Borrowed Time

by Edie Claire

  A moving company. Hope flickered.

  "Thank you for calling, Mr. Myers," she finished.

  "Sure thing."

  She replaced the phone on the counter, her eyes fixing on the phone directory. She could hire a mover, have them bring everything left in the house up here. She still had time.

  "Sarah?" Adam asked. "Is everything all right?"

  Her chin jerked up. She had forgotten him. He was standing on the opposite side of the counter looking at her with the same perceptive brown eyes that had rattled her on their first meeting. He had heard everything she’d just said.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. Get rid of him. Now.

  "Everything’s fine," she said briskly, walking around to face him. "Refresh my memory. Why did you come over?"

  His dark eyes studied her face, and despite the mask of concern he was wearing, a grin played on his lips. "Righteous indignation."

  Her eyebrows arched. He had lost her. "What?"

  He took a breath. "Rose called me this morning and told me that you’d passed out again. She also told me that she wasn’t sure, but that she thought you had driven yourself to work. She was under the impression that you weren’t taking what had happened seriously enough. When I saw you pulling into your garage just now, I got angry, which is why I pounded on your door. I apologize again for that."

  She shook her head in disbelief. "You got angry because I was driving? You barely know me. Why would you care?"

  He stared back at her. "It’s my job to care."

  "And what job is that? Neighborhood busybody?"

  "No. I’m a minister."

  Her eyes widened. He might as well have told her he was a woman. Or a lion tamer. Or an alien.

  "Oh, please," she retorted without thinking. "You are not."

  His gaze remained unflinching. "I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. What would you guess I do for a living?"

  Her eyes surveyed his muscular form, his dark skin, the unruly black curls. "I don’t know," she floundered. "Something with the Mafia?"

  He didn’t smile.

  A pang of remorse hit her gut like a bomb. Her personal religious bias was one thing, but that had practically been an ethnic slur. What was she thinking?

  Before she could speak again, however, he surprised her with a chuckle. "I’ve got to say, I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but organized crime is a new one."

  "I’m sorry," she said sincerely. "I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just—" she hadn’t a clue how to explain herself. Her exposure to ministers, of any kind, was limited. She had never been a churchgoer. Her father had reacted to his parents’ lunacy by renouncing organized religion as a whole, and her mother, who had been born into a long line of non-practicing Catholics, had never bothered to argue with him. Reading fiction had left her with an image of ministers as fragile, middle-aged nerds, even though the few she had met in the flesh were actually plump, Bible-thumping types with loud voices and judgmental stares. Neither portrayal was consistent with lifting weights, much less stripping half naked to mow a lawn.

  "You don’t look like a minister," she defended meekly.

  He looked down, making a pretense of surveying his khaki slacks and cotton shirt. "Well, what would you suggest? I’m a Methodist, and Protestants don’t do the collar thing. I’m not even wild about ties. I’d wear jeans to work if I could, but the ladies in the office frown on that, and the last thing I need is to tick them off, believe me."

  She digested his words slowly. The man really was a minister. No wonder he hadn’t been around on Sunday. No wonder he knew people at the hospital. No wonder they had believed him when he said he hadn’t assaulted her.

  She breathed out with relief. She had been suspicious of the man’s over-the-top interest because she assumed he was after her body. But he was getting paid to be nice.

  "I’m…really sorry," she stammered. "I must look like the world’s biggest bigot. I just—" Words failed her again. "I had no idea."

  He offered a shrug. "No big deal. You forget about the door-pounding thing, and I’ll forgive the dig at my Sicilian grandmother. Deal?"

  She paled.

  He laughed out loud. "Just kidding. Grandma Carmassi was born in the Bronx. But she does have a penchant for Godfather movies."

