Rachael's Return

by Janet Rebhan

  “It’s . . . a long story.” Nancy shook her head, smiling. “I’m sorry, I have to go now.”

  “Does this mean you like dogs?” Mitch asked.

  “I didn’t mean to choose that song. Like I said, it’s a long story. But to answer your question, no, I don’t have anything against them. Dogs, that is. I mean, yeah. I like dogs.” She looked at her phone and then back at Mitch. “I, um, have a colleague at work who thinks it’s funny to reset the alarm sounds on my phone.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, ah . . . I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “That would be great.” Nancy walked in front, pausing to put on her sunglasses once they stepped outside. “I’m just over there,” she said, pointing toward the far end of the parking lot. They silently meandered toward her Jeep, where she stopped before opening the door. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me about?” She looked up at Mitch. His eyes were not the eyes of the alert detective. They were the eyes of a man who hadn’t a care in the world save for what he saw in front of him. “Or did you just want to see me again?”

  Mitch smiled down at her. A light breeze blew some wisps of hair into what was left of the gloss on her lips. She tried to subtly brush it away with her hand, but she ended up having to pointedly pick at it with her fingertips and pull it away.

  Something about that gesture made Mitch want to kiss her hard and fast, so he just went with it, backing Nancy up against her Jeep with a light thud. Nancy seemed a bit surprised, yet she welcomed his hard, wet tongue between her teeth and his gentle hands cradling her head. It was clumsy and sexy all at once, and it was about time something exciting like this happened. By the time it was over, there wasn’t much left to say. Nancy simply pulled out her cell phone and texted her address to Mitch’s number. I get off work at 6:30. Bring real beer was all she’d said. As he drove back to the station, he couldn’t help thinking how strange it all was—the way life can turn on a dime, the way new people come into it, and the way good things so often come out of bad.

  Later that evening, over flaxseed tortilla chips and Miller High Lifes at Nancy’s house in Sherman Oaks, snuggled together on a comfy blanket on the floor of her living room, Nancy confessed to Mitch what her friend Fiona Carlisle had told her about mixing up the records of Caroline Martin and Caroline Martinez. That’s when Mitch realized what the niggling thing was that kept bugging him about this particular case. This niggling wasn’t any ordinary detective’s hunch. This was more like divine intervention. A baby had been inadvertently aborted during Caroline Martin’s routine hysterectomy. And a baby who for all intents and purposes should have died when her mother was beaten and shot was suddenly alive and well within hours of this hysterectomy. Those facts, coupled with Mitch’s belief in reincarnation, painted a very interesting picture. Especially in light of Caroline Martin’s being so very bonded with baby girl Rachael Maynard. Could it be Caroline’s loss was Mary Anne’s gain? And then Mary Anne’s loss became Caroline’s gain, restoring everything to its divine right order and purpose?

  “Nice job, Cupid,” Aurora said as she walked toward the wall of windows. Thor stood looking down, his hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back. He glanced up as she approached.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You know very well what I mean; don’t be so humble. That was some very clean, subtle intervention on your part, if I may say so myself. I would like to take credit as your mentor, but I’m not so sure I can. What I just saw with these two was very organic.”

  “That’s because it was organic. You think I had something to do with this? Honestly, Aurora, sometimes humans do their own best work all by their little selves. They may think it’s divine intervention, but that’s just the endorphins and pheromones. They’re all, like, feeling the Earth move and everything, but it’s their own doing. I will say it’s absolutely fascinating to watch, though—these two especially. They’re so cute.”

  “Are you serious? I would have thought that Dennis Basso oversize faux-fur throw was most certainly your touch,” Aurora said.

  “Well, I mean, even ER doctors can have good taste. We’re not supposed to be biased on this level.”

  “It’s not bias; I just thought you had something to do with it, that’s all. At any rate, I’m very pleased with this whole scenario right now. They’re actually putting it all together down there. Now all we have to do is keep that baby safe until her father is in custody, and the rest will take care of itself. Who’s on duty right now anyway?”

  “What, you mean guardian angels?”

  “Yes, precisely. Who’s the main one-on-one for the baby? And for that matter, everyone else? Can you get me a printout on who’s assigned to who and when? There can’t be even a moment when we’re not covering everyone involved, even the most minor characters.”

  “Even Caroline Martinez?”

  “Yes, everyone within three or four degrees of separation from baby Rachael or Caroline Martin and at least one to two degrees of separation from all the others. I want names, and I want the various manifestations they are using, be it human, animal, plant, whatever,” Aurora said.

  “You got it. But does it really have to be a hard copy print-out?”

  “Of course not, silly; that’s just a manner of speaking. I’m just keepin’ it human, as they say.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Fiona Carlisle shifted uneasily in her chair by the window overlooking the perfectly landscaped front yard. Outside, a hummingbird lowered itself to her eye level and hovered for what seemed an eternity on the other side of the window pane before darting away and landing on a nearby birch tree as if to keep a lookout. She watched the bird as it continued to look in her direction before she turned her attention back to the others in the room.

