That sounds funny coming from you.”
“You should have stayed around the nursing home a little longer. Daddy said he loved me. He said they didn’t care what I’d done, that I’d always have their love.”
My head hurt. I got up and found the ibuprofen and dropped four tablets into my hand, then added two Tylenols. I looked at Rene. She was serious. And jealousy was taking a fast escalator in my soul. Why don’t they say that about me? Rene’s been off going her own sinful way, and I’ve been the perfect back-pew Christian daughter. I swallowed the pills and tried to smile. “That’s so sweet.”
Rene didn’t seem to notice my attempt at honesty was falling short. She seemed to be nestled in the afterglow of reconciliation with our parents.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose and swore I’d never have more than three drinks in a night. Or at least not more than four. Unless it was a very special occasion. Or unless I felt like I did last night. OK, I’m through with empty promises. I’m trying to be honest with myself again. I looked up. “I need to talk to Jack Renner. I need to tell him about his fiancée.”
“Don’t you think he’s heard by now?”
“Henry stopped to see him last evening. If Jack knew anything, he kept it from Henry.”
Rene clutched her coffee mug with two hands like it might escape. “Be careful, Wendi.”
I felt a twinge of guilt. “Careful?”
Rene stared past my façade. “Remember, I fell for a music teacher once, too.”
“Jack?” I laughed, but felt a second stab of remorse. “I think your medicine is affecting your mind.”
Rene looked away and stayed quiet, but I knew she didn’t buy my little charade.
I took a deep breath. I did need to talk to Jack. If for no other reason than to formally say “goodbye.” Of course, I wouldn’t use those words exactly. It’s hard to break up with someone who didn’t know about the relationship. But I needed to close the relationship for me.
I was determined not to mess up my second chance as badly as I had the first one.
Sig Eichmann, M.D., was troubled. As a state medical examiner, how many years had he worked with both Henry and Wendi Stratford? At least six. And yet this investigation was different. It was personal. A death investigation in the home of a friend.
The case of Yolanda Pate was open in front of him. Was it suicide? An accidental overdose? Or something more sinister? A drug screen of her blood revealed high levels of a narcotic. Her alcohol level was above legal limits for intoxication. Certainly, she had ingested enough to suppress her drive to breathe and had died as a consequence. That much was clear to Sig.
What bothered him were the subtle findings. She had a small, fresh cut on the inside of her upper lip, and another on her tongue, likely a laceration from biting her own tongue. Signs that she was so drunk she bit her own mouth? Or signs of a struggle as someone forced her to swallow more pills than she wanted when she was too drunk to defend herself?
When I peeked in the door of room 421, Jack set down the book he was reading. “Knock, knock,” I said, entering. “Well, look who found a razor.”
I set a bouquet of daffodils on a small side dresser beside his hospital bed.
His face brightened. My eyes went from his to the worn leather book on the table. “Hi, Wendi.”
I felt a stab of guilt. I was married, thinking about adopting a baby with my husband, but I just couldn’t stop my physical and emotional reaction to this man who was thoroughly under my skin. My face must have been transparent.
“Feeling guilty?”
How did this man read my mind? I looked at the Bible, another reminder of my failure as a Christian. I shrugged it off and smiled. “Is that any way to greet a lady?”
His expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
I touched the edge of his bed. “May I?”
He smiled and I sat. His eyes narrowed. My face couldn’t hide the fact that I had bad news.
“Jack, something’s happened.” I paused. “It’s Yolanda.”
“Yolanda,” he said slowly, accentuating each syllable as if deciding whether the sounds fit.
“She’s dead, Jack. Suicide.” I let it out in a rush, not knowing how to deliver such horrible news.
He closed his eyes and began turning his head right to left, back and forth as if grinding away an old memory. His breath escaped across pursed lips. “Oh God. Oh God,” he said. “Why?” He opened his eyes to look into my face. I could see pain there. Had he remembered her?
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shifted in his bed, grimacing as he turned. “I don’t believe this. She’s dead?”
Our eyes met again. He knew it wasn’t a topic I’d joke about. “She wasn’t dealing with the idea of you two being apart.” I touched his hand, snuggling two fingers into his open palm and giving a squeeze. “You could have never known this would happen.”
“H-how?” He shook his head, tortured.
“She took some pills.”
His voice thickened. “Oh God, oh God. I shouldn’t have told her — ” his voice halted.
His face paled, and I watched as his lower lip quivered before he sucked it tight against its beautiful mate.
Something in me wanted to crawl right up into his arms and lay my head on his chest and tell him it was going to be alright. But I was trying to remember my second chance, remember I was married, and determined to make it work.
He looked at me again, repeating the word as if the finality of it was still lurking at the edges of his mind. “Dead?”
I nodded, feeling a lump in my own throat as I took his agony as my own. “My sister and I found her in bed.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “I’m glad it was me and not your mother.”
He pulled his head back. “Do my parents know?”
“I’m sure the police called her parents. They’ve probably spread the word by now.”
