The Place I Belong (14 page)

While Sharon sent a groom off to fetch a stool and ice, Hannah
set up a portable table, snapped on a pair of sterile rubber gloves,
and laid out her supplies, including two eight-inch needles that
made Matt’s eyes go wide. “They look scary,” Hannah said, “but
horses are bigger than humans.”

When everything was arranged to her satisfaction, Hannah went over to Matt. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to give Satch here a local anesthetic on his rump. Once he’s numb, I’m going to insert the big needle into what’s called his lumbosacral cistern and draw out some cerebrospinal fluid. I’ll send that off to the lab for testing. That’s it. Nothing more to it.”

Matt gave her a nervous smile.

“The thing is I need Satchmo to stay still while I’m inserting the needle and extracting the fluid.” She didn’t mention that any movement could injure the pony’s spine. “Sharon knows exactly how to hold him, but you’ll make it easier for everyone, including Satch, if you keep his attention on you. Got it?”

The boy swallowed and nodded.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time,” Hannah said.

She returned to the table and began prepping the injection site before she administered the local anesthetic. Satchmo flicked his tail once and then stood still, his head resting against Matt’s chest while the boy rubbed behind his ears.

Once she was sure the anesthetic had taken effect, she stripped off the old gloves and put on a clean pair. She was taking every precaution to make this go smoothly. She picked up one of the giant needles and climbed up on the stool.

“Okay, I need you to keep him still until I say I’m done,” she said, turning to check on her helpers. Sharon shifted her grip on the lead chain to just under the pony’s chin and nodded. “You ready, Matt?” Hannah asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Matt said, his voice holding only a slight
quaver
.

Hannah rested the tip of the needle on the spot she had marked and pushed. As the needle found its mark, she felt a lessening of resistance. The tension in her shoulders eased, but her relief was short-lived. Satchmo suddenly tucked his tail down between his hind legs. Was that a signal that the pony was going to try to move or lash out with his back hooves?

Hannah held her breath and took a quick look toward Satchmo’s head. Sharon stood with her feet braced wide, ready to counteract any movement. Matt’s face was pale and his eyes were resolutely turned away from the huge needle, but he murmured to the pony in a low, soothing voice as he continued to scratch behind his ears.

After a few seconds passed and Satchmo continued to stand quietly, Hannah let out her breath and removed the trocar from the needle, beginning the process of collecting the spinal fluid. When she had enough, she carefully withdrew the needle and stepped down from the stool. “Okay, it’s all over. I just have to put a stitch in to close the opening.”

She finished by packing the fluid in the Styrofoam transport chest surrounded by ice.

“Satchmo, you are a model patient,” she said, coming up to his head to join Matt in giving him a good rub. “I’ve never had a horse stand that still for a spinal tap.” She squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You and Sharon are great assistants.”

“Ms. Sydenstricker was the one holding him,” Matt said, his voice still a little shaky. He rested his forehead against Satchmo’s.

“I didn’t need to do a thing,” Sharon said. “You had him practically tranquilized, young man.”

Hannah went back to stowing away her supplies in the medical bag. She kept an eye on the pony to see if he was showing any sign of discomfort. When she finished, she looked at Sharon. “Would you take Satch on a circuit of the stall?”

“Is something wrong?” Matt asked, stepping away from Satchmo’s head so Sharon could turn the pony.

“Nah,” Sharon said, urging Satchmo into a walk. “Just standard operating procedure after a spinal tap.”

As the pony plodded around his stall without any noticeable change in his gait, Hannah nodded.

Matt’s face lit up in a grin. “He’s okay, right?”

“He looks good,” Hannah said.

“Keep him company while I help the doc with her bag,” Sharon said, handing the lead line to Matt.

She picked up one handle while Hannah hefted the other. As soon as they were out of earshot of the stall, Sharon said, “How long until you’ll know?”

“I’m going to overnight it to a lab in Kentucky where they collect data on EPM, so they know what they’re doing. I’ll tell them to put a rush on it.”

“That boy needs that pony,” Sharon said.

“I’ll do everything I can to get Satchmo healthy.”

