Dream Runner

by Gail McFarland

  “Well, that was special.” Desireé had finished with her lipstick and was working at her nails.

  “Yes,” Parker agreed, basking in what was left of his glow. “That was very special, indeed.”

  “I was kidding.” Desireé’s dark eyes rolled slowly over the doctor’s face. “That was what you call sarcasm. What we just did in there was a little, um, a little icebreaker. S’just somethin’ to make this dead-assed party a little more tolerable. If we were somewhere private, I would show you something else, something I promise you would enjoy.”

  “Like what?” Parker knew his tongue was hanging out.

  “See that lady over there? The one with the cigarette, blowin’ the smoke rings? Well, I happen to know that if you put a cigarette in the right place…”

  “Really? You can do that?”

  Desireé’s breath sizzled past her teeth and across her lips when she laughed at his naiveté. “Are you sure you’re a doctor? I woulda thought you would have known that a well-educated body can do a lot of things.”

  “Educated?”

  Crossing her arms creased the purple bodice of her dress and pushed her breasts into prominence. She nodded, and Parker had the distinct impression that she really did know what she was talking about. Raising his thick black brows, Parker held his breath, then made his decision. “Got any plans for tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.” She slipped her arm through his. “I’m going with you.”

  “And fool that I was, I brought her home with me.” Reynolds cursed himself. “If I hadn’t been so greedy when she showed me what she could do in a bathtub…” Yeah, that greed had moved her right into his sprawling home in the exclusive Roswell Vinings enclave.

  Traffic was light, so Parker barely slowed the Corniche as he turned the corner, Desireé still on his mind. His stomach lifted and rolled, greasy with frustration. A man could watch a woman with Desireé’s particular brand of dexterity juggle billiard balls for only so long before she had to get dressed—and speak. Fully clothed and totally self-involved, Desireé left a lot to be desired. A woman with all the personality of an avocado, she had the nerve to be a snob on top of it. Nothing was ever enough, and beyond the realm of sexual acrobatics, her limited forté consisted of shopping.

  Parker gripped the steering wheel tighter and wished for a drink. “But the heifer didn’t have good taste,” he recalled, “not even in groceries. Thank heavens she preferred to shop solely for herself.”

  After she moved into his home, Parker quickly learned that nothing was ever enough for Desireé. Initially intrigued by the toys, gadgets, and fripperies that money can buy, she had been compliant and easy to please—at first. As time passed, Desireé discovered her personal trump card: embarrassment. The woman was a bottomless and all-consuming pit of crude behavior. She would publicly pout and bitch and moan to get her way—anything to get on his last nerve, and bounce. He had tried to drown the whining and complaints in a glass of vodka. Over time, one glass became two, and two became five, and the glasses got bigger and bigger. Hell, by the time he finally got her out of the house, the damned glass was practically a vat.

  And after getting the trumped-up divorce papers, Parker plunged deep into that vat again. “She can just use the body I paid for to reel in another sucker, for all I care. She’s got all she’s getting from me.”

  Even as he said the words, he knew that putting her out of his life was easier said than done. Common as table salt, his mother had once called her, and she was right. But common, selfish, and greedy as she was, Desireé had one redeeming trait: she loved him.

  Being claimed by a woman determined to love him, and make him a better man, was a novelty. Nobody had ever wanted Parker the way Desireé did, and Parker wasn’t sure that was a good thing—but it was certainly addictive. The look on her face when he called her name, having her there when he came home from a rough shift at the hospital, the welcome of her early morning touch; all of this had become precious to him. But enough was enough, and he could live without her.

  Determined to wean himself, Parker passed his hand across his face and decided that if he couldn’t have vodka, he could at least get some coffee. Coffee and maybe some food ought to help. Flicking his turn signal, he made a right turn. “Can’t imagine what the holiday crew might dredge up in the hospital cafeteria.” He made an illegal turn and headed for the ramp going north on I-75. “Better not take the chance.”

  The American Café would be open. They never closed, not even on Christmas, and they served breakfast all day. Almost no traffic on the road; the trip there and down to the hospital would take next to no time.