Jack mumbled something under his breath, followed by, “This is a disaster.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was running on empty myself, and I’d sworn off Christian platitudes. “You couldn’t have known.”
“She didn’t seem like the type to — ” He pulled his hand away from mine and covered his mouth. “I mean she seemed upset that I wanted to cancel the wedding, but I never imagined — ”
“Don’t blame yourself, Jack.”
For the first time I saw a flash of something scary in his eyes. “Who should I blame, Wendi?”
“Me?” I said meekly.
As stupid as it was, the comment made him smile. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? How long have you been walking around taking the blame for everything?” He paused and picked up my hand again and said softly, “Years?”
I looked at my piano teacher and marveled at what an introspective and discerning man he was . . . something I’d completely overlooked in my infatuation with his handsome outward package. Without warning, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. I was so disarmed by this man who seemed to so easily rock the boat of my soul. I sniffed, unable to confess. The worst thing about it was I knew he was right. And I could
pinpoint the day I picked up the weight of the world.
The day I decided to rid myself of the ugly evidence of my passion for a married man.
A few seconds later, he called my name and brought me out of the fog. “Wendi. Whatever it is, forgive yourself.” He paused. “God certainly has.”
“You presumptuous — ” I stopped myself. I just couldn’t lash out anymore. I looked down at my hand in his. He’d curled his fingers around mine, not knowing the havoc he wreaked in my soul. I could only mutter the words he’d said. “Forgive yourself.”
After a moment, I cleared my throat. “How did this get so backwards? I’m supposed to be comforting you over the loss of someone you loved.”
“I’m glad you’re the one to tell me.”
I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. To me, it wasn’t flirtatious. It was a natural response to a moment of heart emotion.
I touched the top of his head, where new, bristly hairs were sprouting and coloring his sandpapery scalp. Our eyes met for a moment, and then I saw a flash. Something had changed. I followed his eyes to the foot of his bed, where a man in a military uniform stood hand in hand with a stocky woman with silver hair. I wondered how much of our tender moment they’d witnessed.
The man spoke with a nod of his head. “Jack.” An understood greeting from the military man.
Jack seemed to hesitate. I looked at his eyes. Recognition?
The woman stared at me, her expression one of distaste. Suddenly, I felt like looking in the mirror to search for flaws. Ketchup on my blouse? “Jack,” she said. “We came as soon as we heard.”
Jack opened his hand, and I pulled away, feeling heat in my cheeks. He winced as he coughed. “Do I know you?”
The man took a step forward. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. We’re — ”
The woman took his arm, interrupting him. “William, Yolanda said he was suffering from amnesia.”
Whoever these strangers were, they were intruding into Jack’s privacy. I shifted in my position, turning a shoulder to Jack and staying firmly seated between him and the couple. My mother-bear instincts kicked in. There was a cub to protect. “Would you kindly introduce yourselves? This man has been through a serious car accident. Don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t know you.”
The woman clutched the man’s arm. “We’re Yolanda’s parents.”
“Yo-lan-da,” Jack said, hopping from stone to stone across the stream of syllables.
The officer stepped forward and held out his hand. “Major William Pate,” he said.
Jack shook it, and I noted just the hint of a smile tickle the corner of his lips and disappear.
The man held up his hand towards the woman. She was stylish, if a bit overweight. “This is my bride of thirty-five years.”
She looked as if she might burst into tears. “Jack, don’t you know us? I’m Gloria.”
Jack’s face remained motionless. He had small wrinkles crossing his forehead, something he had every time I played a piano tune badly. “I’m afraid not.”
Gloria stepped up and reattached herself to the major’s arm. “Oh William, it’s like we’ve lost them both!”
Jack winced.
The woman looked at me. I felt the ketchup feelings return.
“Oh,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m Wendi Stratford. Yolanda had been staying at my house.”
The major nodded. “Yes.” Not oh goody. Not how horrible. Just a neutral matter-of-stating-the-facts yes.
Gloria turned. “You!”
I looked at my blouse. One extra button opened but no ketchup.
The woman’s voice was etched with irritation. “My baby said Jack had mistaken you for her!”
I clutched at my neckline. “I — uh — ”
Jack tried to rescue me. “A mistake,” he said, holding up his hand as if hoping the bull wouldn’t charge. “My mother told me my fiancée was beautiful. When Wendi walked in, I just assumed . . .” His voice trailed off weakly.
I liked the memory. I would have cuddled the event in my soul and smiled had the Pates not been grieving their departed daughter. Besides, I was trying to say a soul goodbye to this man, and I wasn’t supposed to hug him or the memories he gave me.
Gloria scowled. “And it’s not like you’re wasting any time trying to convince him otherwise from what I saw a minute ago.”
“Now, dear,” William said, patting his wife on the shoulder.