“I know that, Doc. You’re one of the good guys.”

Would Sharon say that if she knew about what happened in Chicago? The horsewoman cared about her horses, but she was a businesswoman too. Or maybe she already knew, like half the people in Sanctuary. “Where was Satchmo before he came here?” Hannah asked.

“At the racing stable in Florida with Jazzman. They’re careful there, so I figure he picked up the parasite in transit. Dirty water. Contaminated feed. Something like that.”

“Poor little fellow to have such bad luck,” Hannah said.

“I won’t be using that horse transporter again,” Sharon said.

“How did you come to own Satch?” They’d arrived at the truck and together slung the bag into the back.

“Lost horses just find me,” Sharon said with a shrug. “Once Jazzman died, the stable owner had no use for Satchmo, so he was going to sell him for dog food. One of the grooms was fond of Satch and got hold of me.”

“Sounds to me like
you’re
one of the good guys,” Hannah said.

“If Satch hadn’t come here, Matt wouldn’t have found his whisper horse.”

Hannah nodded. She wasn’t going to argue with this woman who knew more about horses than she ever would. “Have you got a whisper horse for me?” she asked, only partly in jest.

Sharon grinned. “If you’re lookin’ for one.” She held out her hand. “Nice job on the spinal tap, Doc. It went as smooth as silk.”

Hannah shook her hand, wincing slightly at the strength of Sharon’s grip. “It’s been awhile.”

“Like riding a bicycle, I guess,” Sharon said before she started back toward the barn.

As soon as Sharon was out of sight, Hannah slumped against the truck, her knees suddenly unwilling to hold her upright without assistance. She braced her hands on her thighs and took a few deep breaths. If she hadn’t been so worried about Satchmo, she would have waited for Tim to come back because it wasn’t at all like riding a bicycle.

A couple of more breaths and she straightened and climbed into the truck’s cab. As she turned the key, she muttered, “You know, maybe a whisper horse isn’t such a bad idea.”

Chapter 10

A
DAM FELL INTO
the big, leather chair behind his desk at the restaurant and stripped off his tie. He’d expected an easy night, but a group of businessmen had flown in from Atlanta at the last minute, growing more and more demanding as they emptied several bottles of wine. He’d eventually switched all of their wait staff to men because one guest persisted in grabbing the waitresses and making lewd comments. As the group was leaving, Adam spoke with its host and explained that the offensive diner would not be welcome back. He didn’t tolerate abuse of his staff, no matter how much money his patrons spent.

He tossed the tie onto the desk, jogging the mouse of his computer so the sleeping screen came to life.

A glance at the new emails in his inbox made him sit forward when he saw the name of one sender: William Gaspari,
the private investigator he’d hired to find someone from
Maggie’s family who might be a better parent to Matt than he could be.

His stomach clenched as he clicked open the email.

Dear Mr. Bosch,

I’ve located a first cousin to Margaret McNally who appears to be a possibility. Attached is the background information. Call me at your convenience to discuss how to proceed.

Regards,

William Gaspari

He waited for the lift of relief. Instead his stomach seemed to turn itself inside out.

It wasn’t that Matt had become more open after finding his whisper pony. His son still shut him out ninety-nine percent of the time. But that one conversation in the car—when Matt hadn’t been able to contain his excitement about Satchmo—had given Adam a glimpse of what might have been.

Adam reached into his pocket for the key to his desk, unlocking the center drawer. Pulling out the dog-eared manila folder the social worker had handed him four months ago, he slipped off the rubber bands and squared it on the desktop. He took a deep breath and flipped it open. There was the photo of Matt in the kitchen, the one that had stopped Adam from continuing before.

He moved it aside.

Beneath it was a souvenir photograph of a younger Matt engulfed by a yellow life preserver standing in blue water with a dolphin’s nose touching his face. His expression held both excitement and fear. Adam’s throat tightened. Maggie had not had much money in the bank when she died, so she must have scrimped and saved to take her child on this trip.

