The Grey Door

by Danna Wilberg

  “Answer, please.”

  “Yes. What are you getting at?”

  “You’re experiencing signs of stress. I’ll bet if we took a live blood culture, your cells would resemble a traffic jam. Your body can’t function the way it’s supposed to. Menstrual cycle and digestion are easily affected. Oxygen isn’t getting to your receptors.

  “How did you—?”

  “Your palms are dry.”

  “Sure you’re not psychic?”

  “Try me. Take the test,” he challenged. “Care to wager first?”

  “No. I don’t want to be pregnant. Not like this.” Their eyes met and held until the phone interrupted the magic flowing between them. Grace checked the caller ID.

  “Hey, Sal, what’s up?”

  “I’m checking up on you. If you need John, I can send him back. You can’t keep him, of course, but I would feel much better if you weren’t there by yourself.”

  “Actually, I’m not. Paul stopped by.”

  “Uh, oh. Does Jess know?”

  “He just left.”

  “Be careful, Grace, he was acting more than strange. He’s in love with you. Anyone who gets in his way will be the enemy.” Grace was beginning to think she was right.

  “Okay, thanks again.” When Grace hung up the phone, she got a feeling of foreboding. Not again. “That was my friend, Sal. Her husband, he checked the house for me. She wants to send him back.”

  Paul handed her the bag. “Go. Do your thing. I’ll wait.”

  “You better leave.”

  “Sure?” he asked, tilting her chin.

  “No.” Her eyes pleaded with his. He understood.

  “That call sounded like a friend giving you a heads up. More is going on here. Your home has been broken into. Your dog’s been hurt. Do you think I’m a dunderhead? I’ve seen the way Jess looks at you…at me! He was sizing me the first time we met. He’s dangerous, Grace. Can’t you see that?”

  “Dangerous? He’s been a friend for—” she paused. Two years, ten years ago. Since he moved to Sacramento, your world hasn’t been the same. She ran her hands through her hair. Her scalp tingled. Stress. “You may be right,” she said. “Help yourself to coffee. I’ll be right back.”

  This time, when she unwrapped the pregnancy test package, she felt less apprehensive. She sat down and tried to relax. Her bladder squeezed out a weak stream. Her hand shook when she removed the stick from between her legs. All along, she suspected missing her periods were due to stress. Then why does one minute feel like forever?

  She picked up the stick and bravely faced her future. The minus sign was a huge relief. Then why are you crying?

  “Grace?” Paul knocked softly. She opened the door.

  “It’s— I’m not,” she said, holding the stick for him to see. He didn’t look happy; he looked relieved for her.

  “I made ginger tea. It will settle your stomach.”

  “I want children. Not like this, but I do,” she said, tears stinging her lids.

  “That’s good to know,” he said tenderly and smiled. She rushed into his arms. He held her tight while she sobbed.

  ***

  Jenna Bartell stared at the ceiling. Her hand crept along the carpet feeling for the object stashed inside the shoe underneath the bed. Jess didn’t know about the shard of mirrored glass she hid after one of his tirades. If he found out, he would use it to slash her throat—or worse.

  The light in the room had faded to grey. Mid-afternoon, she thought, as she worked the sharp edge of the silver tape, careful not to slice her vein. Work faster. If he found her trying to escape, there would be no hope. “I’ll kill you,” he warned again and again. Still, when she wasn’t incoherent from the drugs or passed out from the pain, all she could think about was getting free.

  Suddenly, she heard Jess’s key turn in the door. She carefully placed the shard of glass back into the shoe, shoved the shoe out of sight, and slipped quietly into bed. Why is he home so early? She cringed. She knew by the way he slammed the door and threw his keys against the wall that more torturous acts were in store for her. A tear slipped down her cheek. She trembled. Her bladder let loose.

  “Fuckin’ women!” he seethed, pulling her from the bed by her hair. “Who were you screwing, Jenna? Everett? He always did like your ass; said I was a lucky guy.” Jenna winced when his hand branded a welt on her left flank. “That asshole. He got a hard-on once a year, but had the nerve to tell me he could have a woman like you any time he wanted. Yeah. Fuckin’ superman! His spittle landed on her upper lip. “You thought he was sexy, isn’t that what you told me?”

