Dream Runner

by Gail McFarland

  The doctor shoved his hands into his pockets and allowed the door to shut softly at his back. “I am a trauma surgeon, Ms. Kellogg. I specialize in immediate treatment of life-threatening injury.”

  “Uh-huh.” The shivers that began in her belly radiated, and the hands at her cheeks fisted. “You…treated…me?”

  “Yes, I did. In your case, the treatment was radical.”

  “Radical.” The bed began to rattle around Marlea’s shaking body. “What does that mean?”

  “You have to understand; you had to be cut from the wreckage of your car.”

  “And you cut me. Where?”

  “The area of concern was your foot. Traumatic amputation was necessary to save your life.”

  The rush of darkness that claimed her kept Marlea ignorant of Dr. Reynolds’s last words.

  “She fainted,” Libby whispered, rising from her chair. “She still doesn’t know.”

  Nodding toward Marlea’s unconscious form, Parker glanced at her chart, then turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” Libby laid a hand on his arm. “What kind of doctor are you? Where’s your compassion? You’re gonna leave her like this? She passed out before you told her everything.”

  “Not unusual,” Parker muttered, shaking off the offending hand and crossing his fingers behind his back. “She’s still under anesthesia. We’ll have plenty of time for discussion when she awakens.”

  “And when she wakes up, what is she gonna do?” Libby wondered aloud. “Running is her life.”

  “Was,” Reynolds said, escaping through the door.

  Chapter 6

  “Can you believe they even raised the price on the coffee? With what we make, you’d think they would give it to us for free.”

  Parker Reynolds cursed the sludge that passed for cafeteria coffee and kept his eyes on the floor, hoping that the square-nosed woman was talking to anybody but him. If I have to listen to one more of these lazy creatures harping about how little they’re paid…He walked away from the counter in silent sanctimony.

  But at least the nurse had stopped talking about Marlea Kellogg.

  Lately, it seemed that Jeanette had developed a talent for showing up wherever Parker was, praising ‘doctor’ for his quick action in saving the patient’s life. “If it hadn’t been for doctor, this. And if it hadn’t been for the doctor, that.”

  The woman is wearing my nerves to a point beyond thin. The doctor swore silently, trying to ignore the guilt he wore like a dirty robe. It was so palpable that he wondered if people could smell it. Waiting for the elevator, he tried to ignore the naked hero worship in Jeanette’s eyes as she passed. Some hero. I haven’t slept since we brought that woman in here. My nerves are just about shot. Stepping into the empty elevator, Parker ignored the dents, scrapes, and greasy fingerprints and slumped against the back wall, glad that he was alone.

  The doors slid closed. I hit that woman. He couldn’t help thinking what he would never willingly say aloud. Damn it, it was my car that hit Marlea Kellogg.

  There. I said it. In his logical heart, Parker Reynolds knew it wasn’t the fault of his car, but the car’s driver—him. But he couldn’t admit to more. That would be too much like a confession and he would never do that—he couldn’t. Confessing always had consequences.

  He tried taking a sip of the coffee. It was bitter and cold—just like an admission of guilt. The elevator stopped on the third floor. The doors opened, but nobody got on. Parker barely noticed.

  Marlea Kellogg was on his mind. He couldn’t help thinking about her again this morning, as if he had been able to restrict her nonstop presence in the days since the accident. It wasn’t just Jeanette’s doing. From the moment he had heard Marlea’s moan, locked within the wreckage of her car, she had been in his head. Lodged deep in his thoughts, she had plagued his sleep and his waking hours as well. First, it was the need to do what it would take to save her life. Now it was the need to keep quiet about it.

  I did what I had to do. I did the right thing. I went back, I got her help, and I did the surgery.

  His hand never faltered during the surgery when he had cut away so much of what had been her life. She’s alive because of me.

  When she opened her eyes, even before she had started to ask questions, before she tried to make sense of life after her accident, there was something special about her. Now a week later, with time between them, there was still something special about her—shining nobility, tarnished by confusion and loss.

