by Ellie Hart
“Moi?” I aim for flippant and encounter a brick wall of silence. Sighing, I slump down on the bottom step, hands clasped loosely between my telltale knees. “Fine. I just missed getting hit by a truck.”
Marta’s screech is loud enough to be heard in downtown San Francisco.
When I’ve finally talked her down from the emotional ledge she’s standing on and have assured her I am all right, apart from bruised knees and equally battered ego, I make my way up to the shower. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it—“lobster style,” Marta likes to call it—and rotate my neck under the water. I’m beginning to ache all over now, feeling the tension from my neck down to my toes.
“Still think it was an accident?”
I start as Marta thrusts her face into the shower, breaking into my reverie.
“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” I say, striving for playful as I hold out one hand. “Wanna join me?”
“No, I don’t want to join you.” She draws back slightly, and I can see water droplets on her skin. “What I want is for you to join me, Gij. I want you to talk to me, be honest with me.” She places one hand on her belly almost unconsciously, and something akin to anger blooms in my chest. How dare she play the holy mother, the perfect mother, with me? I’m as invested in this as she is.
It must have made its way from my chest to my eyes, because she stares at me in horror and stumbles away from the shower, leaving the room and me as well.
This is territory neither of us has ever visited before.
This is not going to happen in my life.
I slam the water off and grab a towel, not bothering to drape it fully around my body before I charge out of the bathroom and head for our room.
“Marta, wait.” I catch her just as she’s heading down the stairs. Her dark head is bent so far over, I’m afraid she’ll miss a step and tumble to the bottom. “Marta, stop. Please.”
Thankfully she does, pausing below me on one riser, one hand on the banister and the other held over her mouth. I stop on the stair just above her and place a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Please,” I say more softly. “Please don’t leave like this. This just isn’t us, love.”
She takes her hand away from her mouth, but her head remains bowed. This breaks my heart more than anything else. Marta is not given to folding in on herself, either literally or figuratively.
“Gij, I can’t do this anymore.”
For one moment, my heart feels as though it has imploded. If I lose Marta, I lose myself.
She turns her head and looks directly at me, and I can see her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. My imploding heart breaks.
“Come here,” I say in a voice as unsteady as my breathing. I hold out one hand to her as I sink down on the staircase. Below us the grandfather clock strikes the hour, reminding me both of us have places to be. I could not care less.
She takes my hand and allows herself to be helped back up. I put one arm around her and pull her close, fighting down an urge to hold on as tightly as I can. I want to give her room to breathe. I want to give her room to leave. I want to hold on forever.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock’s pendulum. Finally, Marta gives a shudder, reminding me of a child whose sobbing has quieted in its mother’s arms. I feel my own eyes welling with tears, and I swallow hard, tightening my jaw in an effort to hold them back. My chipmunk face. The one that tells others I’m keeping everything at bay.
“Marta,” I say as I take in a careful breath, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. Whatever is going on, we can get through it. Together.”
“You’re scaring me, Gij,” she whispers so softly I have to lean over to hear her words. “I don’t like what’s happening to you.”
Her words take me aback, and I have to process them before I can even begin to unravel any meaning. What is happening to me? I am still a hardworking woman, a veterinarian who loves her job, someone lucky enough to have a partner who gets me and who loves me. What has changed?
Marta, as though reading my thoughts, clarifies them for me.
“In my opinion,” she begins hesitantly, “the more dangerous this entire situation gets, the more flippant you are. It’s like, I don’t know, a midlife crisis of sorts.” I start to protest but she hushes me with a finger placed gently on my lips. “See it from my perspective, Gij. We’re going to be parents in just a few short months, and I want you to be around to do some of the parenting, all right?”
I want to defend myself against her words, but I can’t. I don’t know if I agree with her assessment that this is a midlife crisis. Am I old enough for one of those? But I can see her point. I have become reckless, brushing off danger without letting it settle on my shoulders. Is this how soldiers feel after they’ve survived battle and bombardment? Is it possible I’m experiencing some form of post-traumatic stress? Being shot at is no walk in the park, believe me, but I acknowledge it has made other situations seem less than they probably are.
“I’m sorry,” I say, having no other words at the moment. “I’m so sorry, love.”
And I begin to cry.
Marta somehow gets both of us to our feet and back upstairs. She guides me toward our bed and I lie down, conscious my body has air-dried and my hair is beginning to curl up around my face. When she draws the comforter up over my shoulders and tucks it in around me, I am suddenly four again, a little girl whose mother is there, running cool fingers through my hair and softly humming a tune under her breath. I drop off to sleep without another thought.
Sometimes, a crossroads presents itself in terms so obvious that disregarding it is ignorant. By the time I hear Marta’s tread on the stairs once more, I have determined to reassess my involvement in the Chrissy Burton case.
“How’re you feeling?” She perches on the side of the bed and smooths the tangled curls away from my face. “You must have been exhausted. You’ve been in bed since I left for work.”
I stretch my arms above my head and reach toward to the end of the bed with my toes, enjoying the movement of limbs that have been still all day.
