Over the Edge (23 page)

A phone lay on the coffee table. I frowned at it. The den receiver sat in its stand on the side table. So this second one was from . . . ? Maybe upstairs?

Yes. Lauren had brought it down last night.

I stuck the phone in my robe pocket and made my way to the bathroom. After that I stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. I had to shower. Had to make myself at least half presentable for my doctor's appointment. But I may as well have been looking at Mount Olympus.

In my head I heard Stalking Man's voice.

"Don't you ever say that again. Ever!"

What about that cell phone I found last night? Was it still on the kitchen table?

I needed to call Jud. Tell him I'd heard from Stalking Man again. Although—what good would that do? Another call that lead nowhere. Another phone yielding no prints.

I placed my right foot on the first stair. Held on to the banister as tightly as my painful fingers could—and pulled myself up. I stood there panting, feeling dizzy. If I fell my legs would not get me up. Breathing a prayer, I attacked the next step. And the next. Good thing I'd woken up as early as I did. It must have taken me fifteen minutes to reach the top. By then sweat ran down my face, and groans rode on my every breath.

But I'd done it.

I clumped my way into the master bathroom, grateful as never before that we had a separate walk-in shower. Stepping over the edge of a tub would have been a nightmare.

No, Jannie, not we have a separate shower. You. Brock doesn't live here anymore.

At the bed I stopped to pull the receiver from my pocket and place it in its stand. Then I noticed the red light on the burglar alarm pad. It took a minute to remember the code to turn the alarm off. The light switched to green.

By the time I came out of the shower, got dressed, and dried my hair, I felt as if I'd run a marathon—through chest-deep mud. It was 7:00. I had to get downstairs, eat something. Call a cab.

Once again, going down the stairs was harder than coming up. How much a normal body works, without a person giving it a thought. The tensile elasticity of ankles and feet to keep you stable, to turn corners. The strength of your legs to lower you down a step. As I struggled to reach the lower floor, at least my mind had something immediate to consume it. When I finally hit the hall, all my fears flooded back. Stalking Man. Lauren. Forty-eight hours.

No. I'd been given forty-eight hours at midnight. Last night. That was seven hours ago. Now I had . . . how many left?

Panic seized me. Lauren would be at school within the hour. Had Jud called the principal yet? Would they watch her with extra care? For all I knew Stalking Man would renege on his two-day warning and go after her now.

I reached the kitchen and pulled sliced ham and cheese from the refrigerator. Poured myself a glass of milk—which I typically never drank. Protein. On the table sat the cell phone. I'd placed it back in the box. Also on the table were my sunglasses. And Brock's gun. I frowned at the weapon. When had I put it there? The long shade was still lowered, covering the sliding glass door. Just as well. Less light to stab my eyes.

But through the fabric the backyard looked so bright.

I shuffled to the sliding door and edged back the shade. The floodlights were on. Must have been on all night. I turned and flicked them off.

My feet burned and prickled as if I'd stuck them in fire. I collapsed into a kitchen chair to eat. Five minutes later I was done and needed to get up again. I had to . . . do something.

What?

My eyes half closed as I focused on the table. I felt the gears in my brain go around and around, finding no connection. The Internet on dial-up—stuck. The world seemed to fall away, leaving me suspended . . .

Something clicked inside my head. I brought up my chin.
Telephone.
I had to call for a cab. And talk to Jud Maxwell.

His business card was . . . where?

I pushed to my feet, grimacing at the pain on my soles. In a half daze I found the phone book, only to forget why I'd pulled it out. When I finally remembered, I couldn't think what letter
cab
started with. Or should I look under that other word. Which was . . .

Something.
T?

Taxi.

By the time I managed to call a cab it was 7:45. I told the company to send the driver up to my door. That I might need help getting out to the car.

My mind went blank again. Was there something else I'd meant to do?

Put the gun away.

I picked it off the table and stuck it in a cabinet on top of the plates.

That done, I shuffled to the front bathroom to brush my teeth. As soon as I finished, the telephone sounded. Five rings shrilled the air before I reached the receiver near the den sofa. It was Maria.

"Jannie, how are you?"

"Okay."

"Any better?"

"No. I'm g-going to the doctor now."

