I’m in the car driving back to my place when my phone goes off. I glance at it in the cupholder, and it’s not a number I recognize. I don’t answer, but when I get to my apartment building, I’m frozen in the car by the stern voice on the line.
“Hello, Miss Heron, this is Dr. Endicott. I wanted to follow up on your visit.” My heart beats painfully hard in my chest, and I struggle to breathe. I hadn’t realized how desperately I’d been waiting for his call.
“After reviewing the few notes I have left from your case, I’ve determined my diagnosis was an accurate starting point for the behaviors exhibited.” My heart sinks, and I lean back in the seat as feelings of fear and shame wash over me.
“However,” he continues, and my ears perk up. “Because your grandmother removed you from my care before I was able to do a full battery of tests, whether it would have been my final diagnosis is impossible to know.”
“What?” I whisper. My heart beats faster.
“My recommendation at this point would be further evaluation and testing if you have reason to believe my original diagnosis is accurate. I would be happy to make an appointment for you with one of the doctors who have taken over my practice…”
Touching the screen, I end the call. For several moments I sit in my car in silence. Do I want further testing? Do I have reason to believe his diagnosis might have been accurate? Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around my waist and hold on tight. I’m going to make it through this. I am.
Inside the house, I drop my purse on the bar and strip out of my polo shirt and khakis. I leave them in a heap on the floor in my living room and pick up the ancient tee I was wearing this morning. The plastic on my hip itches, so I peel it carefully off my new ink. Turning to the side, I examine the little pair of infinity wings. They’re exactly what I had in my mind, a perfect memorialization for our baby.
My paints are all still set up in the small studio room, and that empty space in my latest abstract sits waiting for the little girl to fill it. Taking my brush out of the turpentine, I clean it on the rag before dipping the tip in a bit of purple.
White followed by green blends her into the prairie grasses the same way I saw her. Finally, I take the bright yellow and mix it with the white. Lights so bright my eyes ache…
I paint late into the evening until I’m falling asleep on my feet. It’s finished, but I can’t look at it now. It’s too fresh in my mind, and I won’t see it properly. It’s best if I go to bed and look at it in the morning.
Stripping off the comfortable old tee, I stop off in the bathroom to wash my face and brush. I’m on my way to bed when I see the text on my phone. Picking it up, I read one line from Stuart: I love you.
A tingle of warmth moves in my chest, and I feel the ice starting to melt.
* * *
Stuart
Patrick wakes me up early Friday morning. I’m on the couch where I fell asleep reading an article Derek sent me about the new breed of identity theft. It was about as boring as I expected, and I lost the battle with sleep around midnight. Not before I sent a text to Mariska—just making sure she knows where I stand.
“What’s up?” I say, answering the call.
“Hey, brother, I’m headed to Bayville. Kenny misses Lane, so I figured I’d drop in for the weekend, let them visit, check in at the office.”
Pushing up to a sitting position, I check the clock. It’s only nine. “You need a place to stay? You could crash here.”
“Really?” I don’t miss the shock in his voice, and I have to confess, I’m a little surprised by the offer myself. I guess losing everything has a way of softening one’s personality.
“Mariska’s back at her place. I have an extra room.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” His voice goes quiet, and for a moment we don’t speak. I hear the sound of music and Lane’s small voice in the background. “I’m really sorry about Mariska and the baby and all.”
I wonder how long it will take for that kind sentiment to stop feeling like a sledgehammer to the guts whenever someone offers it.
“Thanks,” is all I can say.
“I’ve never experienced anything like that, but I bet it leaves you pretty raw.”
“We’re working through it.” I’m ready to change the subject. “What time do you think you’ll be in Bayville?”
“Between four and five. You know where Kenny lives?”
“Text me the address just in case.”
“Will do at my next stop.” I’m about to disconnect when I hear his last words. “Take it easy, bro.”
“You too.”
Even after our father died, Patrick and I hadn’t been able to find a common ground. I suppose it’s a good thing we’re making this step now. Signs of personal growth or something.
What I do know is I’ll be in Bayville at Kenny’s, which means I’ll also most likely see Mariska. Stopping in front of the mirror, I decide it’s time to get a haircut, shave, pick up a new shirt. Things are changing between us as well, and I want to keep the momentum moving forward.
At four, I’m headed out of the condo on my way to the ocean. Bayville is an easy half-hour drive from Princeton, but I don’t want to be too early. I don’t want to seem overly anxious.
Walt (a.k.a., the best doorman in the world), stops me in the lobby. “Got a letter for your fiancée, Mr. Knight. It looks pretty official. I thought if you were headed to see her, she might want it.”