  She narrowed her eyes at him, though with a grin. His good humor was infectious, and she suspected that, under different circumstances, his wit could be highly entertaining. But right now, she wanted to be left alone. "All right," she said evenly, crossing her arms over her chest. "So you’re a minister and I’m a librarian. Now that we have our professions straightened out, I can help you discharge your duties. You raced over here to tell me I shouldn’t be driving because it isn’t safe for the public. Check. I agree with you. It was stupid, and I won’t do it again until I’m sure I’m okay. Now, is there anything else?"

  He looked back at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. At some level he seemed amused by her, but at the same time, there was a grimness in his eyes. "Did you see a doctor today?" he asked quietly.

  Her pulse sped up. She avoided his gaze. "No, I couldn’t get an appointment. But I’m going to call again tomorrow."

  "Passing out twice in forty-eight hours could be serious, Sarah."

  His voice was deadly calm. Intense. She didn’t like it. "I said I would get an appointment. What more do you want?"

  "I want you to take this seriously."

  "I am taking this seriously!"

  He stared at her for a moment, and she stared back. All at once she had the strong impression he wasn’t thinking about her at all. He was thinking about something—someone—else.

  He turned his head. The moment ended.

  When he looked back at her, his expression was cheerful. "I’d be more than happy to drive you to work tomorrow, or to the doctor’s office—whatever you need. My hours are flexible; it’s no trouble. I make a passable chauffeur; just ask Rose."

  Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Now that she no longer feared his intentions, she had to confess she was tempted. But she hadn’t moved to Pittsburgh to make friends. She had moved to Pittsburgh to get away from them. "I can’t ask you to do that."

  "You didn’t. I offered. I’m also offering to introduce you to a friend of mine—a member of my church—who’s an internist. She’s a very sharp woman; if you’re not already set on Rose’s doctor, I know you’d like her. Plus, if you’re worried about taking too much time off work, I know she wouldn’t mind trying to fit you in around lunchtime tomorrow. What do you say?"

  She had nothing to say. She needed a ride. She needed an appointment ASAP, and one at lunchtime would be perfect. Furthermore, she had a strong preference for female physicians. But none of that really mattered. She couldn’t keep taking favors from Adam, even if he was a minister. She didn’t like being dependent on people.

  She opened her mouth to decline, but he interrupted. "As long as you don’t need to leave here any earlier than eight-thirty…" he began.

  She was on the excuse in a flash. "Oh well, I have to be at the library by eight. And it takes at least fifteen minutes to get there."

  He donned a wide grin. "No problem. I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty, just to be on the safe side."

  He made a beeline for her door.

  It took her a moment to realize she had been duped.

  "Reverend Carmassi," she called out, following him. "Are ministers supposed to lie?"

  He let himself out, then tossed a response over his shoulder. "No. But I was pretty sure you’d interrupt me before I finished."

  She watched as he jogged across her lawn, seemingly anxious to get out of earshot while ahead. She smiled briefly, then clenched her jaws in thought. Perhaps she could accept a few friendly favors in a crisis, provided she kept her guard up. Tomorrow, hopefully, she would get a diagnosis and could resume driving. Everything would return to normal, and she could go on with her new life in Pittsbur
gh, isolated and self-sufficient, just like she had planned.

  For however long it might last.

  Chapter 7

  "So, any chance you’re looking for a church?"

  Sarah glanced at her watch. Four minutes. She had been in Adam’s car all of four minutes before he’d delivered his pitch—just as expected. And he’d looked itchy after two. It was amazing he had restrained himself until this morning.

  She cleared her throat. "I think we should get something straight," she began, prepared. "I don’t go to church. I never have. I’m not an atheist or anything, but I’m just not into it. I respect your decision to be a minister, but I don’t want to be lectured about hellfire and damnation any more than you want to hear about the Dewey decimal system. All right?"

  His face showed no expression. It took him a moment to answer, but when he did, his voice was sober. "And what if I am interested in the Dewey decimal system?"