  And Parker Reynolds refused to take the blame for it.

  She’s a smart woman, a survivor. She’ll find a way to make a life for herself, Parker assured himself as the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. A sweet-faced woman with silver hair shook her head at him and the doors closed. He tried the cold coffee again as the elevator rose.

  By the time the elevator reached his floor, he had given up on the coffee and dumped the cup in the first trash can he saw. Still troubled by Marlea Kellogg, Parker squared his shoulders and headed for his office.

  She is an interesting woman, the kind of woman I might have been able to take home to meet my mother—if my mother weren’t such an old guard, born-and-bred snob.

  But it wasn’t all his mother’s fault, even if she still demonstrated a preference for pale skin, “good hair,” and thin noses. It was her background, the quality upbringing she had diligently shared with her son that had Sarah Hollis Reynolds dragging the practice of the paper-sack test into the twenty-first century.

  Marlea could pass the test—just barely. With skin the color of perfectly creamed coffee, café au lait his mother would call it, she could pass. The thought slipped through before he could stop it. I’m just as guilty as my mother is, Parker knew. Maybe even more so, because I know better. Not that elegant, insulated Sarah Hollis Reynolds would have cared.

  Tossing curt nods to a pair of his peers, Parker almost felt bad, but was shielded by inborn superiority. Neither of the men he had greeted were truly his peers, though Regan was a better-than-average neurosurgeon. Dark-skinned and kinky-haired, neither of the pair would pass the paper-sack test, and both had attended college and medical school on scholarships. Not my equals. Low class, no class. That’s what mother would think, though she had been too much of a lady to say it out loud.

  Parker was truly his mother’s son. Being born to a certain class did entitle one to certain…privileges. That was the rule, wasn’t it? Medical school at Harvard had been Parker Reynolds’s birthright, a part of his family’s legacy, much like the money and creature comforts he took for granted. His place at Grady Memorial Hospital had been assured the second they saw his name. Being born to a certain class entitles one to be excused from certain…errors.

  Marlea Kellogg’s accident had been an unfortunate error. Pity that Ms. Kellogg comes from nothing. Parker’s feet slowed, nearly stopped, and then changed direction.

  Her prospects would be so much brighter if she had a family of note, a name. But she didn’t. From what he could remember of the family history her coach had recited, Marlea Kellogg’s background wasn’t all that different from Desireé Johnson’s.

  She’s nothing like Desireé Johnson. Desireé is what my mother once called “as cheap as a copper penny.” Marlea Kellogg was dainty and considerate—a lady in spite of her reduced circumstances. Her native “class” was evident, even when using the plastic dishes and cutlery favored by the hospital. Her manners were delicate and genteel, without exception.

  Marlea was intelligent and inquisitive. Now that she was awake and recovering, she was reading information on her changed condition as fast as he could get it to her. But it was her courage that was most remarkable. Where most people, male or female, would have been locked in a stupor of regret, Marlea Kellogg was focused on understanding what had happened to her.

  Commendable. And though she had been born an orphan and raised by an aunt, Marlea Kellogg found a way to be a societal contributor. A special education teacher, loved by her
students, special in her own right. A very special young woman, Parker thought, moving to avoid the old man in the wrinkled blue-and-white cotton robe who was slowly maneuvering his wheelchair down the center of the hallway.

  What did I do wrong? How did I manage to miss out on a woman like her? Then he thought of Desireé spreading her legs atop the green baize of his antique brass-cornered billiard table. Yes, yes, I let myself get sidetracked, he thought angrily. I got sidetracked, all right. I got so involved with flea-market flirtation that I let her talk me into promising her things that she was just learning to dream about. Now she’s slapped me with this palimony suit. If it hadn’t been for that damned suit…

  Marlea Kellogg would still be running.

  Culpability bent the doctor’s shoulders and slowed his feet at Marlea’s door. Hand on the brass doorplate, he carefully arranged his face. It wouldn’t do for her to see regret. She deserves better.

