by D. J. Palmer
Becky was eyeing the picture they had chosen for her—a nice enough headshot taken from her Help for Meghan Facebook page, but somehow what could have been a flattering image looked to her like a mug shot.
“It doesn’t matter who sent it,” Becky said. “Nobody can find us here. And I have more than enough cash to get us to California. We’re fine.”
Meghan nodded but did not seem convinced. Poor darling had so much to worry about on top of being sick.
Meghan shut off the TV at the commercial break. “I lived it; I don’t need to see it,” she said, slouching low on the futon.
Becky turned the TV back on. “We need to keep updated on the police progress. The news will leak any information they have.”
“What now, Mom?”
“We have to be patient,” Becky said. “We’ll get caught only if we’re impulsive. If we take our time, think things through before we act, there’s no chance we’ll be found.”
Meghan’s eyes brimmed with worry. “But what if they do find us?” she asked. “They’ll take me away from you. They won’t let you be my mom.” Meghan broke into tears as Becky pulled her into an embrace.
“Never,” she whispered in her daughter’s ear. “They will never take you from me. Do you hear? Never.”
Meghan sniffled away her lingering sadness while Becky inventoried the small one-bedroom apartment. She and Meghan could share the queen bed, or Becky could sleep on the futon. There were sheets for both. She’d prepaid two weeks, counting on being here for at least that long, knowing she could extend the stay if necessary.
“We need to rest,” Becky said. “Get our strength back. I don’t want you off your treatment for too long.”
“For mito?” Meghan asked.
“Yes, of course, what else?”
Becky sensed her daughter had something more to say, maybe on the subject of mito, but she was holding back. She decided not to press the matter. Her daughter had been through enough for one day.
They ordered a large cheese pizza and three large salads, with bread and dressing on the side. There was no food in the fridge. No cheese. No milk. Nothing. Becky decided she’d risk a trip to Trader Joe’s in disguise. Crappy, nonnutritious food could exacerbate Meghan’s mito symptoms. She’d pay cash. Nobody would think anything of it.
As they cleaned up after dinner, the news recycled the same report, with the exception of an interview with Detectives Capshaw and Spence, who reminded the public not to approach Becky, as she could be armed and dangerous.
“‘Armed and dangerous’?” Meghan scoffed. “Do they even know you? Have you ever even fired a gun?”
“Never,” Becky said. “What’s dangerous was not treating you for your disease.”
“Exactly,” Meghan said, though she did not sound nearly so adamant.
“Don’t worry,” Becky said, gazing out the window at the quiet street below. “You’ve gone a long time without treatment. You’ll be okay for a bit longer. Dr. Fisher told us mito is a slow-moving disease.”
“It’s not always slow,” Meghan said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It came on fast when you visited me at the hospital,” Meghan said. “Or did you forget?”
“Of course I didn’t forget.”
“Why do you think that is, Mom? Why would I feel sicker every time I see you?”
“I don’t know,” Becky said, trying not to let her hurt show. Did Meghan now doubt her? That could cause all sorts of unforeseen problems, far worse than the possibility of cameras.
“Never mind that,” Becky said. “The good news is that we’re safe and you feel okay now. We’re together—that’s all that matters. We’ll watch movies and bad TV. We’ll make the best of it. But we are going to have to pool our wits to figure out how to make those IDs. I don’t think we can hitchhike across the country without raising suspicion.”
“What about Dad?” she asked.
Becky’s eyes frosted over. “What about him?” she asked.
“How will he find us?”
Becky hoped her silence was answer enough.
“He’s my dad,” Meghan said, her lower lip quivering.
“He doesn’t want to get you better.”
“And you do?”
Becky wished that had come out as a statement of fact, not a question. “Yes, of course,” she said.
Meghan went quiet. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but had to ponder repercussions first. Becky could almost see the crushing weight of whatever burden she was carrying.
“Talk to me, Meghan. What’s going on? Are you scared? I understand if you are. But, trust me, I’ve gotten us this far. We’ll make it the rest of the way. Do you trust me?”