She shrugged him off. She might have been the wife of a powerful man, but he wasn’t going to stop his tank from aiming straight at me. “Yolanda had a sixth sense about you.” She took a step towards me after throwing away her husband’s arm. She raised her hand and pointed her index finger towards my face. “She said your husband’s an absolute gem, and that you didn’t seem to see how blessed you are.”
“Gloria,” the major said, reaching for her arm. He looked at me as she moved out of his grasp. “She’s just upset.”
“She was only comforting me, Mrs. Pate,” Jack said. “She’d only told me just now how Yolanda had died.”
“Suicide, is that what she told you?” Gloria asked.
Jack nodded. “I feel horrible about this. I think I upset her.”
The silver tank frowned and moved back onto her husband’s arm. A move of solidarity. “We don’t think she could have done that.” She shook her head. “It was an accident,” she said. She looked at me. “Or worse.”
That was it. The last straw. I didn’t care whether this woman had just lost her daughter. She’d fired one too many shots across my bow for me not to respond. I stood up and faced her. I opened my mouth, prepared to launch a defense of my own, when Henry came in. I held my tongue. After a second of nothing, I huffed. “Mr. and Mrs. Pate, I’d like you to meet my husband, Dr. Henry Stratford.” I looked at my husband, the gem, as Yolanda called him, and forced a smile. “These are Yolanda’s parents.”
Henry nodded compassionately. “We are so sorry for your loss. Yolanda was quite a young woman,” he said, as if he’d known her for years. “If there’s anything we can do while you’re in town. A place to stay,” he said, gesturing with an open hand. “There’s always room at the Stratfords’.”
I looked at him, unable to fix upon a plastic smile. Henry was out of his mind if he thought I would let this woman under my roof.
Mr. Pate shook Henry’s hand. “We’re staying at the Omni,” he said, “but thanks.”
My husband nodded. “Oh. Nice place. Great Sunday brunch if you’re still around.” Henry turned towards Jack. “Well, I won’t keep you from the Pates. I was just coming to check on your progress. Are you walking?”
Jack nodded, smiling. He looked relieved to have something else to talk about. “Down to the nurses’ station three times this morning.”
Henry touched Jack’s stomach. “Eating?”
“Some. Not much appetite yet.”
Henry looked at the data on a clipboard hanging on the end of the bed. He looked at the Pates. He shook the major’s hand for the second time. “Nice to meet you,” he said. Then, he turned to leave and added with a solemn tone, “Try not to stress my patient too much.”
I was surprised. It was as close to confrontation as Henry came.
The major saluted Henry. “We were just leaving.”
“We were? We just got here.” The silver tank crossed her arms across her ample bosom.
“We were.”
Henry paused and looked at me, and I saw something flicker in his eyes before he followed the Pates out of the room.
I could hear Gloria chatter all the way down the hall. “The nerve of that woman, moving in on that brain-damaged boy. I never . . .”
I traded smiles with Jack. He looked at me and mouthed a question, “I’m brain-damaged?”
I shrugged.
“Some comfort you are,” he said.
“I’d better go.” I looked down at him for a moment and said my mental goodbye. I’m married, Jack. These moments I’ve shared with you w
ere never meant to be. Goodbye.
“Go practice your piano.”
Henry’s cell phone rang out the theme song from Rocky. He looked at the digital readout of the caller and was tempted to curse. Anders.
He walked to an isolated corner next to a bank of hospital elevators and pushed the green answer button. He looked around and kept his voice low, but strained. “I told you it’s over. Don’t call me again.”
“Doc, is that any way to talk to an old friend?”
“We’re not friends.”
“Sorry about your wife.”
“My wife?”
“Gorgeous woman. You’ve got good taste in women. But you needed to understand the consequences of your decision.” He paused. “Too bad she had to die.”
“Die?” Henry didn’t understand.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been home.” He listened as Anders cursed. “Go home and check your bedroom.” He chuckled. “And you’ll reconsider backing away from our business relationship.”
Suddenly Henry understood. “You fool!” he said, looking around to be sure no one was listening. “That wasn’t my wife!”
CHAPTER 20
Chris Black looked up to see a man and woman exit room 421. The man was tall, wearing a military uniform and escorted by a woman with silver hair and a scowl on her face. He listened as they approached. “The nerve of that woman,” she said, “moving in on that brain-damaged boy.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Pate?” Chris said, flashing his detective badge. “I’m Detective Black with the Charlottesville PD. Can we speak?”
The military man sized him up. “Is there a problem?”
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions about your daughter.” He pointed down the hall away from the nurses’ station. “There is a small lounge down the hall.”
Mr. Pate nodded. “Sure,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Major William Pate.” He pointed with a tilt of his head. “This is my bride, Gloria.”
The detective nodded and led. There was a grouping of six chairs, all unoccupied. He sat across from the couple. The woman grasped the man by folding her arms around his elbow. She spoke before Chris could ask his first question.
“My daughter wouldn’t commit suicide.” She shook her big silver hair back and forth. “She was just about to graduate. She had too much to live for.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I think that Mrs. Stratford killed her.”