  Unexpectedly, the door hissed inward before he could push.

  “Yeah, right. You let me know when you figure it out.” Nurse Anne Keith’s blue eyes and small mouth were both tight when she turned to face Parker. Jamming her well-padded hip against the door, she moved aside to let him enter.

  “You’re gonna want to be careful with that one today,” she hissed, angling her head toward Marlea. “I don’t know what crawled up her butt, but that heifer probably had to hobble through the gates of hell to get here…”

  “I heard that,” Marlea called from her bed.

  “You’re on your own,” Anne warned, scurrying from the room.

  “You certainly made an impression on her. So?” Letting the door close behind him, Parker came closer. “What’s going on?”

  Marlea sat wordless, ignoring him as she fingered a small silver box resting on the table beside her. Without much effort, Parker saw a tiny pair of silver running shoes and a crayon-endorsed homemade card. Something from one of her children, he guessed.

  “I know that the accident affected your foot. I didn’t think we had removed your tongue, as well.” Parker pulled a chair to the foot of the bed and sat. “Hearing damaged, too? Perhaps I’m not as good a surgeon as I thought I was.”

  “I…don’t have anything to say.”

  “Really? That’s not what I just heard from Nurse Keith. She seemed to think you had quite a bit to say.” Parker ignored both his patient’s shrug and the cool breath of blame that brushed his skin when he leaned forward. “Ms. Kellogg…Marlea, she was here on my orders. She was here to help you get moving again.”

  “She needn’t have bothered.” Marlea whipped back the cotton blanket, revealing the cotton/spandex sock covering her foot and leg. “As you can see, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Marlea, you lost two toes on one foot, not the right to live.”

  “Do you know what that means to a runner? Two toes…that’s everything. How am I supposed to run with half a foot? I might as well have died.” Her brown eyes glistened when she brought her thumb and forefinger together. “Do you know what this is?” She moved the pads of her fingers against each other as she held the doctor’s gaze. When he said no, she smiled bitterly. “It’s the world’s smallest violin.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I feel like it’s playing for me.”

  “You obviously don’t know fine music.” Ambushed by shame, Parker reached out and closed his hand over her fingers.

  “You’re holding up my pity party.”

  “Marlea, you have so much to offer. It would be a shame to lose you, so you may have to work on this, but you don’t need a pity party. You have more than half a foot, and you will walk again, but we have to get you up and moving. A part of that is beginning therapy as soon as possible.”

  “Therapy,” Marlea sniffled, but the tears fell in spite of the effort. “You don’t want me to feel bad about what happened, but you want me to happily accept the results and just forge ahead. I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t want to, and as endearing as your stubbornness might be under other circumstances, now is not the time for it. We need to get you moving to keep you viable.” Her frown told him that he had used the wrong word. “Circulation is critical in your recovery. Moving will help to get you back on your…uh, get you moving again.”

  “It hurts.” Marlea pulled tissue from the box on the table at her side.

  “But you’re alive, and as long as you’re alive, there’s a chance to fix the problem.” Parker squeezed her hand and felt rewarded when she squeezed back.

  “Is that what they mean by ‘bedside manner’? Giving me hope where there may not be any?”

  “There’s always hope.” Straightening and willing himself not to say more, Parker held his breath. Guilty, but not guilty enough to admit his part in the runner’s loss, he exhaled when Marlea nodded.

  A light tap on the door made him release her hand and turn.

  The door whispered open and a tall, round man, followed by a slender, doe-eyed woman, pushed his body into the room. “Ms. Kellogg?” Marlea nodded at the thin-haired man with the big belly. ”I’m detective Gene Brighton. This is my partner, Linda Palmer. We’re here about your accident.”

  Police. Parker’s pulse jumped. Calm down, they’re peons, mere redundancies—nothing like the characters on CSI or Law and Order. They’re not worthy of my concern. His heart fluttered a bit when the detective offered his hand and his card. He looks like the old version of Al Roker. And the woman is a plain little duck. That was something his mother would have said about another woman. And I am her son. He nearly giggled as the pair got down to business.