The next photo was the same pose, but in this one Maggie was being kissed by the dolphin. Adam studied her image. The
vivid red curls piled on top of her head, with damp tendrils
clinging
to her neck and cheeks, were the same as when she’d
been tw
enty-two
. Her freckled face was sunburned and thinner, but the sheer joy radiating from her smile lit it with beauty.

Would he have recognized her if he’d run into her in the crowd at Disney World? He shook his head and shifted his gaze to stare at the black rectangle of the window. Those years of working in New York were an alcohol-hazed blur, and his memories of anything but the kitchen itself were fragmentary. When he’d gotten the apprenticeship with the world-famous chef Conrad Faust, he’d burned his bridges with his parents and jumped on a bus to the city, sure his name would be tripping off the lips of influential foodies in no time.

Instead he’d been plunged into hell. Conrad managed by fear: fear of verbal humiliation; fear of physical abuse; fear of being fired. Adam was used to the first two from the years of living with his father, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of crawling back to his parents because he’d been sacked.

One evening, Conrad had walked out of his office, scanned the kitchen, and walked straight to Adam’s station. Without tasting the fiddlehead ferns Adam was sautéing, the chef had picked up the pan and hurled it onto the floor, splashing burning hot butter and oil up to Adam’s knees. Then he launched into a brutal tirade about Adam’s lack of talent, work ethic, and breeding. Adam stood with his head bowed, feeling the blisters rising on his legs as the hot butter soaked through his houndstooth-check cooking trousers. At the end, he said what he had to say in order to keep his job: “Yes, chef.”

Conrad stalked back into his office and slammed the door, while Adam sagged against the countertop. One of the sous-chefs handed him a flask of vodka. Having sworn not to follow his father’s path to destruction, Adam started to hand it back. Then he looked at the perfectly sautéed vegetables Conrad had hurled onto the floor. If he lost this job, Adam had nothing. He unscrewed the top of the flask, filled his mouth with the cheap liquor, and threw back his head to swallow it in one gulp. The vodka burned down his throat and spread through his gut, blunting the razor-edge of his fear. He bought a flask of his own the next day.

He learned to ration his drinking while he worked, balancing on the edge between being drunk enough to tolerate the terror of Conrad’s unpredictability, but not so drunk he couldn’t function in the controlled chaos of the kitchen. He climbed up the hierarchy by working twice as hard as anyone else and flattering Conrad’s senior sous-chefs into teaching him their secrets. After work, he went out with anyone willing and drank himself into oblivion. Maggie had made the mistake of joining him for one of those alcohol-soaked expeditions.

That night had changed her life forever. And now his.

He went back to the photos, riffling through the stiff school portraits, the group shots of tee-shirt clad soccer and baseball teams, the snapshots of Matt on a bicycle with training wheels. There was Matt beside a dinosaur skeleton in a museum, Matt on the beach at various ages, Matt grinning as he held up a chess trophy. One of the last photos was of Maggie in a hospital bed, holding a swaddled newborn, her face radiant with love. Next were the hospital portraits of the infant Matt, his hands hidden in mitts, his eyes sleepy, his head already covered with a dark fuzz of hair.

The gut-twisting regret walloped Adam, and he shoved t
he pictur
es away. He hadn’t been present for the birth of his child. Maggie had suffered through the agony and awe of that miracle alone. Anger and a sense of loss slashed through him, but he knew he had only himself to blame.

Looking down again, he discovered Matt’s art work next in the pile: hand-drawn Mother’s Day cards, Valentine’s Day cards, Christmas cards, and various other crayoned masterpieces. The common theme was how much the child loved his mother. A fist closed around Adam’s heart, squeezing at the enormity of Matt’s loss when Maggie died.

He moved the drawings aside to reveal an unsealed, gray business envelope with his first name written on it. Inside were magazine clippings and internet printouts tracing Adam’s career in the restaurant business. Had she shown these to Matt, telling him this was his father? Matt had never let on about such a conversation, so it seemed unlikely. Why had she bothered to collect these if she wasn’t going to share her child with him? He thumbed through them to find they included several articles about The Aerie and its success.

So she knew he had money, yet she’d never approached him for the financial help he gladly would have given.