  She tried hard not to smile. She knew that if she was to spend any amount of time in his company, there would have to be ground rules. First off, for her own comfort, was "no evangelistic badgering." She did find religion interesting, in the academic sense, but she had absorbed far too much of her father’s cynicism to make Adam’s recruitment efforts worth either of their time. Second, and most importantly, they would have to maintain an emotional distance. For both their sakes.

  "I think we understand each other," she responded. "Do you happen to have the number of that internist you mentioned? I was going to call her as soon as I got to work."

  "No need," he announced. "Melissa said she’d see you at noon. It’s all set. But you do need to call the ER and ask them to fax your records over." He retrieved his wallet from the dash, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. "I thought I’d pick you up at the library at a quarter till twelve. Hopefully, we can get you back to work by one. Sound okay?"

  Discomfort scrambled her insides. Adam seemed intent on pushing her boundaries. "It sounds fine, thank you. But you don’t need to do me any more favors. I can handle things myself from here on out."

  He nodded, but his smile was sly.

  She sounded like a broken record.

  ***

  Sarah watched as Melissa Gardner, M.D. flipped through the faxed pages stuck inside Sarah’s medical chart. From the questions asked before the exam, Sarah knew that the doctor had already read the report from the ER. The current perusal was at least her second pass.

  Sarah waited nervously, her eyes fixed on the ceramic broach pinned to the doctor’s white lapel. The painted face of a golden retriever stared back at her, tongue lolling. The pin was hopelessly gaudy, yet somehow endearing—as were the black sneakers and white gym socks that poked out from beneath the doctor’s too-short slacks.

  Melissa was not a physically attractive woman. She was short and stocky, with dull brown hair and a complexion that bore witness to an acne-plagued adolescence. Her sober manner and severity of expression suggested intelligence and perfectionism of the first order, despite her choice in fashions. But behind the doctor’s thick-lensed glasses, her bright hazel eyes shone with compassion.

  After what seemed an eternity, she raised her chin. "All right, Sarah," the deep alto voice began calmly, but firmly. "Here’s what I see. You’ve lost consciousness twice in a short period of time, which in itself isn’t unusual for a woman your age. What is unusual is that your history, and the tests that were run, all seem to be pointing away from the more common causes. That leaves us with the more uncommon ones. And I’m afraid they’re not always easy to diagnose."

  Sarah swallowed. "Like what?"

  "I’m concerned about your heart. Specifically, some sort of arrhythmia. The EKG you had was normal, but the problem with an EKG is that it only records over a short period of time. If an arrhythmia is intermittent, it can go undetected."

  "An arrhythmia," Sarah repeated. Her heart sped up as she spoke, then began to thump violently against her breastbone. The irony of the response did not escape her.

  Melissa nodded.

  "That can be serious," Sarah murmured. Dramatic stories of young athletes dropping dead loomed large in her brain.

  The doctor nodded again. "Yes, some arrhythmias can be very serious. But they can be treated. There’s no need to panic—we just need to figure out exactly what’s going on."

  Sarah willed her heart to slow down.

  Willing didn’t work.

  Melissa began scribbling on the chart. "We’ll get you set up with a 24-hour Holter monitor. If your heart shows any disturbances while you’re wearing it, we’ll know. I’d also like you to have an echocardiogram, so we can check your heart for structural problems."

  The words blurred in Sarah’s head. Don’t panic. Can be treated. More tests. More time. Naively, she had been hoping that today would be the end. She had been hoping that the doctor would hold up some colored test strip, say "aha," and send her home with pills. Or better yet, announce that there was no problem—that the last four days had been nothing more than some bizarre, delusional mistake.

  "What about driving?" Sarah asked. "I haven’t had an episode for two days. Isn’t there a chance that the problem was only temporary?"

  Melissa’s sharp voice left no room for argument. "Of course there’s a chance. But not a good enough one to risk your life getting behind the wheel of a car. Not with a history like this."

  Sarah’s stomach felt like she’d been sucker-punched.

