Over the Edge (3 page)

"How's she doing?"

My mother's tone made the question's real meaning all too clear:
I haven't seen my granddaughter in years, so how would I know?

"Fine."

"Isn't she supposed to be out of school for the year soon?"

"Not until the middle of June."

"Then what's she going to do?"

"Be a kid. Hang out, have friends over."

Like I could never do.

"We were good parents to you, Janessa."

My eyes closed.
How
did my mother do that?

I'd managed to move across the country from my parents years ago, before I met Brock. At this moment the connection to my mother amounted to no more than a tenuous link through invisible phone lines. Or so I told myself. I should hang up. Refuse to answer when she called back.

Truth is, the link between mother and daughter is never so tenuous, even when you want it to be. Even when you know the woman's poison for you. There is no more sacred bond, and when it's broken, defiled, it leaves a cleft in your heart never quite filled.

Although Brock had come closest to filling it as any person could.

Someday soon my mother might hear the dullness in my voice over the phone and guess the expanding new truth about me and Brock. "This paradise of yours will never last," she'd sneered the day of my wedding. How self-satisfied she'd be now to hear of the cracks in our Eden.

"I never said you weren't good parents, Mother."

"You didn't have to."

Enough was enough. I forced myself to sit up. I felt so
tired.
"I need to go."

I clicked off the line.

For a long moment I slumped forward, forearms on my legs, still holding the receiver. Its digital read-out told me the time—2:30. I needed to be at Lauren's private school at 3:00. The drive would take fifteen minutes. I would not be late, not even by sixty seconds. In my own childhood I'd spent far too many hours waiting on my mother—who may or may not show up, depending on my father's level of drunkenness. I had grown up dreaming of my own happy marriage someday, of secure children. Lauren would never be treated as I had been.

I replaced the phone in its holder and pushed to my feet. For a moment I swayed.
Man.
What was this? I arched my shoulders and moved my achy neck from side to side. Maybe two more extra-strength pain relievers would help.

I stepped away from the couch and headed for the kitchen, chiding myself for resting too long. Now I'd be pressed to make dinner on time. The roast needed to slow cook in the oven, and I hadn't cut the potatoes, onions, and carrots. Brock expected his dinner at six thirty. Or whenever after that he happened to come through the door.

My legs felt wobbly as I walked to the stainless steel sink. I gazed down at the defrosted roast. Okay. First a large pan . . .

My eyes fixed on the piece of meat. I stared at the red hunk until I looked through it. My thoughts splayed out . . .

Flattened.

Melted away.

I hung there. Hands on the sink.

I blinked.

What was I . . . ?

The pan.

I crossed the kitchen to a lower cabinet, where I'd have to reach far into the back. Started to bend down.

Don't do it.

I stopped. Made a face at myself. What was that voice in my brain?

My hand reached out again. A knowledge deep inside protested that my legs wouldn't hold me.

Air puffed from my mouth. How silly. My legs were a little weak, that's all. Besides, I had no choice. Dinner required this particular pan, and that was that.

I bent over, opened the cabinet and crouched down.

My legs gave out. Down I went—hard—on my rear end. Pain ricocheted through my shoulders and neck.

Stunned, I sat on the floor, palms flat against the hardwood. After a minute I shook my head. Okay, so I'd fallen. While I was on the floor, I'd at least get the pan. I scooted close to the cabinet, leaned in and withdrew it from the top shelf. I lifted the pan and slid it onto the counter. Closed the cabinet door.

Now to get up.

Twisting to one side, I placed both hands close to each other. Pushed against the floor. My legs wouldn't cooperate. I tried again, managing to work my way onto my knees. My leg muscles felt squishy.

Well now really. This was dumb.

I lifted one knee, positioning a foot beneath my body. Pushed off from the floor—and tumbled over. My head bounced against the cabinet.

"Ungh." I lay on my side, mouth open, my annoyance turning to fear. What was happening? I had to get
up.

I tried again. And again. Didn't work. Sweat popped out on my body. I couldn't believe this. My arms felt strong enough, though the joints hurt. But my legs just wouldn't . . .

Once more I tried to rise. And failed.