Meghan gave it some thought. Becky hated that her daughter could not answer immediately.
“I do … but … but—”
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
“Talk to me,” Becky said, forcing Meghan to look her in the eyes. “I’m your mother. I will always love you. I will always protect you.”
Meghan seemed to be working up her nerve. Becky thought a newfound resolve had blossomed on her daughter’s face.
“I trust you because you’re the only one I have left,” Meghan said. “So, please, Mom, please don’t be messing with my head. Okay? I won’t be able to take it if you are.”
“Those news reports are lies,” Becky said. “Don’t believe them. I will never lie to you. I will always be honest. That’s a promise. Okay?”
Instead of a hug, Becky held out her hand to shake, like they were making a deal.
Meghan hesitated. “In that case, we should both be honest,” Meghan said.
“Okay, then let’s. You can tell me anything. Whatever’s troubling you, it’s all right. I promise. You can tell me.”
Meghan inhaled deeply. She looked at her mother with terror in her eyes, visibly distraught.
“There’s something you should know about Dad,” Meghan said. “He hit me. Hard.”
CHAPTER 43
ZACH
Zach rode the elevator up to the executive floor, feeling certain he was getting fired. What other reason could there be for summoning him to a meeting with Knox Singer? They blamed him for Becky Gerard. They blamed him for all the negative press White had been receiving. They could blame him all they wanted, but Zach had never told Becky to break her daughter out of a locked floor.
Those who wished to point fingers, however, were right about one thing—Zach was the one who had put the idea of mito in Becky’s mind, and from there the spark had turned into an all-consuming conflagration, which showed no sign of dying down. Zach may have felt responsible—hell, guilty even—for what had happened, but nothing had changed his mind about the diagnosis. Meghan had mito, same as Will had had mito. Without treatment, her symptoms would worsen, and eventually she’d be gone, just as Will was gone.
That’s how Becky had come to see it. That’s what had driven her to act. It’s also what crushed Zach all over again. If he had been like Becky—more determined, more convinced that something was direly wrong with his son—if he had listened to Stacy, acted sooner and with urgency, the outcome might have been different for them. He might have slowed down the disease, bought himself another day, or month, or maybe even years with his boy.
Zach understood that the truth was more complicated and nuanced than that. Doctors had learned a tremendous amount about mito since Will’s death, but there’d been no breakthroughs, no proof that early and aggressive intervention would have given his son a longer life. Even so, Zach took any chance he got to cast blame on himself, like a pious man convinced self-flagellation was the only way to repent.
Zach entered the crowded executive conference room expecting an ambush, not the police. But there they were, Detectives Capshaw and Spence with the Boston PD, the same pair who had interviewed him about Dr. Levine. They stood by a tall bank of windows overlooking a panoramic view of the Boston skyline,
dressed in suits with shiny badges hanging from lanyards draped around their necks.
Also present were Knox Singer and Amanda Nash. Singer, dressed sharply as always, not a hair out of place, looked ready to pounce. Nash looked utterly drained. Her coloring was off, and her glasses magnified the dark circles around her eyes. Standing near Nash was Carl, looking angry as ever.
Rounding out the guest list were Annabel Hope and Jill Mendoza, both of whom Zach recognized from his day in court. He wondered if the police had examined his phone records, which he believed required a warrant and would be hard to get so fast. If somehow they did get those records, they’d find a call to his cell phone from Becky, who had his private number. She had called not long before the breakout, but only to vent about Kelly London’s betrayal, nothing more.
Carl turned his attention to Zach, balling his hands into fists at his sides. Zach half expected everyone to circle around them, chanting: Fight! Fight! Fight! Thankfully, Carl’s jab was verbal.
“Hope you’re happy with yourself,” he said.
“Carl,” Zach answered simply. “Blaming me isn’t going to help get Meghan back.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “But I’m going to sue the shit out of you, Fisher. I’m going to ruin you.”