“I think I’ve been mentally tired, love.” I prop myself up on one elbow and rub a hand over my face as I yawn loudly. “Hope I can sleep again tonight.”
“Sounds like you won’t have any problem in that department. Why don’t you grab a rinse off while I throw some dinner together, all right?”
I pretend to consider this suggestion, putting one hand to my chin in my best Rodin pose. When Marta reaches out to ruffle my hair, I trap her hand against my cheek and turn my head to kiss her palm.
“Thanks, love,” I say.
I put a lot of meaning behind those two words: I love you. Thanks for putting up with me. I’m sorry.
Marta knows what I mean even when I don’t say it. With a quick kiss on my forehead, she stands up from the side of the bed and her shirt catches in the waistband of her pants, exposing part of her belly. For one crazy moment, I think I see movement there and my breath catches. She looks at me and grins.
“Did you see that?” Placing both hands on her middle, she laughs down at me and shakes her head. “This kid is either going to play soccer or be a ballerina.”
Dinner is easy, and I don’t just mean the menu. I can feel a softness between us that hasn’t been there in a while. I am determined to keep it going for as long as I can, even if it means getting serious about safety at the clinic. I mean, I’m already safety conscious, and so is Lou. But if backing out of the whole Chrissy Burton mystery will keep my family safe, then so be it.
I’ll leave the crime solving to the good guys and gals in blue.
Chapter Fourteen
I like to think I follow advice with an open mind and a willing heart, even when the advice comes from me. That might place it in the category of Jiminy Cricket, of course, as in letting my conscience be my guide. Marta probably has a more realistic view of my abilities in this are
a, though, so she merely rolls her eyes when I announce my intentions after dinner to give up my fledgling crime-fighting career.
“Until the next big thing comes along,” she says as she moves a cushion behind her back and grimaces.
“What’s wrong?” I kneel down beside the couch, concerned something has gone wrong with the baby.
“Nothing. Just growing pains. They’re only beginning, I’m afraid.”
This whole pregnancy thing is more complicated than I had imagined it would be. And just think, there’s another two trimesters to go. Yippee.
I move over to an armchair and let my body conform to its cushioned lines. “I think I’m having sympathy pains,” I say, putting one hand on a hip and giving my back a twist. “Back to what you were saying.”
“Or you were in bed too long.” Marta’s smile takes the sting out of her words.
I have to agree. Even my teenaged self would have had a tough time sleeping all night and then all day. I give my back a final rub and then nod across the room at Marta. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
She stares at me for a moment and then transfers her glance to the ceiling, crossing both arms behind her head. Her posture reminds me of someone on a psychiatrist’s couch, ready to spill their innermost thoughts. I hope I’m ready for this.
“Gij, from the time I met you, I’ve always known you to be a ready-fire-aim type of person. That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she says over my feeble protests. “I figured as long as I could head whatever was bothering you off at the pass, so to speak, I could help you.”
Half-buried memories begin to surface: Marta playing the peacemaker between me and my sister before Leif was born. Marta offering to handle situations and people I found irritating. I give a tiny shrug in agreement.
“What I need from you now, Gij, is for you to focus on us.” Marta gently strokes her belly as she smiles over at me. “I’m thankful you’re such a knight in shining armor, I really am, but not when your life is at stake.” She gives a short laugh. “And I know that sounded dreadfully melodramatic, but I mean it.”
I swallow hard against the treacherous knot in my throat. Marta’s words have touched me.
“I really meant what I said,” I say, sitting forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands clasped. “I do have one thing I need to take care of first, though, and I swear that’ll be it. All right?”
I fully expect Marta to throw up her hands in response. Instead, she continues to look across at me with her dark eyes, eyes whose depths are so murky I can’t read her thoughts. I can imagine them, though, and they aren’t pretty.
“Fine,” she says as she twists over on her side. She punches the pillow down with such ferocity that I wince. “You do that, whatever it is. But I swear on a stack of Val McDermid books, Gij, this better be it.” Those last words are snapped off as cleanly as flint. I almost salute at their sound.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” I solemnly intone, my expression as sincere as I can manage just before I burst into laughter. “Really? A stack of Val McDermid books?” I shake my head in amusement as I get to my feet. “Only you, Marta. Only you.”
“Whatever it takes.” She holds out one hand, and I walk over to take it in mine, bending down to kiss each slender finger one by one. “And I don’t know about you, but I can hear my side of the bed practically yelling at me to get my hiney in gear and get up there.”
I pause and cup one hand behind my ear, pretending to listen intently.
“That’s funny. All I can hear is that pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream in the freezer calling my name.”
“Whatever.” Marta swings her feet over the edge of the couch and stands in one fluid motion, quite an accomplishment for someone whose lap is rapidly disappearing. “Go get your ice cream. I’ll meet you upstairs. And bring two spoons.”
This time I do salute. Marta gives me a silent one-fingered wave that makes me smile. She still has that sass I’ve always liked, and I can only imagine what our child will be like. Hopefully she or he will like ice cream as much as I do and be as spunky as Marta.
I fall asleep around midnight, long after Marta has begun her snore-and-whistle combo. My last thought is that I need to get hold of Don Butler.