  Dr. Parker Reynolds hit the accelerator hard, and his ire returned in force when Desireé Johnson invaded his thoughts again. “How dare she?” he hissed, barely seeing the silver Honda Accord. The woman in the Accord was pushing the little silver bullet for all it was worth when he sideswiped it, sending it careening across the road.

  The howl of creasing metal made him blink. The Corniche’s heavily armored body barely swayed. The Accord didn’t have that luxury. Horrified, he watched as reality slowly fell like a heavy cloak. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. He could see the shock and terror on the woman’s face.

  He saw the passenger-side wheels leave the road, saw her hands rise into the air. He saw her pretty brown face when her mouth stretched wide, first showing white teeth, then the raw pink of her scream. The Accord seemed bent on destruction, lifting higher and pirouetting across the far lane and into the center wall.

  Parker’s foot went to the brake and the Corniche slowed. Stunned, he sat in the center of the empty highway, looking back at the twisted mass of metal wedged against the highway’s dividing wall. Panicked, he looked over at the other side of the wall and was amazed to see no oncoming traffic. There was nothing in his rearview mirror, either.

  “Easy,” he cautioned himself, “easy.” Reaching for the ignition, Parker Reynolds had an idea. Swallowing hard, he turned the wheel lightly and steered the Corniche a quarter mile farther down I-75 to the nearest exit. He found the off-ramp and tried to control his breathing.

  “Easy…” He checked the rearview mirror again—nothing behind him. He made a left turn and found the return ramp. “All I have to do is make a circle.”

  Eight minutes later, Dr. Parker Reynolds eased the Corniche to a stop behind the smoldering, twisted remains of the Accord. He took out his cellphone and hit 911 as he ran toward the car. “Hello,” he shouted, praying that the woman was still alive. “Hello!” And where the hell was the 911 operator? Parker was still clutching the phone when he heard the woman moan.

  Chapter 4

  “I don’t know what I was thinking when I let Yvonne schedule me to work today.”

  Connie Charles was glad to refresh her memory. “You were thinking about the overtime—same as I was.”

  “Maybe, but this is way more than I bargained for.” Holding her breath, Jeanette Washington turned still-wet clothes with gloved hands. “I can’t believe we’ve been stuck with this again. First a shooting, now this car accident. And we’re the ones who have to figure out who she is.”

  “Somebody has got to do it, and this time it’s us. That’s life in the ER. I hate working the ER, especially on holidays.” Connie refused to look up from the running shoe she held. “Did you hear how bad it was?”

  “Yeah, the team that brought her in had her on life support. Said they had to cut her from the wreckage, poor thing.”

  “Yeah, and to think Dr. Reynolds just happened to drive up and find her.”

  “Uh-huh. And bless his heart, he’s still hanging in there with her. He’s doing the surgery and everything. Do you think it was a drunk?”

  “No.” Connie angled her head toward her shoulder, letting her blue surgical cap catch the sudden drops of water on her forehead. “You ask me, I think it was some kind of evil, hateful bastard. Who else woulda left that girl out there like that?”

  “I don’t kn
ow, but I heard the car was totaled. It was so messed up, they couldn’t even read the license tag. Now here she is, anonymous and in surgery. That really is a shame.” Jeanette’s eyes widened. “She was wearing running clothes, and look, this thing was balled up in them.” She carefully pulled a thin, wrinkled sheet away from the thin fabric of the shirt.

  “Lord, Jeanette,” Connie said pointing to the running shoe. “That’s one of those numbers you get when you run in a race. Today is the Fourth of July, the day they run the Peachtree Road Race. They ran it this morning. Do you think…Is that her number from the Peachtree? Do you think she filled it out?”

  “Girl, I don’t know.” She turned the slick sheet, smoothing it out. “Looks like some writing. Let me try washing it.”

  Connie grabbed a bottle of saline and squirted the sheet. She waited a beat, then squirted again. Then Jeanette aimed a thin stream of water across the top of it. Connie flattened the sheet against the stainless steel countertop. Letters began to appear. “Praise Jesus. She did it, Jeanette. She filled it out.”