I pause and take the thick envelope from him. Walt is such a great guy. He hasn’t mentioned Mariska’s absence in the weeks I’ve been back. He also doesn’t allow for the fact that it might be a permanent state of affairs. He’ll wait for me to let him know.
The return address is Missouri River General, and I have to fight the temptation to rip it open myself. In any event, I’ll have to see her now. She needs to have whatever this is, and I need to be there when she opens it. I won’t let her suffer another heartbreak alone if I can help it.
Looking out at the countryside on the way to Bayville, I think about all that’s happened, where we are now, and how much we’ve changed since June. Major life crises have a way of either bringing people closer together or driving them apart. I blame myself for letting this one drive Mariska and me apart.
I couldn’t handle the guilt and the pain of what had happened. I didn’t want to be in my own head, and I could only imagine Mariska didn’t want to be around me either. I realize how wrong that type of thinking was. Bill helped me see the error of my ways.
Where does that leave us? Coming back to Princeton has convinced me more than ever it’s not where I want to stay. Still, I can’t leave without Mariska. Before I didn’t talk to her about how I felt. I didn’t let her inside the war in my mind over what I wanted and what I imagined she wanted. Again, this experience has shown me how wrong-headed that approach is.
I told her I would wait, but here I am, holding this letter on the verge of making a change. I need to talk to her. I need to lay everything on the line for her and let her tell me what she wants. I can only hope it’s the same thing as me.
Healing
Mariska
Lane’s little voice is the first thing I hear when I walk in the door. “Daddy tooted!” he shouts from the kitchen. Slayde’s loud laugh from the living room is the next thing I hear.
“Not Daddy. It was Mommy,” Patrick says in a very serious tone. “She has this tummy problem called lactose intolerance.”
“Patrick Knight!” Kenny’s muffled shout comes from somewhere in the back of the apartment.
Lane shakes his little towhead. “It was you, Daddy. Mommy’s not even here.”
I can’t help laughing, which I immediately regret.
“Oh, you know what?” Patrick’s voice is grave. “It was Aunt Mare Mare. Look.”
He points at me, and my eyes go wide. “Patrick!”
“What?” He laughs, those naughty hazel eyes sparkling.
“Mare Mare!” Lane jumps down and runs to me full speed.
“You’re so strong!” I cry, rolling to the side and pushing up, my arms around Kenny’s little boy.
He’s on my lap, sticking his fingers into my hair. “Mare Mare! Your hair is gone!”
“What do you think?” I turn my head to the side, and he feathers his fingertips through the ends. “Like it?”
“You look like some lady…” His big blue eyes, the only physical trait he got from my best friend, are full of wonder.
“What lady?” I lean forward to scrub his cute little nose with mine.
“Some nice lady.”
That makes me laugh, and I haul him up as I stand, carrying him in my arms. “You’re almost too big for me to carry!” I cry.
“I am too big,” he says, very serious. “Lainey says so.”
“Hey, girl.” Patrick steps around to give me a hug. “You should be one of those James-Bond secret-agents. You are seriously rocking this new look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tease, wrinkling my nose. “I’m some nice lady.”
Before I move away, he pulls me close. “I’m sorry about what happened. I wish we could have been there for you.”
Pain echoes in my chest, and I blink down, fighting back a sudden rush of tears. “Thanks.” Clearing my throat, I shake my head.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to kill the mood.”
“No! It’s sweet. I mean, it’s very thoughtful. It’s… just still so fresh.”
His strong arm is around my shoulders, and I’m engulfed in a warm hug. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”
Reaching up, I hold his arm, allowing myself to relax into his hug. I remember what Sylvia said about him as a little boy. “Thank you so much,” I say against his chest.
“If you need anything, just let me know.” He gives me a little pat before releasing me. As he does, his eyes rise over my head. “Hey! You made it.”
When I turn around, my chest squeezes as Stuart walks in the door. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a tan long-sleeved shirt, and his hair is messy. My fingers tingle with wanting to smooth it.
“Hey, bro,” Patrick holds out his hand, and Stuart clasps it. They even pull into a brief shoulder-hug.
My eyes blink wide at their greeting. Stuart and Patrick are notorious for bickering and not getting along. I can’t imagine what happened to change things… other than our recent experience.
Slayde is on his feet and in the kitchen clasping hands with Stuart. “I didn’t know you were driving in.”
“Patrick called this morning,” Stuart’s low voice goes straight to my core, and I turn to the bar, placing my hand on my stomach. It’s an unexpected response. I haven’t felt desire for anyone since the accident, but looking over my shoulder, my insides heat up fast when his smoky hazel eyes meet mine.
“Mariska,” he says with a little nod.
