The Secret Between Us (16 page)

“Not knowingly. But an error in even something small, like the dosage of a prescription, could be devastating.”

“You mean, he could be sued.”

“I mean, someone could
die
. And he treats dozens of kids your age. How can he tell them not to drink if he does it himself?”

“Maybe abstinence is unrealistic. Maybe the Hubers are right about taking keys. I mean, if kids are going to do it anyway, maybe it’s better to be safe. How can we know how much we can drink unless we try it?”

“It’s not me saying this, sweetie. It’s the law. And Poppy’s in a position of moral authority. He’s a role model. A role model doesn’t drink at work.”

“A role model doesn’t lie,” Grace said.

Deborah stared at her for a minute. “No.”

The admission seemed to deflate the girl. “How’d you leave it with Poppy?”

Deborah gratefully returned to safer ground. “Not well.”

“Is he mad at you?”

“I’d…say so. I’m hoping he’ll get over it by morning.”

“Get over it, like, realize you were right?”

Deborah smiled. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Chapter 12

That was wishful thinking. Michael wasn’t over it by morning. Deborah didn’t know how much he remembered, but he called first thing to say that he was going out for breakfast and that she shouldn’t stop by. Coincidence? Perhaps. His tone would have been a tip-off, but Deborah didn’t talk with him herself. Dylan had taken the message without putting her on.

After dropping the kids at school, she went to the bakery. The outside tables were crowded with people enjoying the morning sunshine. Inside, she grabbed a SoMa Sticky and coffee, and went in search of Jill. She was in the office, affixing mailing labels to summer fliers. Not sure where to begin, Deborah put her things down and sank into a chair.

Jill glanced at Deborah and said, “You look lousy.”

“I feel lousy,” Deborah murmured. She could think of several other words for the way she felt, not the least of which was disillusioned, but lousy would do. “I had it out with Dad last night.”

There was a pause, then a curious, “What does ‘had it out’ mean?”

“I told him he was drinking too much.”

“You did? What did he say?”

“He said it was none of my business.”

“Was that an admission?”

“It was a denial. Then an attack.”

Jill frowned. “What kind of attack?”

“Don’t scowl,” Deborah said. “That’s exactly how Dad looked when he told me I didn’t know
anything
.”

Jill lightened up. “Why did he attack you?”

“Because I must have hit a nerve.”

“What did he say?”

“How
dare
I accuse him of drinking, when
I
do blah-blah-blah.”

“What was blah-blah-blah?”

“Lousy wife, lousy mother.”

“He was drunk.”

“Actually, no,” Deborah said. She’d been thinking about this. “That’s what made it so bad. He’d probably had more than he should have, but he was perfectly articulate. I think that the drink loosened his tongue. He was saying things he truly felt but had resisted saying before.”

“You are not a lousy wife or a lousy mother.”

“Actually, Jill, I’m not a wife at all. He made that point, along with his theory of why Greg left. He was probably right. I wasn’t there for Greg.”

“Pooh. Greg wasn’t there for you.”

“Maybe he would’ve been if I’d asked. I never did. So that’s another of my faults.”

“What—independence?” Jill asked. “Resourcefulness? Self-sufficiency?”

Deborah should have been flattered, but she said sadly, “I used to know where I was headed. Not anymore.”

“Deborah. What
is
this?”

Deborah scrubbed at her forehead. “Yesterday was a really bad day.”

“How so?”

“Where do I start? The disgruntled patient who complained about me to Dad? The call from the school psychologist who is worried about Grace? Another patient—uh, now,
former
patient—who attacked me at the gym?”

“Start there,” said Jill. “At the gym.”

“Good choice.” Deborah eyed her levelly. “It explains my confrontation with Dad.” She related her run-in with Emily Huber.

Jill listened, removing several labels from a sheet. “Emily Huber is only a patient of yours once removed.” She stuck a label on a flier. “Anything she says is secondhand at best.” Another label went on, then a third. “She’s only picking on Dad to get back at you for knowing that she served the kids liquor last weekend.”

“I told myself that, but then little things started niggling at me—like the way he closes his door at lunchtime. I always took it as a sign he wanted a few minutes of quiet, but he could be drinking there.” She looked closer at Jill. “You’re pale. Are you feeling okay?”