  “Can you read the name? A phone number? Anything?”

  “Mary…no, I think it says Marilyn…or Marlene…”

  “Marlea,” Jeanette whispered. “It says Marlea, and there’s a phone number here, too.”

  “I’m glad we’ve got a contact for her, but I don’t want to be the one to make the call. I did the hit and run,” Connie reminded her colleague.

  “Spare me.” Jeanette said. Connie really did hate the ER. “I’ll do it. I’ll call.” She squinted at the name on the back of the wet race form. “I’ll call about Marlea.”

  * * *

  “I got a call,” Libby Belcher panted across the counter at the nursing station. Her hair stood up in sharp black spikes, and the panic in her blue eyes nearly matched the alarm in her high-pitched voice. The parchment-skinned nurse on the other side of the desk thought she looked as if she had stuck her finger into an electrical socket. Libby moistened her lips, swallowed hard, and shoved her cellphone toward the nurse. “I’m a coach. One of the runners, a friend of mine, she had an accident. I got a call that she was brought here.”

  The nurse’s nametag read P. Bridgewater. A Grady veteran, P. Bridgewater was used to the frustration and anguish of those left to pick up the pieces when someone they cared about was in medical distress. Nurse Bidgewater’s fingers clicked over a hidden keyboard, then she looked at Libby. “You can put that away now,” she nodded toward the cellphone. “What’s her name?”

  “Marlea. Kellogg—like the cereal.” Libby tucked the phone into the pocket of her shorts.

  “Yes, she’s here, but you won’t be able to see her for a bit. She’s still in surgery.”

  Oh, Lord no she didn’t just say surgery! Libby gripped the edge of the counter and tried not to think of the worst that could happen. “They told me that she was in an accident. What happened? What’s her condition?”

  P. Bridgewater clicked more hidden keys, then hummed along a deep breath and ignored the questions.

  Libby’s wild eyes grew wilder. “You’re not going to tell me? Is she dead?”

  The nurse looked up, suddenly more human. “No, she’s in critical condition, but definitely alive. Just follow that blue line and take the elevators up.” She pointed to the colorfully lined floor.

  Releasing the counter, Libby slowly backed away. “Surgery.”

  Oh, Marlea! What now? It wasn’t easy, but Libby found the elevators and managed to follow the directions to the waiting area. Sitting across from the surgical suite, she phoned Hal to tell him where she was and that she wouldn’t be home for a while—and that she loved him. Then she sat with the phone folded between her hands.

  “Hi.”

  The soft voice roused Libby, bringing her back to the here and now. Without thinking, she smiled up into the gentle brown eyes of the thick-bodied woman studying her from the doorway.

  “You Libby?” She waited for Libby’s slow nod, then came closer, hand extended. If the woman had said that her name was Tootsie Roll, it wouldn’t have surprised a living soul. Round and brown, she wore rubber-soled white shoes and floral scrubs. Nurse, Libby realized. “How do you know my name?”

  “No mystery,” the woman smiled. “I’m Jeanette Washington, the one who called you. I’ve been kind of watching for you.” Libby nodded, then looked at the double doors across the hall. “I know, the waiting is always hard. You mind if I sit here with you for a minute?” Libby’s lips trembled, and Jeanette sat.

  “You two been friends long?” Libby’s lips parted and closed. A fat tear shimmered at the corner of one eye, and the nurse gave her hand a gentle pat. “It’s good to have friends who love you.”

  So very, very true, Libby thought.

  “Does she have any other family here in Atlanta?”

  “No family at all, unless you count me and her students. She’s a teacher. Her mother and her…brother, they’re both dead.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m pretty much all she’s got.”

  “No husband? No boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend? Not Marlea. She’s a dedicated runner, and as far as she’s concerned, men and training don’t mix. She’s got no children of her own, no pets, not even a plant. She’s a runner.”

  “Runner.” A frown creased Jeanette’s brown face and her eyes dropped.

  Libby’s stomach quivered and she was suddenly cold. “Yes, she’s a runner. She’s aiming for the Olympic team. She stands a good chance of making it, too.” The nurse nodded. Libby leaned forward, seeking the other woman’s still-averted eyes. “What is it?”