Lou is in a mood the next morning, responding only in grunts and scowls to my conversational overtures. Finally, I’ve had enough and stomp out of the office toward the reception area, nearly falling over the clinic’s adopted cat mama and her gaggle of kittens. I catch myself on the edge of the counter but hit my injured knee against the sharp edge of an end table that seems in cahoots with the kittens.
“Damn it!” I grab at my knee with both hands, holding it as a new trickle of blood begins to ooze through the thin material of my work scrubs.
“Are you okay, Dr. Cutler?”
I look up and see Maxi peering over the top of the counter, suddenly recognizing her eyes from somewhere besides the clinic. And it clicks.
“You’re Jinx’s sister, aren’t you?”
“And Rex’s as well,” she says, giving a wry smile. “So, yeah, I recognized Tramp, before you ask. I’m so glad he’ll be okay.”
“Hold up.” I shake my head as I attempt to make all the pieces fit. “So, if Rex is your brother, and you recognized Tramp, are you saying you know he left the letter? Rex, I mean, not the dog.”
She has the grace to look embarrassed. “He might have mentioned someone gave him the note to pass on to you.”
“Did he say who it was?” I’m beginning to suspect I already know the answer.
“No,” she says emphatically. “He told me it would be better if I didn’t know who it was.”
Fabulous. There goes one possible link to the Chrissy Burton issue. Her next words, however, stop me cold and leave me feeling much the same way.
“I tried to get hold of him to tell him Tramp was all right, but he’s not answering his phone. And he’s not at his apartment either.” Tears fill her eyes and threaten to spill over. “And Jinx hasn’t heard from him either.”
She also could have mentioned her connection to Jinx that day he visited the clinic, but I decide to let that dog stay asleep. First things first. I need to find Rex, if only to give him a piece of my mind for playing these idiotic games.
“When was the last time you tried to get in touch?” My knee is still smarting and is probably still bleeding, but I ignore it. I’ll have to change before I see any patients today, obviously, but for now I’m focused on this new crisis.
“Just before I came to work.” She swallows hard against the tears, staying in control. I admire that, especially since I’ve been described as leaning toward the non-emotional end of the spectrum. Some of us prefer to react in private. Not everyone turns into a public puddle when drama hits the fan.
“Right.” I hobble over to the counter, favoring my sore leg. “Is there anyone you can call in to cover your shift today?”
The change of topic takes her aback for a second and then she nods.
“Sure. I can call Akemi. She volunteers at the animal shelter sometimes, and she also does some temp work.”
“Okay, take care of that. I’m going to let Dr. Grafton know you and I are going to be gone for a while this morning.” Without another word, I turn and limp back down the hallway, narrowly missing an errant kitten that seems intent on tripping me up.
I meet Lou as she comes out of the supply room, juggling an armful of disposable glove and tissue boxes. It’s allergy season in our part of the state, and it seems as though we go through more tissue lately than we do anything else.
“Hey, I need to take off for a while. Maxi’s going with me and she’s calling someone named Akemi to cover the desk and phones.” I reach out to steady the pyramid of boxes in Lou’s arms. Lou looks pointedly at my leg.
“Been wrestling gators lately?”
I give a short laugh. “Nope. Just being my typically clumsy self.” I look at her closely, trying to judge her mood. “
I thought Marta might have mentioned it yesterday when she called me in.”
“If she did, I didn’t hear about it.”
Ah. Maybe Marta didn’t call in for me after all. No wonder Lou’s snapping sparks at me this morning.
“Long story short,” I begin, leaning over to pull up my uniform’s pant leg, “I went for a run and almost got run over myself.”
Lou squints and leans in closer, losing the top two boxes of tissues from her already tottering stack. Without thinking, I bend down to retrieve them. When our heads hit, it’s as if fireworks have gone off behind my eyes.
“If we’re not careful, we’ll both be limping out of here.” Lou frees one hand to rub her forehead, sending the rest of the tissue boxes tumbling to the floor.
This time neither one of us makes a move. It’s broken the ice between us, though, and we exchange conspiratorial grins.
“Maxi!”
We call her in concert, a wide-eyed Maxi peering around the corner of the front desk and cautiously joining us.
“Would you help me get these things put in the exam rooms?” Lou nods at the tissue, gingerly squatting down to begin picking them up. Her knees give a twenty-one-gun salute, popping with enough noise to rival even my bad joints.
“Sure, Dr. G.” With the grace of the young, Maxi bends over and begins gathering the boxes, stacking them neatly in the crook of one arm. “And I just got off the phone with Akemi. She’ll be here in the next twenty minutes, she says.”
“Awesome.” I watch as Lou heads to the nearest exam room. “Let’s be ready to go as soon as she gets here, all right? It might be a good idea to make her a list of everything she’ll need to know.”
And it will give me a chance to dash off an email to Don Butler. Without another word, Maxi heads off to deliver the tissues. I walk to my office, already composing the email in my mind.
Of course, it might be easier and more expedient to send him a text. Slumping back in my desk chair, legs stretched out to avoid bending my sore knee, I thumb through my recent phone calls.