by D. J. Palmer
“The media are vultures, don’t let them bother you,” Carl said upon rejoining his wife. He reached for Becky’s hand, perhaps thinking of leading her to the bedroom to supplant a bit of pain with pleasure. Becky pulled away from his touch as though it were a hot coal. He looked wounded. Good. She eyed him with disdain.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I know you’re worried about Meghan, but she’s where she needs to be. You and I, we somehow need to get to that better place, too. And we can. If you get the help you need, I believe we can.”
Becky stood in the center of the kitchen, hands on her hips, a fierce look in her eyes. “She told me,” Becky said flatly.
Carl groaned, looking away. “I told you that never happened. I’d never hit her.”
“No, she told me about the phone, the texts, she told me everything—the truth.”
“Becky, none of that—”
“Stop.” Becky held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Just stop. Don’t debase yourself any more than you already have. Who is she, Carl? Angi, right?”
When he made eye contact, Becky thought her husband looked more upset at getting caught than at what he’d done. “It’s not what you think.”
“Please,” Becky said in an exasperated tone. Bitterness rose up in her throat.
“Okay, it is what you think, but it’s over. It happened, and it’s done.”
She had long suspected Carl might have been unfaithful, but her need for stability in one part of her life had made it easy to accept his feeble assurances.
“Meghan thinks you’re in love. Are you?”
“No,” Carl said, but in a way that could not have sounded convincing even to him.
“Who is she?”
“She’s nobody,” Carl said. He took a single step toward Becky while she took one in reverse.
“Who?”
Carl dragged a hand through his thick hair, nervous and agitated. “A girl in the office,” he said.
“A girl or a woman?” Becky asked. Meghan was probably right—Angi spelled with an i was a trendy, young person’s name.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know that you demean everyone, including yourself.”
“I swear to you, Becky, it meant nothing. It was nothing.”
“And that’s supposed to make it better? That you’d throw away twenty years of marriage for something that meant nothing?”
“It was just … just something that happened, that got out of control. You have to believe me. But it’s over now. I know I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Done what? Fuck your coworker or hit your daughter?”
Carl looked away. “Neither,” he said.
“Get out,” Becky told him.
She was surprised to see that Carl looked surprised. What did he think she’d do? Go back to her hotel so as not to inconvenience him?
“You heard me,” Becky said. “You disgust me. Get out. Get out now!”
“Becky, please, you’re being—”
Becky picked up her cell phone. “Get out, or I’ll call the police.” Becky showed him the phone like she was leveling a gun to his chest. “I’ll call the police and tell them that you hit me.”
Carl scoffed. “Oh, because making up stories comes easy to you, doesn’t it?”
“And hitting comes easy to you,” she said. “Go. We can make arrangements to get your things later. You’ll be hearing from my attorney—Andrea Leers, by the way, whom I am not going to fire.”
Carl pursed his lips and hesitated before striding up to Becky. He came to within striking distance, but Becky held her ground, fighting the urge to flinch. It felt good to show no fear, no emotion whatsoever.
“I may have screwed a coworker, but you screwed up our daughter something good,” he said with menace. “Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true. And I will do everything in my power to make sure you can never harm her again.”
“Get out!” Becky screamed. Her shrill voice sounded foreign to her ears. “Get out now!”
Carl stormed away.
Becky stayed in the kitchen. Her fingers gripped the counter as she listened for the sounds of his departure, so familiar that they normally went unnoticed: the garage door rising, the crunch of wheels backing up, engine noise growing fainter as the fast patter of her heart quickened.
Becky got a spoon and carried the thermos from the granite counter over to the kitchen table. She unscrewed the lid, unleashing the aromatic scent of chicken soup. She figured something warm might help ease the cold dread whirling through her.
She took a few tentative sips of soup, then, closing her eyes, tried to forget what Carl had said. But she could not forget. She was going to jail. She was going to lose custody of Meghan. All of that seemed inevitable now. But a seemingly unanswerable question troubled her the most: Was her daughter sick, or was she the one making Meghan sick? Had she created an illness out of nothing? Had Meghan bought into her delusion?
Those were the questions dancing around in Becky’s head when the doorbell rang. She hurried to the front door, expecting to confront a determined reporter. She opened the door with anger in her eyes, which did not go away when she saw who it was standing on her front step.
Dr. Zach Fisher.
CHAPTER 51
ZACH
Zach had heard from a nurse at White that Becky Gerard had come to the hospital, gone up to the BHU to visit Meghan, and then left with Carl. He knew Carl had paid her bail—that was all over the news—so it was a gamble going to her Concord home. It was also a gamble to try to make amends. But Zach felt as though he had nothing more to lose.
The moment Becky opened the door, he sensed he’d made a grave mistake. Anger leaped off her like an electrical discharge. She tried to slam the door shut, but Zach got his foot in the way.
“Please, Becky … please just hear me out.”
“Why should I?” Her blue eyes smoldered.
“Because I’m the only one who’s ever believed you.”
Becky kept her hand on the door. Zach was unsure if she’d open it or try to kick his foot away. To his surprise and relief, she opened the door. Zach went inside, trying not to let his jaw hit the floor. His studio apartment was the equivalent of an upstairs closet in this house.