"You still taking a cab?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, Jannie, I should be taking you."

"You can't."

"I know, but still."

The doorbell rang. I swayed on my feet. "Taxi's here. Have to go."

"Okay. I want to hear what happens."

Yeah. Me too.

I replaced the phone, anxiety spritzing through me. Where was my purse? I hadn't seen it in days.

It seemed like an hour passed before I reached the door. I opened it—and sunlight skewered my eyes. I gasped and stumbled back.

"Whoa!" A rotund cabbie jumped over the threshold and caught me. "You okay, ma'am?" He smelled of cigarettes, his face lined and brown.

My head nodded. "I . . ." My hand circled in the air. "I need . . ."

"You need to be staying home, is what you need." He held me firmly by the elbow. The pain from his fingers pooled air in my throat.

"No. I'm going to . . . doctor."

"I'm taking you to the doctor?"

"Yes."

Empathy creased his features. "You got no family to take you?"

I only looked at him. Any moment I was going to fall over. Why had I thought I could do this? A shaky breath heaved from my lungs.

His face softened more. "Hey, it's okay. We'll get you there. Maybe you should go to the emergency room instead."

"No. Doctor."

He shrugged. "Okay, if you say so." The cabbie looked me over. "You got everything you need?"

I shook my head. "P . . . P . . ."

"Purse?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

I stared at him. My face must have looked like a blank slate. He shook his head—
oh, boy
—then glanced around. "Can you give me a clue?"

My body swayed. "I have to sit down."

He sighed. This was hardly the way for him to make money.

"I'll p—pay you. For your time."

"No worries. Come on." He led me into the den, where I fell into the armchair. "Now, where's your purse?"

When had I last seen it? Did I have it in the hospital? Did Brock bring it out of his car? Maybe he'd put it in my Lexus. That's where I usually kept it.

I pointed back toward the kitchen. "Garage. Car."

"You think it's in your car? Okay." He hurried out of the room. I heard the door to the garage open and close behind me. My eyes drooped shut. How crazy this was. A complete stranger—a man—in my home. Searching for my purse. And me, helpless. This is what I had been brought to. This is what Stalking Man—and Brock—had done to me.

The cabbie returned, carrying my purse. "Found it." He smiled for the first time. "Ready now?"

"On the kitchen table. Sunglasses."

"Okay." He strode out again and returned seconds later, sunglasses in hand. He held them out to me, and I gratefully put them on.

"Ready to rock and roll?" He held his hand out to help me up.

I waved it away. "Need to do it myself. Hurts when you touch me."

He scratched his forehead and stood back to watch my struggles. "What is this you got, anyway?"

"Lyme."

"
This
is Lyme?" He gave a low whistle. "Man."

Chapter 33

BY THE TIME WE GOT TO THE TAXI I WAS SHAKING. I told the cab driver the address of Dr. Johannis's office, amazed that I remembered it. My fingers fumbled inside my purse, seeking my wallet. What if I had no cash? When I saw I had over $100 in bills, I nearly cried. I paid him a large tip. "Can you come back? Take me home?"

"When?"

"Don't know. I'll call."

He handed me a card for his company. "Ask for Tony B. If I'm available, I'll come."

"Thank you. Very much."

"You need help getting in the building?"

I regarded the short distance. He'd pulled up in the parking lot right near a side door. "I'll be okay." Gathering what energy remained in my body, I hoisted myself from the car.

Fortunately Dr. Johannis's office was on the first floor and near that side door. I checked in with her receptionist, who told me the doctor was running about fifteen minutes late. Wonderful. She handed me a clipboard with papers to fill out. I collapsed into a waiting room chair and leaned my head against the wall. I had no energy to fill out the papers but knew I must. First items on the papers: name, address, nearest of kin.
Oh, no.
I stared at the last one, castigating myself. I should have thought of this. No way could I put Brock's name on that line.

I left it blank.