  Jenna saw stars when his fist slammed the side of her jaw. She held her tongue against her loose tooth and tasted blood inside her mouth. He dropped his pants to the floor and flipped her on her stomach. When he rammed himself deep inside of her, Jenna’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she felt nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 19

  EMILIO CORTEZ

  G race closed her eyes. The glass felt cool against her palm. Sunshine warmed her face. A soft breeze stirred her hair and lifted her thin cotton skirt. This is good, she thought, isn’t it? Nothingness is good. She opened her eyes and sipped her peach margarita. Hadn’t a weight been lifted from her shoulders? Not pregnant.

  Paul sat across from her, his hands clasped between his knees. Grace had barely said a word in the last half hour. She was on her second drink. He had seen this side of her once before. Drowning her sorrows in one frilly concoction or another. He could tell by the way she handled her booze that she was a novice. Her words were beginning to slur. She got sloshed so easily, he thought, taking in consideration her size and weight. She didn’t appear to be enjoying the taste, only minor relief from the pain plaguing her heart.

  “Maybe you should talk to someone, Grace, you know, someone who—”

  “Yeah, well, my doctor’s unavailable,” she sighed. “Besides, he has troubles of his own. His daughter just had a baby.” Her words lingered in the air. She picked up her glass and examined its contents against the light. Paul watched her carefully.

  “Everything okay?”

  “No. Something is wrong with the baby. He hasn’t been at work.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Paul pulled his chair closer to hers. “You want to talk to me?” He lifted the glass from her hand and set it on the table. “I’ve been known to keep scandalous secrets.” He buffed his fingernails on his shoulder, bragging, “Poodles everywhere rave about my discretion.” His hand cupped her ear as he whispered. “It’s true what they say about the French, you know: born lovers.” Grace didn’t laugh. She reclaimed her drink and drained most of its contents.

  “Careful! Brain freeze!” Her expression confirmed his warning.

  “I always considered myself stable,” she said. “Never liked drama or self-pity. Didn’t create problems to distract myself from reality. Never abused alcohol, smoked, or binged on chocolate before my period. I didn’t date abusive men. Didn’t collect dysfunctional friends. I never thought of myself as unhappy. Now, I can’t seem to put my problems aside long enough to see anyone else’s pain. I see my life matching the lives of my clients. I have to control the urge to burst out and say, “Yeah! I know exactly how you feel.” I have become fearful. Suspicious. Self-absorbed. I don’t like this part of me. I take medication to keep from hyperventilating. Inside, I scream. And the sad part is…I know what I’m doing to myself, and I can’t seem to stop.”

  The phone rang. Grace ignored it. Paul struggled for something to say.

  Inside the house, Grace’s answering machine clicked on after the fourth ring. A woman’s voice spoke, “Miss Simms, this is Megan Tatterhorn, from St. Joseph Memorial Hospital in Costa Mesa. California. Please call; it’s urgent.”

  Twenty seconds later, Grace’s cell phone hummed on the bathroom vanity. After a short chord had broken the silence, the red light blinked, indicating a message was in the queue.

  Paul took time to think, then said
, “From the little I know about you, Grace, you strike me as a level- headed individual who lately has had to shoulder some pretty ugly incidents. Being stalked must’ve been terrifying. Who wouldn’t feel helpless watching a woman kill herself? Garret Weston lying comatose for all that time? Sneaky attacked in your home while you’re away. Again: fear, helplessness. Do you think the average person is equipped to deal with that kind of emotional strain?”

  “I hate feeling weak, Paul! I don’t want to become an emotional cripple.”

  “God forbid.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Wearing a life vest in the water doesn’t guarantee you’re going to be able to swim to shore.”

  “Humph, metaphors. Can’t do any better?”

  “How about a hug?”