  "You should avoid being in any situation where a sudden loss of consciousness would be dangerous," the doctor instructed. "I’m not saying you shouldn’t cook dinner or do stairs, but now isn’t the time to be cleaning out your gutters. And you shouldn’t be operating a lawn mower, much less a car. It’s just too risky, Sarah. If you do have an arrhythmia, you stand a very good chance of at least having some dizzy spells. You could also pass out again with no warning—just like before. Do you understand?"

  Sarah breathed out slowly. "I understand."

  "Lastly, you’ll need an EEG, to rule out a neurological problem. You’ll need to schedule that soon—it can take a week or so to get in."

  A week. A week of dirty cabs. A week of turning down Adam’s well-meaning offers of assistance. Over and over.

  The doctor seemed to be reading Sarah’s mind. "You’re very lucky to have a neighbor like Adam," she said, her tone warming. "He told me you’re new to the area. I know that worrying about your health now is inconvenient, to say the least. But you can count on him to help you out if you need it—he’s a wonderful person."

  "He’s been very helpful," Sarah responded, thinking of how determined he had been to get her an appointment quickly. "Very concerned."

  Melissa looked up. She seemed to have caught Sarah’s unintentional emphasis on the last word. "Well," she responded gently, "I’m sure that’s because of Christine."

  Sarah’s eyebrows rose. "Christine?"

  The doctor offered a sad smile. "His wife. She died of a brain tumor. Most people don’t take symptoms seriously when they’re young—they just assume they’re healthy, and that it must be nothing. Adam doesn’t think that way anymore."

  Sarah’s stomach ached anew. "How old was she?"

  "I don’t know exactly; I never met her. I assume late twenties. It happened over a year ago, before he came to the church I go to."

  "I see." A pall enveloped Sarah. No one should die of a tumor in their twenties. No spouse should have to live through it. She had no idea Adam had suffered so much, so recently.

  A look of discomfort passed over Melissa’s face, as if she wondered whether she had said too much. She averted her eyes. "We’ll get that Holter monitor on you as soon as possible. And I want you to call the office right away if you feel even the slightest bit of dizziness or lightheadedness. If it happens after hours, or if you pass out again, head straight to the ER." She paused. "You live alone?"

  Sarah nodded.

  Melissa considered a moment, then bit her lower lip. "It would be bet
ter if you had someone with you. But if that’s not possible, you should at least arrange for someone to check on you now and then. Make sure a neighbor or friend has a key to your house. And keep a cell phone within reach. Don’t take stupid chances. All right?"

  Sarah nodded again. But her mind was far away.

  ***

  She gazed up at the wall clock in her still unorganized office. It was six o’clock. Adam would be waiting.

  She gathered her things and rose. She hadn’t intended to let him drive her home—not after driving her in, then transporting her to and from the doctor’s office. She had intended to call a cab. But Melissa’s words had left her reeling, and she had gotten out of his car without remembering to argue.

  Yes, some arrhythmias can be very serious.

  She didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t want to overreact. She didn’t want to under-react. A part of her didn’t want to react at all.

  You could die, Sarah. With no warning at all.

  The last words had never left the doctor’s mouth. But they had hung in the air nevertheless.

  I could die.

  It was ridiculous. Silly. She was twenty-six. A mere five days ago, she had felt perfectly fine. She had plenty of problems, but poor health was not one of them.

  She pushed open the door of her office and walked out into the hall. The library had closed an hour ago; the building was practically deserted. What would happen if she passed out right now?

  She paused a second. She regrouped. She walked forward.

  The workday had been completely unproductive, and if she had been her own boss, she would have fired herself. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on library business no matter how hard she tried. Instead she had spent much of the day looking up and calling moving companies. To her distress, none had seemed eager to sign on for the clearing out of an unknown amount of furnishings from an abandoned home where no one would be available to supervise, and when she mentioned the necessary time frame, a few had even hung up on her. It was summer; everyone was moving. Why hadn’t she planned further ahead?