Zach responded with a wan smile. Color rushed to Carl’s cheeks as he whispered something into Nash’s ear. Maybe he was asking her to be an expert witness in his forthcoming malpractice suit. What did Zach care? Lawsuits were the furthest thing from his mind.
“Let’s all sit down,” Singer said.
There was muted talk as people found their respective chairs. The two cops sat near the whiteboard at the front of the room. Knox took a middle seat at the table, flanked by Nash on one side and Carl on the other. The team from DCF sat a few chairs away from Zach, as if the physical separation would underscore whose side they were on.
After introductions were made, Singer said, “Listen, Zach, we’ve been meeting all day, trying to sort this out. We need to get this girl back.”
“Understood. Not sure how I can help. I’m just a doctor.”
“We need to get a bit creative here,” Detective Spence said.
“What about the Amber Alert?” asked Zach. “Doesn’t that usually work?”
“Usually, yes,” said Capshaw, the more sturdily built of the two detectives. “But we’ve canceled the alert.”
“We found a hair in the food cart that services the floor Meghan Gerard escaped from,” said Spence. “Everything was well orchestrated—the mother created a distraction while Meghan hid in that cart. What that tells us is that Meghan was an active participant in her escape, not a kidnapping victim, which means we no longer consider her to be in immediate danger.”
“She’s sick and needs treatment for her disease,” Zach said. “I’d say she is in danger.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Carl spat out. “Can we please not go there?”
“Zach, not here,” Singer joined in.
“Actually, that’s why we’ve asked to meet with you,” Capshaw said. “From our interviews, we understand that this disease, mito, whatever that is, is at the heart of the matter, and that Becky believes her daughter needs treatment for this condition. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It’s not a fast-moving disease. Is that right?” Spence asked.
“In a normal presentation, no, it’s not,” Zach said. “But Meghan has experienced several unusual flare-ups: an intense, rapid-onset of various symptoms that are atypical for mitochondrial disease.”
“You should know that those flare-ups Dr. Fisher speaks of had no correlating physical cause,” Nash said. “In fact, we strongly suspect Meghan is afflicted with a somatic symptom disorder.”
“What’s that?” Spence asked.
“It’s when a person feels extreme anxiety about physical symptoms, such as pain or fatigue. The patient isn’t faking the symptoms per se. To them, the pain and other problems are real, but often, as is the case with Meghan, no physical cause can be determined. And I, for one, believe that the mother has contributed significantly to Meghan’s developing this medical condition.”
Zach was not sure what he believed anymore. He harbored doubts about Carl, Becky, even himself, but no way would he admit that to this group.
“The mother believes Meghan has this disease,” Capshaw said. “And that’s what matters.”
“How so?” Zach asked.
“Our goal is to get Meghan safely back to the hospital, where she belongs,” Spence said.
“Again, what can I do to help, Detectives?”
Spence and Capshaw glanced at each other. Nash eyed Zach with trepidation. Carl looked away. Knox Singer wore a steely expression. Zach’s mouth went dry. Something told him he was not going to like what he was about to hear. And when they described exactly how he could help, Zach did not like it, not one bit.
“I can’t do that,” Zach said after giving the matter careful consideration. “I’m a doctor, not the police. What you’re asking of me is way out of my comfort zone.”
“We need your help because she trusts you,” Spence said matter-of-factly.
Zach eyed Singer with some contempt. “Yeah, well, we’ve given her plenty of good reasons not to trust anybody here.”
“Are you saying you agree with what she did?” Capshaw asked his question with arching eyebrows. “Breaking Meghan out of White and all?”
“I’m saying that she thinks her daughter needs treatment for a disease, and I don’t disagree.”
“She’s not innocent, Zach, don’t fool yourself,” Spence said.
“Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that the American way?” said Zach.
The detectives exchanged knowing glances before Spence said, “We recovered a diamond earring in Dr. Levine’s apartment that had Becky Gerard’s DNA on it.”
Zach took a moment to let the news sink in.
“Oh,” he said, feeling a little light-headed. “Well, then, I guess that changes everything.”