  Grace stiffened. The suggestion caused her discomfort instead of relief. Why? Not used to comforting arms? Find the logic. Solution. She stared deep into his eyes, threatening to burden him with her heavy load. He stared back, inviting her to let go.

  “Jess was my first love,” she finally confessed. “I met him in college. It’s hard for me to believe that in all the time we shared together, I never knew him at all. Discovering I had based the last eight years on the love I felt for him was a huge wake-up call. I’ve been trying to rationalize. Even though he wasn’t with me physically, the love I held for him in my heart ignited my love for others. Loving him made me a better, more compassionate person. Love! My secret ingredient in the recipe for life. I want to preserve that love. I want to remain grateful for that love. I want love to wipe out the ugliness. Don’t you see? Making Jess into a monster entirely threatens that part of me.”

  “Love isn’t supposed to hurt,” Paul said.

  “Spoken like a true therapist.” Grace swallowed the remnants of her melted drink, placing the empty glass down on the table harder than she intended to. “Sure you’re not in the wrong profession?”

  “No. Animals are less complicated and more receptive to hugs, except maybe porcupines, and if I remember correctly that’s how we perceive them. It may not be true.” He reached for her and gathered her in his arms. This time she didn’t resist. “My advice, Miss Simms? One hug every two hours while symptoms of ‘need’ persist.”

  “Just don’t squeeze me too tight. I might pee on your shoe.” He pushed her away and held her arm’s length.

  “I wouldn’t be a good vet if I didn’t heed a warning.”

  She laughed. “Be right back.”

  Grace had ignored her phone lying on the counter. She sat down, letting nature take its course. When she reached for toilet paper, she noticed the blinking light.

  “What next?” She took her time washing her hands, fluffing her hair, and fixing her skirt. She picked up the phone, her brow creasing with anticipation. Not Jess. Thank God. She recognized the area code and pressed a key connecting to voicemail.

  “This is Megan Tatterhorn calling from St. Joseph’s Memorial.” The caller left a number and added, “We would like to speak with you about donating your bone marrow. You came up as a match for one of our pediatric patients.”

  A chill ran up and down her spine. She highlighted the incoming number and pressed “call,” connecting to her fate.

  ***

  Grace went into the kitchen, jotted down the information provided by Megan Tatterhorn. She thanked the woman and hung up, so she could dial her office.

  “Sal, I have an emergency.”

  “Another one?”

  “Yes, another one. I need to go down south.”

  “Your dad?

  “No. I’m on a— Never mind. The less said the better.”

  “Secret stuff?”

  “Yeah, can I count on you?”

  “You’re not eloping with that Frenchman, are you?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “You could do worse.”

  “This has nothing to do with Paul. And please, don’t tell Jess a thing!”

  “As if I would.”

  “I mean it, Sal. No hints, not a word. If he gives you trouble, call 911. Promise me?”

  “Now you’re scaring me. I hate it when you do that!”

  “Nothing to fear. Duty calls. Nothing more.”

  “Promise me you’ll check in?”

  “Of course. Reschedule Tiny Burton for me. Tell him I’m sorry. If he needs to talk, he can page me.”

  “What about your dog?”

  “I’m on my way to the hospital with Paul. I’ll have to make arrangements.”

  “Sounds like your mission is quite urgent.”

  “Has Dr. Meltz’s office called? I’m concerned.”

  “Nope. No one’s called. Do you want me to let you know if they do?”

  “If Dr. Meltz calls, forward the call to my cell.”

  “Gotcha. Anything else?”

  “Yes, one last thing. You are by far the best friend a person could ask for. I love you dearly.”

  “Oh pish. Are you going off to donate an organ or something? When will you be back?”

  “A week.”

  “A week? Now you have me worried again.”

  “Secret stuff. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”

  ***

  “You can say no.” Paul shut the car door and started the ignition.

  “I can’t. The nurse said I’m a rare match.”

  “I’m sure there are others.”

  “I need to do this, Paul. I need to get out of my self-pity mode and help someone who is fighting for their life. Can you understand that? This isn’t about me.”