Next—symptoms. An unending list of them, with boxes for me to check. Sore throat and fevers. No. Sore/burning soles. Yes! How did they know that? Joint pain—fingers, toes, ankles, wrists, knees, elbows, hips, shoulders. Yes, yes, yes to all. Joint swelling. I held out a hand, peered at my knuckles. They
were
bigger. Stiffness, muscle pain, muscle weakness. Confusion, difficulty thinking. Yes! Forgetting words, poor attention span. Had they spied on me to write this list? Disorientation, anxiety, tremors, light sensitivity. Odd muscle twitching. Yes—that strange wriggling beneath my skin. I'd been feeling that again this morning. Vertigo, lightheadedness, air hunger.

Air hunger.
Those awful spells I'd had! What a perfect way to describe them.

Chest wall pain, extreme fatigue, sleeping with no refreshment. Yes, yes, yes.

The symptoms continued. Some I didn't have. But to have checked so many. Just the sight of all the marked boxes left me woozy. When did these symptoms start? the form asked. I stared at the brown carpet, trying to count back the days. My mind wouldn't work. Every time I began counting backwards the days would fall out of my head. Finally I gave up. I'd need to look at a calendar.

Were you bitten by a tick? Yes. When? I left it blank.

When I finished I lay the clipboard in my lap, too tired to rise and give it to the receptionist.

Time blurred. I think I fell asleep. The next thing I knew a nurse was touching my shoulder. "Mrs. McNeil? The doctor's ready to see you now. Here, I'll take that." She held out her hand for the clipboard. "You need help getting up?"

"No. Thanks."

In slow procession she led me down a hallway and into an examining room. I eyed the paper-sheeted gurney and knew I wouldn't be able to balance upon it. "Sit here." The nurse motioned to a chair with arms.

I sat like a rag doll as she went through the typical nurse routine of blood pressure and temperature readings. "Okay, sit tight and the doctor will be right with you." The nurse left, closing the door behind her.

Sit tight.
What else could I do? Now that the moment had come to see a bona fide Lyme-literate doctor, part of me wanted to flee the building. What if
she
said I didn't have Lyme? Any diagnosis would be better than not knowing. But I'd gone through so many tests for everything else. What was left?

A knock sounded on the door, jilting my nerves. It opened, and in walked a woman in her fifties, trim, with bobbed brown hair and large eyes. She couldn't have stood over five feet five, but an air of assurance and strength entered the room with her. No white coat. Just slacks and a blouse. She carried the clipboard with my telltale papers. "Hello." She gave me a sunny smile. "I'm Dr. Johannis."

I managed a weak smile in return. "Hi."

She surveyed me. "Boy, my nurse is right. You look really sick. I'm glad we were able to get you in so quickly."

A lump welled in my throat. Just to have a doctor admit I
looked
unhealthy. "Yeah."

"I understand you think you have Lyme." She sat in a chair opposite mine and plucked a pen from a pocket in her blouse. "I've looked through your symptom list here. You've certainly checked a lot of them."

I nodded.

"When did they start?"

"I don't . . . I need a calendar."

"Here you go." She pointed to a large one on the wall. I hadn't even noticed it. "You're not the first patient who's needed it. You need to look back a few months?"

"No, just . . ." My gaze faltered around on the calendar until I found today's date—Tuesday. That day I'd started to feel much worse—when I'd fallen in the kitchen—had to be weeks ago. It seemed like another lifetime. But I'd only been home a couple days from the hospital. And only been there a few days. I counted backwards, and my mouth fell open. It couldn't be. That had been just last Thursday.
Five days ago.

Just six days ago I'd thought I had the flu? I'd had my hope to get better soon, a husband, a daughter. I couldn't grasp that. Surely I'd been through a time warp.

"Thursday I got worse. Last Thursday. I'd been s-sick for about three weeks before that. I just thought it was the . . . flu. Until Thursday."

"Okay." She jotted a note. "Your form says you were bitten by a tick. How long ago was that?"

"I don't know."

"You have any idea? One month? Two, three?"

I held her eyes, feeling the thump of my heart. Maybe I shouldn't have come. How could I go through this exam without telling her everything? I didn't know when I'd been bitten. Stalking Man said the ticks carried Lyme and three coinfections. Shouldn't I tell her that? But how could I?

My head shook.

Dr. Johannis made another note. "All right. Tell me what happened last Thursday."

In halting words I told her. My weakness and fatigue that day. Falling in the kitchen. My stay at the hospital. The slew of tests—all negative. Including the one for Lyme.