  She could only muster a half smile and a whispered acknowledgment of gratitude as Caroline Martin offered her a fresh lemon water in a tall crystal drinking glass. She could feel a hot flash coming on, and it was all she could do now not to take the ice-cold glass and rub it on her chest between her breasts, where pools of perspiration were quickly forming.

  Seated next to Fiona was her friend Nancy, who she thought looked unusually pretty today dressed in a white halter-top sundress revealing her long, tanned legs. On Nancy’s other side sat Detective Mitch Coffey, who Fiona had only met earlier that morning after Nancy called her and arranged a meeting at Nancy’s house. By some weird quirk of fate, her friend had met Caroline Martin through Detective Coffey, who was investigating the death of a young woman Mrs. Martin had briefly shared a hospital room with when she was there for her hysterectomy—or her inadvertent abortion, as it were. To find out if Fiona could be in trouble, Nancy had told Detective Coffey the story of the mix-up of the files. Detective Coffey, in turn, had found that information to be of great significance for an entirely different reason, the likes of which Fiona was still trying to understand. Apparently, the detective found it much more intriguing that Caroline Martin had been pregnant during her hysterectomy than Fiona having made a grievous error that had resulted in the inadvertent loss of an unborn baby. Instead of reacting in a serious manner, Detective Coffey had become animated, almost gleeful. He convinced Fiona to tell her story to Caroline Martin and had all but promised her she would not be in any trouble. Apparently, he had met and spoken with Mrs. Martin at length and felt this information would ultimately make her more happy than sad. At this point, Fiona was so stressed out, she just wanted to get it all off her chest. She almost didn’t care anymore what happened to her. She only wanted to tell the truth and be done with it.

  Lately, she lacked the motivation to do the most mundane things. Even washing and styling her hair had become too much of a chore. On weekends, she couldn’t pull herself out of bed until noon. She noticed puffiness under her eyes from restless nights without deep sleep, her mind being a frenzy of negativity. She had done stupid things before, but this time she felt as if she had crossed an invisible line into territory where only dark forces operat
ed. She had tampered with people’s lives in a way that had forever altered their destinies. This, she feared, was unforgivable. And she was all alone with her guilt. There was no one who wouldn’t think she was a despicable person for what she’d done, even more so for her lack of courage in setting things right.

  Growing up, Fiona’s mother had always reminded her that Fiona had been an accident. She had blamed Fiona when her husband left her for another woman who didn’t have any children. And after he left, life was never the same again. Her mother had lost her house, her friends, her lifestyle. Not only that, but Fiona had been a difficult child to raise, always sickly. Her mother had spent a fortune on doctor bills and missed work because of Fiona. Further, Fiona had been a poor student in school. She had attended Catechism classes where even the nuns lost their patience with her. Her dyslexia was diagnosed much later in life, after Fiona had already graduated high school. Yet Fiona was determined to go to college if for no other reason than to get out of her mother’s house. It had been a struggle, but she managed to graduate. Fiona believed her mother would not have treated her any differently, even if she had known about and understood her learning disability. To her mother, Fiona would always be a mistake, a misstep, a forever faux pas.

  Across the spacious living room with cathedral ceilings, polished wood floors, and a sweeping spiral staircase to the second level, sat Jake Martin, attorney at law. He was a handsome man with a nice smile. Fiona wanted to like him, but she worried he had another side to him that could be quite harsh were he to disagree with Detective Coffey about whether or not Fiona’s news could be considered good news. His wife, Caroline, was a beautiful woman who exuded both great poise and playfulness, which Fiona thought was an interesting combination. She remembered Caroline’s face from Dr. Goodwin’s office; her bone structure made her stand out. Today, Fiona thought Caroline Martin’s countenance was almost regal. Dressed in figure-hugging skinny jeans, a loose T-shirt, and ballet flats, Fiona admired her posture and thought she carried herself well. She was the kind of woman most other women were either jealous of or wanted very much to befriend. Either way, she was the highly regarded type—the type everyone noticed and had an opinion about.

  Detective Coffey was the first to speak after they were all seated. He made the necessary introductions and explained how each one of them fit into the current scenario. But it wasn’t until Nancy told her part of the story that Fiona was finally able to put everything together and see where the detective was going with it. Although it felt to Fiona like her internal organs were trembling even more than her hands and her voice, she managed to tell the truth, and as she did, she watched the faces of both Jake and Caroline Martin. She watched as their expressions changed from one emotion to the next. She watched as Caroline leaned into her husband’s arms when Fiona confirmed she had been pregnant on the operating table. And much to Fiona’s surprise, it was Jake and Caroline Martin who, more than any others in the room that day, were convinced baby Rachael was in fact the soul who was supposed to have been born as their daughter. Yet Detective Coffey had been wrong about their reaction. While they weren’t angry and they didn’t threaten to sue, they hadn’t reacted to the news with as much happiness as the detective promised they would. At first, Caroline Martin had collapsed in her husband’s arms and seemed very relieved. But later in the conversation, she had to excuse herself and could be heard crying in the other room. Afterward, Fiona noticed she returned to the living room with a champagne flute filled with an orange liquid. Her eyes were red, and some dark mascara had made its way to her cheeks, where it didn’t belong. She asked if anyone else wanted to join her in having a mimosa, but everyone else declined. Jake Martin had not looked very pleased when his wife sat back down next to him with her drink in hand, yet he continued to converse with everyone until the meeting was finished. Fiona thought she would feel relieved when it was over. Instead, she felt even more guilty. It was her fault this perfectly poised woman had been reduced to an emotional wreck. And Fiona wasn’t even finished yet. She still had to come clean with Dr. Goodwin and Mrs. Martinez. Perhaps then she would finally be able to put it all behind her.