  “You’re an angel.” He patted her shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t worry about Sneaky. I can keep her with me when she gets released, if that’s okay.”

  “Now who’s the angel?”

  Paul and Grace entered the animal hospital. Grace felt overjoyed with the progress Sneaky had made in the past twelve hours. Although Sneaky’s mouth was swollen, the dog managed a weak grin when she spotted Grace. Her tail swished in excitement, and a hoarse bark escaped from her throat, surprising them all.

  “I sent a copy of my report to the Twenty-second Precinct,” the doctor said. “The sergeant seemed anxious to help. You must have clout.”

  “I know, uh,…knew—,” she corrected herself. “I knew the previous sergeant. He passed away recently.”

  “Garret Weston, right? I read about him in the paper,” the doctor replied. “Did they convict the guy who shot him?”

  “He’s still on trial.”

  “Some drug dealer seeking revenge for arresting his gang, right?”

  “Last I read, the police haven’t been able to link any of the weapons they found to the gun that killed Garret.”

  “All the guy needs is a slick lawyer, and he’s out.” The doctor pulled a penlight from his pocket and checked Sneaky’s pupils.

  Grace’s skin began to crawl. Like the slick lawyer who worked for Everett Stein, the defense attorney on the case? The irony of Jess possibly helping that cretin go free made her sick.

  ***

  Dr. Meltz came to stand beside his daughter and her husband, Spencer, outside the Intensive Care Unit at St. Joseph’s Memorial Hospital. Tears rolled down Willa’s cheeks.

  “She’s running out of time, Daddy.”

  He squeezed his daughter’s hand. “We have a match. A donor’s on the way.”

  “Thank God,” Willa cried, crumbling into her father’s arms.

  “Pray the transplant takes hold in time.”

  “Hold on to your faith. We’ll know soon enough.”

  Willa slipped from her father’s embrace and pressed her palms against the safety glass separating her from her newborn. “Help is on the way, my sweet baby.” She closed her eyes and prayed aloud. “Please, dear God, don’t take her from me.”

  Dr. Marcus Meltz prayed silently for baby Lulu to hang on. He prayed for Willa and Spencer to stay strong. Then he prayed for God to forgive him for the secret he’d kept from his daughter for thirty-one years.r />
  ***

  Jess Bartell strolled into the courtroom and took a seat in the back row. Emilio Cortez sat on the witness stand. He gave his name, address and explained his relationship to the plaintiff, Charro Vasquez. The prosecutor pressed Cortez with more questioning. “Tell the court how you came to know Mr. Vasquez,” he said.

  “We hung out,” Cortez answered.

  “And by hanging out, do you mean you got together for social gatherings?”

  “Yes.”

  “And on the evening of June sixth, were you hanging out with Mr. Vasquez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mr. Vasquez in your sight at all times that evening?

  “Yeah.

  “He was there…with you…when the police arrived?

  “I saw him right before we got busted.”

  “When the police officers made their arrests, Mr. Vasquez was in your group?”

  “No.”

  “How long would you say it had been from the last time you recall seeing Mr, Vasquez to the time of your arrest?”

  “I dunno. A few minutes.

  “Am I clear in saying, you saw that man,” the prosecutor said, pointing to Charro Vasquez, “minutes before you were arrested on June sixth?”

  “Yes.”

  “No more questions, your honor.”

  Everett Stein approached the witness stand and began.

  “Mr. Cortez, you claim you saw my client, Charro Vasquez, a few minutes before you were arrested, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long do you estimate that you have been seated here in this courtroom?”

  “I dunno, a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes?” Everett Stein confirmed the witness’s statement, as he strolled to the juror box.

  “Yes,” Emilio Cortez replied.

  “We all know time flies when we’re having fun.” Everett Stein checked his watch. “Well look at that!” He held up his wrist to show the jury. “This witness has actually been in this courtroom for over a half-hour! Thirty-six minutes to be exact. Everett Stein threw up his hands. The defense rests your honor.”