“Nice place,” Zach said, noting how his voice carried in the cavernous home.
“It’s got a lot more room than I need,” Becky answered coolly.
Zach followed Becky into the kitchen, where again he tried not to gawk. Pediatrics was a calling, but never a path to riches.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asked.
“Water would be fine.”
Becky retrieved two glasses from a cherrywood kitchen cabinet, filled them with water from the sink faucet. She handed one glass to Zach, and the other she set on the kitchen table, next to an open thermos.
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat,” she said. “It’s been a long day, and I haven’t had a bite.”
“No, of course not,” Zach said. He waited while she took a spoonful of soup, and another after that, until it seemed half the thermos had to be gone.
“I’m sorry, Becky,” Zach eventually said.
“Nothing we can do about it now,” she replied.
“They promised me they weren’t going to bring Meghan back to that floor. We were going to resume the mito cocktail. I was going to push for the Elamvia clinical trial.”
“The only thing I know is that you lied to me,” Becky said, shaking the spoon at him.
“I misled you,” Zach countered, “because I knew there was no other way you were going to bring her back. I had to do it. For her safety, and for yours.”
“Well, I should be very safe in prison, thank you very much,” Becky said curtly.
“Not if I prove she has mito,” Zach said.
Becky shot him a hopeful look. “Can you redo the biopsy?” Quick as her excitement had come, Zach watched it fade. “You quit,” she said, remembering. �
��Carl told me that you had resigned.”
“Knox and Nash reneged on our deal. I had no choice.”
“So you can’t help,” Becky said.
“I’m not going to abandon this case, or you,” said Zach. He thought about reaching across the table to take hold of her hand in a comforting way, but worried about how the gesture might be construed. “I may not be at White anymore, but I’m still a doctor; I can still advocate for you in court. I want to keep trying to help.”
Becky inhaled deeply. “Thank you,” she managed in a whispered voice. “You’re the only one who seems to believe me. Guess you should know that Carl and I are getting divorced.”
Zach was sorry to hear the news, but he was not the least bit surprised. “Was it your Escape from Alcatraz routine that dealt the final blow?”
Even though Becky managed a strained smile, Zach immediately regretted his attempt to bring levity to the situation.
“No. I had pretty much made up my mind to leave him when he blocked the second biopsy. Then I wanted to kill him when he bribed or screwed Kelly London. But I’d say the last straw was when Meghan told me that he hit her after she found out he was having an affair.”
Zach grimaced in sympathy. “Becky, I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine how enraged you must be. What now?”
“Now I get my lawyer involved and—”
Becky stopped mid-sentence. Zach thought she was getting emotional, but she looked strange. She was blinking rapidly, taking in short, sharp breaths.
“Becky, are you all right?”
All she could manage was a wheezing gasp. Becky clutched at her stomach, teeth clenched from what appeared to be a sudden, sharp pain in her belly. She made a groaning sound, slumped forward, righted herself, groaned again, and kept blinking.
Zach got up, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter as he stood. “Becky, are you okay? Are you choking?”
He was about to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but Becky had the wherewithal to shake her head. Air seeped into her lungs like she was taking it in through a straw crimped at one end. She groaned and gurgled something wet and viscous up her throat. Panic and the fear of death overcame her as she tried to take deeper breaths. She made an effort to stand but was wobbly on her feet, dizzy as though drunk. Zach studied the too-rapid rise and fall of her chest. She braced her hands against the table, her body racked with another spasm.
Zach’s mind clicked through health conditions that could cause breathing problems, recalling all possibilities as fast as any Google search. Asthma. Heart failure. Respiratory infection. Pericardial effusion—fluid around the heart. Pleural effusion—fluid around the lung. None of those quite fit what he was seeing. Becky seemed suddenly and inexplicably ill.
Suddenly ill …
A thought tugged at the back of Zach’s mind as Becky’s color began to change, from moonlight pale to a touch of blue. Traces of spittle frothed at the edges of her mouth. Each breath sounded like she was choking on air.
Zach got Becky back in the chair before she toppled over. Placing his index and middle fingers on her neck, just to the side of her windpipe, he felt the rapid pulse over the carotid artery.
His eyes went to the thermos on the table, and to the spoon, spotted with remnants of the chicken soup.
Suddenly ill …
Zach had no monitors to check blood pressure or oxygen saturation. He could not administer medications through IVs. There were no labs to inform him of blood gases, potassium levels, or levels of creatinine, bicarb, sodium, or any of a multitude of readings he’d want to know. There was only Becky’s continued wheezing, her evident disorientation.
Zach made his calculation based on Becky’s alarming coloring, her continued respiratory distress, and the viciousness of the spasms that shook her body. Zach decided to call 911 on the way to the hospital, knowing every second counted, and praying he could get there in time.
CHAPTER 52
BECKY
Somehow she was in a car, and they were moving.
How did that happen?