He picked up the gray envelope to stuff the clippings back inside and felt something thick lodged in the bottom. Turning it upside down, he shook it hard. A smaller envelope fell facedown onto his desk. The flap was sealed, so he flipped it over. The front was blank.

Adam stared down at it. There was something ominous about its lack of address.

He steeled himself and tore open the envelope with a single twist of his wrist. Inside were a couple of handwritten sheets of notebook paper, the writing Maggie’s. Unfolding the top sheet, he felt a nearly physical blow in his chest.

The letter was to him.

Dear Adam,

I’ll never mail this to you, so you’ll never read it and you probably shouldn’t, but sometimes I feel so alone I need someone to talk to. Since you’re Matt’s father, I ought to be able to talk to you.

You might want to know why I didn’t tell you I was pregnant. I came close a few times, but it just didn’t seem right to upend your life because I was stupid and careless. You were so young and beautiful—beautiful as sin, my mother would say—and so driven. I knew you would be a great chef or a great something one day. If the drink didn’t ruin you.

He felt a hot sear of anger at being cut out of his son’s life without being given any choice.

That’s the real reason I kept it from you. We Irish know too much about liquor, so I worried about how you were damaging yourself. About how you might hurt me and our child even. Not that there was an ounce of malice in you, but the drink makes people do things they wouldn’t otherwise. I couldn’t have borne to watch you destroy yourself and us.

The anger died as abruptly as it had flared to life, leaving cold, dry ashes in his gut. He couldn’t argue with Maggie’s reasons.

So, as frightened as I was, I didn’t tell you. Instead I told my mother and father back in Dublin. A mistake. I thought they would support my decision not to end the pregnancy, good Catholics that they claimed to be. Instead they condemned me because I wasn’t married and wanted me to put Matt up for adoption. I told them they were unchristian, which didn’t help my case. So there I was, an unwed mother in a foreign country with no health insurance and no one to hold my hand through labor.

But you know, there are good people in the world, and God helped me find them. Someday I hope to repay them. Dr. Nagy, who did my pregnancy checkups for free and found a midwife to deliver Matt at home so I wouldn’t have to pay for a hospital room. Mr. Grossman, the pharmacist who finagled a way to get me neonatal vitamins for next to nothing. Kathy Arnold, at my job, who put me on the company’s health insurance plan six months early so Matt could have well-baby care. My neighbors, Josephine and Manuela, who clipped all the coupons they could find and gave them to me; if there was a deal on baby care products, they tracked it down. Betty Gallagher, at the Goodwill down the block, who
let me
trade in old baby clothes for new ones, free of charge. Oh, I could go on, but these kindnesses are what kept me from despair.

And the thought of you. I knew if I truly needed help I could go to you.

He put the paper down and scrubbed his hands over his face to wipe away the unfamiliar burn of tears in his eyes. His life then had been all about cooking and drinking, while Maggie had struggled to buy diapers. And she had found the thought of him a comfort. A groan, welling up from low in his ribcage, tore f
rom him
.

He forced himself to read on.

But for all the times I wake up in the night in a cold sweat of terror at the thought of my responsibilities, you gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever received. Matt is the light of my life, the center of my universe, the proof that love is the most powerful force in the world. I didn’t understand love until I held Matt in my arms that first time, and the way I feel about him has grown stronger and more glorious every day.

I hope someday I find the courage to tell you about our son. I hope you will want to meet him because he is the most amazing person.

For now, I thank you every day for him.

Fondest regards,

Maggie

The paper rattled in his hands. He dropped it and pressed his spread fingers against the wood of the desk to stop their shaking. Maggie had thanked him for getting her pregnant. Thanked him. He deserved curses and he got gratitude.

She considered Matt a gift, one she had involuntarily passed on to him. Now he was trying to give that gift away. Because he didn’t deserve it.

He pushed down harder on the desk as the craving for a drink grabbed him by the throat. He could almost feel the fire of one of the fine brandies in The Aerie’s cellar as it spread through his body, washing away the guilt and the corrosive sense of unworthiness. If ever there was a time he could justify breaking his AA vows, this was it.