CHAPTER 44
MEGHAN
I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I think I knew that once I did, it would be over. My little fantasy of us becoming a family again would be done with for good. I may have been angry and disgusted with my dad, but he was still my father. In my heart of hearts, I didn’t want him gone from my life forever. I wanted to believe things could be different. But if I opened my mouth, they couldn’t be. So I told her only part of the story.
Dad hit me. Hard.
It was an open-handed smack on my right cheek, forceful enough that it left a mark on my face. Mom was horrified, of course, when I told her. “Why would he do that?” she shouted. “Why would he hit you?” I gave some bullshit answer about calling him an asshole for not believing me.
“You called your father an asshole?” Mom said, almost smiling, sounding proud of me.
I nodded.
“I know your father. He wouldn’t hit you, no matter how angry you made him.”
That’s when I got nervous. She was right, of course. Dad wouldn’t hit me for calling him that name. I needed to up the ante, and I needed to think of something fast.
“I said he wanted me dead. That’s why he wasn’t supporting you or believing me. He wanted me to die from mito or whatever it is I have. I said that he never wanted kids and that he was probably glad when Sammy died.”
That lie came out faster than I was thinking. I made it sound like I was irrational at the time, and that I’d given him good reason to hit me, which Mom seemed to think I did.
“I’m sorry,” I said, tears blurring my vision, because I couldn’t face the truth. It wasn’t a total lie. My father had hit me, and it was a hard smack on my face with his open palm. But it wasn’t because I said anything about Sammy.
“Sweetheart, that’s an awful thing you said to him,” Mom told me as she pulled me into her arms. S
he shushed and soothed and did what only my mother could do—make me feel better. She was my hero, my champion. I couldn’t believe the allegations against her. How could someone with that kind of power to heal intentionally be making me sick? I couldn’t reconcile it. But then I thought of the secret I was still carrying and wondered if Mom might have secrets of her own.
I pushed the doubt aside—again. Mom and I were in this together, and there was a chance Dad could join us so, for now, I kept what I knew to myself. As far as being here in this Airbnb and not at White, well, that was a million percent better. No, make that a hundred million percent. There were no weird noises. No grunts. No tantrums. No group therapy. No blaring TV. No horrible lunches. This place was cool. Whoever lived here had awesome taste, and I wanted to be like her—arty, hip, and chic. But we were cool, too, kind of like outlaws now. I’d seen Thelma & Louise. We were like that: two best friends having the adventure of our lives, on the run from the crimes we’d committed—minus the super-hot Brad Pitt part. It was a thrill. And I’d never felt so close to my mother before.
There were some big drawbacks to this new lifestyle of ours, including having none of my things from home. I also couldn’t go for a walk outside, because Mom was freaked out about us getting caught. There was a rooftop where I could go for fresh air. I’d sit for an hour or two on a chair, reading books Mom bought for me at the supermarket.
The sun felt incredible on my face but, sadly, it didn’t make me feel any better. That good feeling I had when I first broke out of White had gone away like a short-lived adrenaline rush. The old Meghan had returned. Switches inside me started going off again. The fatigue was back with a vengeance. Going up the stairs to the rooftop was like a mountain-climbing excursion. I slept away most of the three days we’d been on the run.
We were still the hottest news story in town. Where is Meghan Gerard? I bet my friends at school were talking about me nonstop—Shelly Stevenson, Lily Beauport, Cecilia Montgomery, all of them. Too bad I couldn’t send them anything. In fact, I couldn’t send them anything ever again. It was like I was entering Witness Protection or something. I bet someday they’ll make a TV show or even a movie about me. That would be unbelievably cool. I could come out of hiding to do the talk show circuit. I’d probably get a book deal. Then I’d be able to get in touch with my friends and tell them everything. We’d hug, and it would be just like old times, only I wouldn’t be sick anymore. I’d be cured. And Mom and Dad would be together, and all would be forgiven. And I wouldn’t be burdened anymore.