Chapter 2

I SLUMPED ON MY KITCHEN FLOOR, TELLING MYSELF NOT TO PANIC. Okay, so my legs felt a little weak. I'd manage. In a metaphorical sense, I'd had my legs pulled out from under me time and again as a young girl. I'd never forget one scene when I'd been ten. My mother, huddled in the corner of our dirty living room, cheeks reddened with tears and rage.

"I'm
sick
of him. I can't live like this anymore."

"What're you going to do?" I stood in the doorway, heart rattling. Which was worse, living with a drunk or without him? Mom had no money. At least Dad gave us a house to live in.

My mother raised dull eyes to me. "I want to die."

Breath caught in my throat. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I
do.
" She slapped both hands over her face and sobbed.

My fingers bit into my arms.
And what happens to me, Mom? You gonna just leave me alone here with him?

I swallowed hard. I should go give my mother a hug, cheer her up.

But who was ever there to comfort me?

I hung in the doorway, torn and breathless. Finally I turned and fled.

Now in my own home, I felt the roil of determination. I'd grown from that frightened child into a strong adult. I was no longer a victim. And at this moment the clock was ticking. My daughter needed me. I
would
get up.

First I shot a prayer to heaven for help. Then mouth set, I scooted on my rear end across the room. At the sink, I bent my knees and placed both feet flat on the floor. Reached up and wrapped my tender fingers around the lip of the sink.
One, two, go.
With both arms I pulled myself upright.

For a moment I leaned against the counter, hanging onto the granite. Assessing. My legs felt weak, but they would hold me. As long as I didn't crouch down again.

I turned and checked the stove clock. Ten minutes before three.

"Oh, no."

I headed for the door leading into the garage. I had to walk slowly, steadying myself along the way, trailing a hand along the counter, a kitchen chair, the wall. I stepped through the door, then hesitated, hand still on the knob. There was . . . To drive I needed . . . something.

Keys.

I shook my head. I knew that. Something else. Where did I keep my . . . That thing.

Purse.

My mind opened up, and the thoughts ran clear. I kept my purse in the car. And the keys in the ignition.

I walked to my Lexus SUV and slid inside. Hit the remote button to open the garage door. I started the car engine. Reaching inside my purse, I turned on my cell phone. I'd be late getting to school. Lauren might worry and try to call me from the school office.

As I turned my head to back out the car, my neck ached something fierce. Had I ever taken those pain relievers? And my fingers on the steering wheel—the joints
hurt.
The afternoon was so bright. I stopped to put on sunglasses.

I checked the clock. 2:55. I'd be ten minutes late.

How to make this up to Lauren? Maybe bake cookies. If I could manage to stand up. But I hadn't cut those vegetables yet, and the meat needed to be seasoned and put into the oven . . .

An overwhelming sense surged through me. So much to do. I hadn't the strength. Really, I didn't.

I made an irritated sound in my throat. What was
wrong
with me? "For heaven's sake, Jannie, get a grip."

My cell phone rang.

Lauren.

I pulled over to the side of the road. For once I was glad for the California law against holding a cell and driving. My mind couldn't have processed two things at once. I yanked the phone from my purse and hit
talk.
"Hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry, I'm almost there."

A taunting chuckle. "`Sweetie'?" Some man's voice, low and gruff.

I stilled. "Who
is
this?"

"Feeling a little under the weather these days, Janessa?"

"What?"

"Joints hurting? Maybe your muscles are weak. Has it affected your ability to think? There are over sixty possible symptoms. It hits each person differently."

How did—? "Who is this?"

"You'll need to go to a doctor. Oh, right, you're married to one."

That tone—so hate-filled. I drew in my shoulders. "I'm hanging up right n—"

"
Don't.
You want to be stuck feeling like you are?"

"How do you know I'm feeling sick?"

"Because, Janessa. I
made
you that way."

Every vein in my body chilled. My eyes fixed on the clock. Some distant part of my brain registered it turning to 3:00.

This was just some crazy prank call. I clicked off the line.

In seconds the phone rang again. This time I checked the incoming ID.
Private caller.
Couldn't be Lauren.

A second ring. I threw down the cell as if it were a snake. Stared at it.

How did that man know how I felt?
How?