  Detective Palmer, for all her plainness, seemed to be the sharper of the two. The doctor felt her eyes begin a sly assessment of the picture he presented. You knew that as soon as Ms. Kellogg was conscious it was just a matter of time before the police would show up. They’re not here to talk to you; you’re the good guy in this. You saved her life; besides, you have a story. Keep it straight and stick to it. Stay calm, listen to what they have to say, and if they ask, just stick to the story.

  Linda Palmer murmured something in a softly musical voice. Marlea nodded again, and the odd couple crossed the room. Brown-skinned, brown-haired, brown-eyed Palmer pulled a pen and a small notebook from her pocket, and Brighton’s gravelly voice took over.

  Parker crossed his legs at the knee and leaned back in his chair.

  “Okay, Ms. Kellogg,” Brighton smoothed a thick, coffee-colored hand over the bulge of his belly. “Let’s start with what you remember about July Fourth.”

  “Independence Day. Uh…” Straining to think, Marlea finally gave up. “Nothing.”

  Palmer scribbled something in her notebook. “You ran the Peachtree Road Race.”

  Interested, Marlea leaned forward. “Did I finish?”

  “You sure did,” Palmer smiled. She’s pretty when she smiles, the doctor thought. She should smile more often.

  Palmer glanced down and flipped a page in her notebook. “You had a pretty good time, too. Just over forty minutes.”

  “Over forty minutes?” Marlea made a face. “Does Libby know?”

  “She knows,” Brighton chuckled.

  “She’s mad, huh?”

  “Nah.” Brighton chuckled again. “She’s glad you’re okay.”

  “I guess she didn’t tell you that losing my toes in an accident wasn’t on my list of ‘okay,’ did she?”

  “Actually, that was the first thing she told us.” Turning slightly, Brighton faced Parker. “And doctor, you were the one who found her.”

  “Yes.” Breathe. “I was on my way in for an ER shift, but I decided to stop for a bite to eat, and happened upon the accident site.” There. Short and to the point.

  “Didn’t see any other cars?”

  “No. None.”

  “All that highway, in the middle of the day, and you were the only one out there. Talk about a coincidence.” The big man angled his gaze. “Funny how that could happen.”

  “Funny? Not at all. It was a holida
y weekend, and the traffic is often irregular.” Careful, you’re talking too much. This could be a trap.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Holiday traffic can be unpredictable on the interstate. Good thing you came along when you did.”

  “Yes.” Suddenly Reynolds didn’t trust the big detective any farther than he could throw him. The doctor recrossed his legs and looked pointedly at his watch. The detectives didn’t take the hint. Fifteen minutes later, they were still talking, still taking their infernal notes, but they were through with him.

  Brighton seemed satisfied when he led Marlea through a final recitation. “If you’ll go over it one more time,” he said, “I think that’ll do it.”

  “Okay,” Marlea closed her eyes. “I was wearing a white Nike shirt, I remember that. The run wasn’t hard, kind of long for me, though. I do the 400, so 6.2 miles was more than usual. It was crowded. A man tripped me; I remember that, too. Then I woke up here.” She opened her eyes. “That’s all.”

  Palmer finally closed her notebook, and Parker hoped that neither detective heard his sigh of relief when they each gave Marlea a card and urged her to call if she remembered anything else.

  The door had barely closed behind the detectives when Marlea’s frustration surfaced. “So strange,” she whispered. “I can’t remember anything between the park and here.”

  “It’s not unusual,” Parker said, relieved by Marlea’s lack of recall. “Short-term memory loss is often a by-product of the kind of trauma you’ve experienced.”

  * * *

  “You know she’s going to remember more as time goes by.”

  “Yes, that’s the way it usually happens.”

  “I’m guessing that her remembering will make someone very nervous.”

  “Yeah, but Gene, there’s no way to know how long it will to take her, is there? Then too, there’s no way to know how much she actually saw.”