“Just tired,” Jill said, “but that’s normal. So did Dad confess to anything?”

“No. He just turned up the TV and blotted me out. He left a message this morning saying he was having breakfast out, and maybe he is. But I’ll have to see him at work. It could be very awkward.”

“Do you think he’s an alcoholic?”

“Not yet.”

“Will you warn him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you should.”

Deborah sputtered. “Fine for you to say. You’re not the one facing him. He’ll be
furious
.”

“But if you don’t and it gets worse, you’ll never forgive yourself. You need to confront him again.”

“I have an idea,” said Deborah. “
You
tell him our fears.”

“Hey, I’m not in practice with him.”

“He’s your father. Aren’t you worried about his condition?”

“Is he worried about mine?”

“How can he be?” Deborah shot back. “He doesn’t
know
about the baby.”

Jill held up a hand. “I am not telling Dad about the baby.”

“It could help,” Deborah pleaded. “A baby is new life. You could tell him you’re naming her Ruth.”

“
Her?
I have no idea if it’s a her!”

“That doesn’t matter, Jill. It’d give him something good to think about. I mean, the last three years have been pretty bad for him.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Mom’s death. My divorce. Dylan’s eyes. My accident.” Her cell phone rang. “He needs something
good
. Tell him about the baby.”

Jill looked far from convinced. “And have him disparage women who use sperm banks?”

“Tell him you want this baby. That’s certainly the truth.”

“Telling the truth is overrated.”

Deborah wanted to argue. She used to believe in the truth. She used to believe in right and wrong. But not today.

Her cell phone rang again. Pulling it from her pocket, she looked at the ID panel. In the next instant, she rose. “Be right back,” she told Jill and, bypassing potential eavesdroppers in the kitchen, went out the back door before answering.

“Hey.”

“You did give me your number,” Tom McKenna said, as if to excuse the call.

“I did,” Deborah said. She was actually pleased to hear his voice. “Got any good news? I could use a lift.”

“Selena signed the release, and without a fight.”

Deborah walked out past the yellow van. “That was wise.”

“It was actually selfish. She was hoping the records could prove her right. She wants to believe you gave Cal a dose of Coumadin while he was lying on the side of the road.”

“So he’d bleed to death? That’s sick.” The word was out before she realized that bad-mouthing this man’s sister-in-law was probably not the best thing to do.

“She didn’t know he was on it,” Tom said, seeming unoffended.

Deborah began walking again, down the alleyway now. The brick walls on either side offered a measure of privacy. “So was he?”

“Yes. The HMO just faxed me his records. Coumadin’s right up there.”

She was relieved to be proven innocent of this, at least—relieved, also, by Tom’s forthrightness. “It was legitimately prescribed?”

“Apparently so. There are two doctors listed here—William Beruby and Anthony Hawkins. Have you ever heard of either?”

“No. Where are they located?”

“There’s no address listed, but payments were made to UMass Memorial Medical Center for tests. I did a Web search. Both doctors are affiliated there.”

“Specialty?”

“One heart, one stroke. I expected the stroke part, given the family history. Apparently Cal had a series of little ones.”

Deborah stopped briefly. “TIAs?” she asked in surprise.

“That’s what it says. Is it plausible?”

“Some might say Cal was too young to be having TIAs, but it does happen. You could talk with his doctors. A series of TIAs would certainly explain your brother being on Coumadin.” She walked on. “Selena must have known about the strokes.”

“No.”

Again Deborah stopped. “How could she
not
?”

“My brother was secretive.”

“But she was his wife. How could he hide something like that?”

“You tell me. Would it be possible for her not to see it?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “It would be possible. By definition, a TIA—transient ischemic attack—is a stroke that lasts only a few minutes. Symptoms can be mild—a passing numbness or weakness on one side of the body, trouble seeing for a couple of minutes, dizziness. His symptoms could have been gone before she noticed, but the question is why he wouldn’t tell her. Strokes are serious.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to worry her.”

“Very noble, but he could have been driving and had a stroke with her in the passenger seat, and she wouldn’t know what was happening.”

“Same if he was hit by a car and rushed to the hospital,” Tom countered.