Of its own accord my hand picked up the phone. My finger hit the
talk
button. I hesitated, then placed the phone to my ear.

"Mrs. McNeil?"

"Who are you?"

"I have no time for your games." The man's tone flattened. "I take it you want to get well."

"What do you mean, you did this to me?"

"I entered your house at night. Your husband was gone to one of his many conferences. I placed three infected ticks on you. Apparently the disease has taken hold. You're now experiencing the symptoms of Lyme."

Lyme.

"Your husband's favorite disease."

"I don't—"

"Let's see how he reacts to his own loved one getting Lyme. Once you finally get a diagnosis, that is. What will he do when a mere three to four weeks of antibiotics doesn't cure you? Imagine Dr. Brock McNeil's wife developing a case of chronic Lyme."

This man was insane. Or some enemy of Brock's. My husband had spent years disproving the existence of chronic Lyme. "There's no such thing."

A pulsing silence. "Tell your body that."

For long seconds we breathed over the line.

This had to be a joke. But the way I was feeling, my foggy mind. And the dreams of that bug-eyed man in my bedroom . . .

No. That would be too bizarre. Too terrifying. There had to be an explanation.

"Did you wear something on your face?" I whispered.

"Night goggles."

I dropped the phone. It bounced off the console onto the floor. I ran a hand through my hair, unable to think, my breath shallow.

"Mrs. McNeil." The words rose up, a voice from hell. "Janessa."

Muscles wooden, I bent over and retrieved the cell. Held it to my ear. The thing burned my fingers. "What do you want from me?"

The man uttered a derisive laugh. "That's for another conversation."

No reply would come.

"Go on now. Pick up your Lauren from school."

I gasped. "
Don't
you—"

"Welcome to the Lyme wars, Janessa."

The line went dead.

Chapter 3

I PULLED THROUGH THE CURVED DRIVEWAY AT LAUREN'S PRIVATE SCHOOL, my entire body trembling. The man's voice, his bizarre words, echoed through my head. His claims couldn't be true. I would find a rational explanation. The alternative was unthinkable. To believe a man had broken into my house and
passed Lauren's bedroom
on the way to mine . . .

No. Absolutely not. If I believed that, I'd never be able to sleep in my house again.

I drove slowly, eyes scanning for Lauren. Kids spilled through the grassy area in front of the buildings, cars stopping, doors opening as they clambered inside. I spotted Lauren laughing with her best friend, Katie. They faced each other, Lauren's eyebrows raised and her smile wide. Her hand lay on Katie's shoulder, her heels pumping up and down. That half jump always appeared when Lauren was excited.

Apparently Katie's mom, Maria, wasn't here yet. Maria was one of my closest friends. We'd met when our daughters were in kindergarten. Like Katie, Maria was light-skinned with almost white-blonde hair and blue eyes.

I pulled over to the curb near the girls and put the car in
Park.
Pressing both hands to my temples, I tried to squeeze away the chaotic thoughts in my mind. I still felt so crazy tired, but I had to overcome that. Lauren was a bundle of motion. It took strength just to be around her.

Lauren hugged Katie and bounced over to the car, her glorious thick brown hair catching a breeze. She flung open the rear door and threw her backpack inside. Then jumped into the passenger seat. "Hi!"

I took in her pixie face, the light freckles sprinkled across her nose, and managed a smile. "Hi, sweetie. So sorry I'm late."

"You were? Didn't notice. I was talking to Katie."

Something pricked me inside, but I said nothing.

I pulled away from the curb. "So what happened in school today?"

Lauren put her feet up on the dashboard. I couldn't find the energy to tell her to take them down. "Katie got in a fight with Crystal. You remember who she is? That long blonde-haired girl that's always so mean to everybody? She told Katie her outfit looked 'totally stupid.' That's just what she said, can you believe it? 'Totally stupid.' So I told Crystal if Katie looked stupid
she
looked like a wanna-be clown."

I repressed a chuckle. "Lauren, you shouldn't have said that. Haven't we talked about you keeping out of fights?" We reached the end of the school's driveway. I checked traffic before turning right. Oh, my neck hurt. And my elbows. I just wanted to crawl into bed.