She didn’t remember leaving the house. She did not remember much of anything. She could think only of how sick she felt. Her vision had gone out of focus, as though someone had taken steel wool to her eyes and scratched everything blurry. Her stomach cramped severely, worse than labor pain, squeezing her insides like a balloon compressing to the point of rupture. Her body prickled with the needle-like sensations of every muscle going to sleep all at once. All she wanted was air, sweet, precious air. She could feel her throat tightening, choking her.
She felt the car swerve sharply, heard the violent scrape of tires fighting for traction.
Oh … God, give me air, please, please …
“Becky, can you hear me?”
She may have felt a hand on her shoulder or her face. Her body burned and froze simultaneously, making it hard to feel anything. The voice, though, that was familiar—Zach, he was with her. He was driving.
“I just drove past the Village Pharmacy on Sudbury Road. I’m going to stop there. Have the ambulance meet us there; I’ve got to try something to help her breathe.” Did she see him put his phone away? Who was he talking to? “Becky, can you hear me? Stay with me, okay? You’re going to be all right.”
That was a lie. Becky knew it in her heart, her head, her soul. She was going to be anything but all right. She understood right then and there that she was going to die. It was about to happen. Minutes, maybe not much longer. Her lungs felt useless. The world was growing dark. But she wanted to see clearly, even for just a moment. She wanted one last look at the world before everything went black.
“We’re almost there. You hang on, now.”
Almost where? Becky wondered. With Sammy, perhaps. At least she’d get to hold her baby again. And maybe Cora would be there as well. Maybe she could finally make peace with that. Peace. Becky could feel and hear her heartbeat slowing. She stopped struggling for air. There was no point. But Meghan … what would happen to her? Who would care for her?
She’s not sick. She’s not. You’re sick. Carl’s voice came to her from deep in her subconscious. You’re sick and need help. You’ve done this to her because of your mom—history repeats, it repeats. It was Sabrina’s voice she now heard. Stay true to yourself, to your beliefs. Veronica. Her friend. Her helper.
She’s not helping; she’s not your friend. It was Carl’s voice she heard again, his doubt.
“Who’s not your friend?” That was Zach’s voice. But somehow Becky knew it was not in her head. She must have been speaking aloud.
“Zach … Zach … help … help me … can’t … can’t breathe right…”
“We’re here. We’re here,” Zach said, and she felt the car come to a hard stop.
A moment later, her door opened. She felt herself being dragged from the vehicle. Her legs were useless. Her body was shutting down.
Can’t breathe … no air …
Becky was a rag doll in Zach’s arms. The light changed, so she knew they’d gone from outside to indoors.
“Ipecac syrup!” she heard Zach shout. “Do you keep a bottle behind the counter? I’m a doctor. This is an emergency.”
“Yes, I think so,” someone said nervously.
Becky felt her feet leave the ground. For a second she thought she’d passed and was floating to the special place where Sammy would be, maybe Cora. But it was Zach lifting her, holding her in his arms. Soon she was on the ground again. She felt a pinch on her nose as a firm hand forced her head to tilt back.
“Get me a bucket and water, too. You’re going to hate this,” Zach said.
A foul-tasting liquid poured into Becky’s throat. For a moment, it felt as if she were drowning, but moments later the contents of her stomach gurgled before shooting back up her esophagus like an erupting volcano. Vomit poured from her mouth in a thick stream. She gagged, lurched forward, and vomited again and again. Her body quaked with each violent expulsion. A putrid smell filled her nose. But her lungs,
those were filling with air now. She heard disgusted groans from nearby people, heard sirens blaring in the distance. Hot bile shot up her throat again. But none of that mattered, because she could finally breathe.
Zach held Becky’s head, keeping the hair from her face as she vomited. “You’re going to be okay, do you hear me, Becky? You’re going to be all right.”
The sirens grew louder. She heard him, and this time she believed him, even as more poison shot out of her body.
* * *
CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED to her along with a flood of bright lights. She heard hushed conversation mixed with strange noises. Her head felt stuffed with cotton balls. Her vision was blurred but clearing. A moment or two of hazy disorientation passed as she came more fully awake. A hospital … I’m in a hospital. Her eyesight continued to improve until shadows morphed into recognizable shapes. Bed. IV. Door. Window. Monitors. Tray. One blurred shadow transformed into a face that she recognized: Zach Fisher stood at the end of her hospital bed.
“Welcome back from the abyss,” he said.
“Where—?”
“White Memorial,” Zach said. “ICU. I had the ambulance bring you here. I figured you’d want to be close to your daughter.”
“What—?”
“Some kind of poisoning,” Zach said. She was glad he kept preempting her questions. Swallowing was near impossible and her dry, raw throat made talking feel like an endurance sport. It was then she became aware of a tube stuck up her nasal passage, which felt as though it ran all the way down her throat to her stomach.
“It’s called ‘nasogastric intubation,’” Zach explained as Becky tugged ever so gently on the tube inserted up her nose. “Your doctors used it to administer activated charcoal to absorb any residual poison in your gut. They’re also treating you symptomatically with Valium to control your muscle twitching.”
Zach came around to the side of the bed, where he checked the pulse oximeter attached to Becky’s index finger. She was quite familiar with the medical apparatus due to Meghan’s countless hospitalizations.