  “I’m not a doctor,” Jeanette said too quickly. “Dr. Reynolds is working with your friend, and he is wonderful. Trauma surgery is his specialty. Your friend couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Libby’s stomach lifted and fell again. “Trauma. That means life-threatening, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  “But you are a nurse, and you said that this doctor is a specialist…”

  “And you should wait to hear whatever he has to tell you.” Jeanette found Libby’s hand again and squeezed. “Best I can tell you right now is that your friend is in real good hands.”

  “Is this the family member for our Jane Doe?” A man’s voice, confident and aware.

  Libby pulled her hand from the nurse and turned sharply. “Who is he calling a Jane Doe? That means unknown, doesn’t it? Is he talking about Marlea? Her name is Marlea.”

  “It’s all right,” the nurse soothed.

  “No, it’s not all right. She ain’t got no family, and she ain’t got nobody else to turn to. She ought to at least have the dignity of a name!”

  “It’s all—”

  “No,” the man interrupted. “She’s right, and I apologize. I’m Dr. Reynolds. I came in with your friend.”

  “Libby. Belcher. And what do you mean, came in with?”

  “Dr. Reynolds was on his way to the hospital. He found your friend. He was the one who called for the police and the ambulance. He’s taken on her case…”

  “Jeanette, I believe we can do without further broadcast.”

  “Fine, doctor.” Chastened, Jeanette touched Libby’s arm. “I’m glad you showed up for her, and if you need anything else…”

  “Is Marlea going to be all right, for real?” Blue eyes wavered behind a screen of unshed tears. “There’s only me to call. There’s no other family.”

  “She’s been stabilized, and now they’re prepping her for surgery. I’ll see her in about ten minutes.” Reynolds kept his eyes on Libby, but nodded to Jeanette Washington as she slipped from the room.

  “You’ll be honest with me, right?” Looking up at Reynolds from her seat, Libby gnawed at her lower lip. “She trusts me, so I need to know, ’cause like I keep sayin’, she ain’t got nobody else.”

  * * *

  “How did it go?”

  “How am I supposed to know, with you sneakin’ up on me?” Jeanette hi
ssed, slapping at Connie’s arm. “I’m trying to hear.”

  Connie opened her mouth, but closed it again when Dr. Reynolds brushed past. Sneaking a look around the edge of the waiting room door, she watched the black-haired little white woman bury her face into her hands. Her shoulders shook and she hiccuped a time or two. Connie went back to her Baptist roots and hummed sympathy.

  “Chile, this is so sad. Who is that?”

  “That’s her friend, her coach. She told me that the girl has no husband, no parents, no brothers or sisters.”

  “So sad.” Looking over her shoulder, Jeanette caught a glimpse of the doctor as he entered the surgical suite.

  “The poor girl has so many ain’t gots, it’s a shame,” Reynolds overheard one of the nurses whisper. And before it’s all over, Dr. Parker Reynolds knew she would have at least one more.

  Striding long and pushing through the double doors of the surgical suite, he tried to ignore the nurse’s words. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he announced to the assembled team as he headed for the sinks. “Let’s get scrubbed and get in there and do what we do best.” The show of bravado was just that—a show, and Parker hoped that he was the only one who knew it.

  “Doctor, you keep scrubbing like that, and you’re going to pull the skin right off your hands,” one of the OR nurses teased. Reynolds managed to dredge up a smile and stepped away from the sink.

  Now I know how Lady Macbeth felt, he thought. Shakespeare’s murderous conspirator had scrubbed long and hard trying to get imaginary blood off her hands, too. At least I didn’t murder that young woman, he told himself, but his heart wouldn’t let him off that easily. You don’t know. What if she doesn’t survive the surgery? What if she’s maimed for life? How will you live with yourself then, Dr. Savior?

  Reynolds’s eyes went back to the sink, but he refused to give in to the urge to scrub his already scourged skin one more time. Washing your hands is not going to wake her or make her whole again. Washing your hands is not going to ever cleanse them of her blood. Ever.