“Yes,” Deborah admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be critical of your brother, or of his wife. People do what works for them.”

He was silent for so long, she began to worry that either she had offended him or the connection was lost, when, quietly, he said, “I’m not sure it worked for Selena. She’s pretty steamed. Since Cal’s not here, she’s steamed at me. She keeps asking why he would go all the way to Worcester, rather than Boston, which is closer. It seems obvious to me. Cal would have gone to Worcester for the sake of secrecy.”

“And Selena suspected nothing?” Deborah asked. “She must have known he was making trips to Worcester.”

“She thought he was visiting a friend. He told her the name was Pete Cavanaugh and that he was an old high school buddy who’d lost both legs in Iraq.”

“Is it true?”

“A Pete Cavanaugh did go to high school with Cal. But he was Cal’s nemesis. No way would they have been friends.”

“Sometimes when someone is catastrophically hurt—”

“No. The Pete Cavanaugh who lived in our neighborhood did go to Iraq, but he died at the start of the war. Cal’s been using him as an alibi since he and Selena moved here from Seattle. That’s four years. Pete’s been dead the whole time.”

Deborah heard anger and couldn’t blame him. Talk about telling the truth. “What about phone calls from Worcester, say, to confirm an appointment?”

“They’d have gone to his cell phone. Selena would never know.”

“But
why
?” Deborah asked. Having reached the front of the alley, she stopped walking. “He had a legitimate physical condition. Was he afraid she’d think less of him, that maybe she’d walk out?”

“No. That was just Cal. My father was like that.”

“Secretive?”

“To the extreme. He was master at compartmentalization. He saw his life in segments that never overlapped.”

Deborah leaned against the brick wall. Traffic on Main Street was brisk. “Segments?”

“Family. There was the one he was born into and the one he created. The two never met.”

“Seriously?” She couldn’t imagine it. “You never met his parents?”

“Or his siblings. He’d visit them sometimes, but we never went.”

“Didn’t they ask about you?”

“They didn’t know about us. And then there was work. I was twelve before I found out what my father did.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a chemist. Renowned, actually. He lectured at universities across the country. He’d come back to visit us for a month or two, but he never talked about work at home. My mother would never answer our questions. I finally had to look him up at the library.”

“That’s incredible,” Deborah said, trying to take it in. “But your brother didn’t hide his work. His wife knew what he did.”

“Some. She doesn’t know how much he earned or whether his contract included life insurance or a retirement plan. He used their den as an office. She said he’d read there at night. I’ve been over every inch of it, and there isn’t a single paper you’d call work-related.”

“No student papers?”

“Some of it may be on his computer, but Selena doesn’t know the password. We’re assuming there are personal papers at his office at school. If not, I haven’t a clue. I don’t even know where he keeps his bills.”

“Oh, they’ll start coming,” Deborah remarked.

Tom’s voice held not a hint of a smile. If this was his personal catharsis, he was on a roll. “Not to the house. Bills went to a P.O. box. He got that from my dad, too—multiple P.O. boxes. Bills went to one, personal correspondence to another. Everything separate, everything private. Cal had multiple cell phones, too. I only saw the Seattle number. I didn’t know he’d moved east until Selena called me last week. How’s that for quirky?”

Quirky was one word for it. Others carried a darker connotation. “Did your brother have any friends?”

“Probably not as you or I would define them. Friendship demands communication.”

“But he did have a spouse.” Which was more than either she or Tom had.

“He did, though I’m not sure why. I’d have understood it better if there’d been children. But she claims he didn’t want kids.”

“Did you ever talk about that with him?”

“Me? No. I didn’t even know he was
married
until Selena called to say he was dead.” He paused. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”

It was a stark reminder of opposing positions. Still, Deborah couldn’t resist asking, “Was Cal a runner?”

“Not that I knew. But Selena says they met skiing, and I never knew he skied. So maybe he was a runner. Why do you ask?”

“The place where we hit him was more than three miles from his house. That’d be six miles round-trip. That’s a good distance to run in the pouring rain. Either he was a dedicated athlete, or he was…”
Disturbed
was the word that came to mind, but she settled for, “…eccentric.”