  Fiona rose early Monday morning to take her daily three-mile hike through the hillside trails behind her housing development, after which she ate breakfast in silence without watching her regular news program on television. When she left her house, she took her grandmother’s rosary beads with her and placed them in her bag on her way out the door. Since she was the first to arrive at the office, she had to unlock the front door, turn on all the lights, and start a fresh pot of coffee. The office was eerily quiet without the hum of voices and copy machines, ringing telephones, and doors continuously opening and closing. She walked over to the tall metal filing cabinets and pulled both folders for Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Martinez before walking to her office and sitting down at her desk. She reached in her bag again for the rosary beads and sat motionless at her desk with her eyes closed. She would wait and rehearse in silence until Dr. Goodwin arrived.

  When the moment finally arrived, she took both patient files, knocked on his door, and told him all about her grievous error. He listened intently to her every word, settled back into his oversize executive office chair, brought his right hand to his forehead, and massaged it lightly with his thumb and forefinger before he waved it in the air, pursed his lips, and told Fiona she was making a mountain out of a molehill. Fiona’s jaw dropped, and she began to speak, but Dr. Goodwin shushed her and told her in no uncertain terms that if he ever heard her speak of it again, he would fire her on the spot. And that’s when he threatened her.

  “I am this close to retirement,” he said standing up and walking toward her, holding up his finger and thumb only an inch apart. “And I don’t suppose you know just how much my practice is valued at, do you?” Fiona shifted in her seat and started to speak again. “That was a rhetorical question, my dear. You do not speak another word. As far as I’m concerned, all’s well that ends well. You had just better hope Mrs. Martin doesn’t change her mind about suing now that you’ve already told her. And if I find out you have tried to contact Mrs. Martinez, I will make sure you never get a job with any other doctor in this country ever again. And if you think of quitting—if you think you’ve got a lawsuit—remember my dear, it’s your word against mine. You were the one who destroyed the evidence, not me. Now I want you to get up from your chair, put all of this behind you, and go about your business as usual.”

  Fiona stood and walked toward the closed office door, opening it slowly. Her hands were shaking, and her palm was drenched in perspiration, so it slipped on the door handle and failed to turn it on the first try. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before trying again, opening the door, and walking out of Dr. Goodwin’s office without looking back. She calmly replaced both patient files back in their proper locations and returned to her office.

  She thought of Nancy and dialed her cell. When her call went directly to voicemail, Fiona hung up. She looked at her calendar to see who was coming in to see her that day. Though her calendar was usually booked, today was abnormally slow. Mrs. Robinson, a new patient in her fifth month of pregnancy who had just moved to the area from Utah and was due for an abdominal ultrasound, was coming in at 9:00 a.m. After that, she had only one other patient scheduled to come in at 2:30 p.m.—Mrs. Geller, who was due for her yearly pap and vaginal ultrasound to check on her chronic ovarian cysts.

  Fiona was unusually chatty with both patients. She was also unusually compassionate toward them. She examined their bodies with a renewed tenderness. She was more attentive, listening with her heart as well as her mind as they asked questions and spoke to her in confidence about their feelings. Mrs. Robinson had a deep inner fear of losing her baby, which made her afraid even in her fifth month to tell anyone outside of her immediate family that she was expecting. She didn’t want to jinx herself. And Mrs. Geller, a woman in her fifties nearing menopause, in a whispering breathiness told Fiona she feared her hus
band was losing interest in her sexually now that she would no longer be able to bear children.

  Fiona left directly after Mrs. Geller. By this time, it was 3:30 p.m., and she drove straight home. She had a dinner date with an old boyfriend who was in town on business for a few days. She texted him she was ill and would have to cancel.

  Fiona’s Ragdoll cat, Charlie, met her at the front door. He sensed immediately when Fiona was troubled and began to meow at her in earnest. Fiona picked him up and snuggled him in her arms. Cat hair clung to her black silk blouse, but Fiona didn’t care. She gave Charlie a treat reserved only for special occasions and did the same for herself as she reached into her pantry and pulled out a bottle of Pinot Noir. She still had a vivid memory of her trip to the Napa Valley with friends a few years back when she had purchased three such bottles to give as gifts or save for those same friends who appreciated fine wines. She had only bought one bottle of Cabernet that trip, preferring the delicate aromatic blend of cranberry, raspberry, and cherry flavors with just a hint of herb that the Pinot Noir offered. The bold Cabernet was made from “survivor” grapes, she had learned on the wine tour. It would not have done for this particular occasion.