“Hi,” is all I can manage. My cheeks flush as his text from last night burns in my memory. I love you.
Thankfully, Kenny comes jogging from the back room into the kitchen. “Well, hello!” She rises on tiptoes to hug Stuart and then skips over to hug me. “Sorry, I was looking for one of Lane’s trucks. He was crying for it, but I guess he forgot with everyone here.”
As if on cue, Lane comes running through the crowd of grownups with a toy airplane in his hand making bubbly engine noises.
“Lane, did you give Uncle Stuart a hug?”
He freezes in his tracks and looks up, up, up to his uncle. “Did you bring your horse?”
Stuart grins and scrubs his little head. “I had to leave Ranger in Montana this time.”
Lane’s little shoulders droop. “I wanted to ride your horse again.”
“It’s true,” Patrick says, scooping his son up in his arms. “He’s been talking about riding horses with you since last Christmas. You made a big impression.”
“Well, maybe when I’m back in Montana, you can come and stay with me a few days.” Stuart pats his little back, and Lane’s head pops up.
“Okay!” he shouts, and Kenny laughs.
“So, dinner!” she says. “Slayde has steaks marinating. We have baked potatoes, and I snapped the ends off a bunch of asparagus. Mariska, open the wine, and we can sit outside on the patio!”
“You got it!” I circle the bar and grab the corkscrew.
“I can help with that.” Stuart walks over to where I’m standing. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I say nodding quickly, trying to cover the blush on my cheeks. I’m acting like a nervous schoolgirl, which is silly, considering we were engaged.
“You look good. I really like your hair.” He gives me that sexy grin, and my hands fumble with the wine bottle.
“This thing is always slippery,” I mutter.
Large hands cover mine, and he takes the bottle and corkscrew from me. “Let me.”
“Thanks.” I turn quickly, and make my way toward the balcony before I embarrass myself.
Slayde is bent down beside the grill preheating the coals, and Kenny and Patrick are nearby discussing Lane and preschool. Their apartment is on Tom’s River as well, and I go to the railing to look out and inhale a calming breath of air. The brackish scent of the water reminds me of summer camp.
The glass door flies open and Lane grabs Kenny’s hand to drag her inside. Patrick follows them, and when I look over my shoulder, I find Slayde watching me from where he’s crouched by the grill.
“You doing okay?” he says, and I can tell by his expression he knows something’s up.
“A little flustered, I guess.” Then suddenly I remember. “I heard back from Dr. Endicott!”
“Oh, yeah?” He gives the coals a poke before standing and walking to me. “What did he say?”
“He said based on his old notes, he couldn’t confirm his original diagnosis. He suggested I have more tests if I’m worried.”
“Are you?”
Looking back across the lake, I scan the line of the horizon as I think. I think about everything I’ve said and what I know, how I feel. “I don’t know,” is the best I can do. “It depends on how much I can believe about my past and life and the way things ought to be…”
“If it helps, I believe in you. Kenny does, too.”
Gratitude swells in my chest. “It does. Thank you.”
Kenny and Patrick return at that point, followed by Stuart, and we spend the next few hours talking and catching up. Kenny has Lane on her hip, and he gives me his sweet baby version of Patrick’s naughty smile.
“Mare Mare pretty.”
“You’re going to have your hands full when he starts school,” I laugh, touching his little nose.
“I already do!” she groans.
Slayde and Stuart chat like old friends. They’ve been getting to know each other very well in the Princeton office, from what I can tell, and they swap stories of crazy phone calls and unexpected packages.
“It’s like something you’d see in a movie, but worse,” Slayde says, shaking his head. “I never expected her to send me her panties. They weren’t even evidence.”
“Who sent you her panties!?” Kenny’s outraged, and Slayde pulls her to his chest.
Patrick laughs. “Oh, man. Cut and run. Witnesses like that never lead anywhere good.”
When it’s finally time to say goodnight, Lane is asleep on Slayde’s chest, and Kenny is making up the spare room for Patrick. Stuart follows me to the door. We’ve been exchanging warm glances and smiles all evening, but it’s the first time we’ve been semi-alone since he arrived.
“I have something to give you. If it’s okay, I’ll follow you back to your apartment.”
A million possibilities flood my mind, but what strikes me most is I’m not opposed to any of them. “Okay,” I say, giving him a li
ttle smile.
We say goodnight, and he follows me out, all the way to my apartment in his truck. When we reach my door, he hesitates.
“I don’t want you to think I’m crowding you. I just don’t want you to have to read this alone.”
My brow lines. Not what I expected. “What is it?”
“Let’s go inside.”
Inside the kitchen, I flick on the overhead light, and he takes a thick envelope out of his coat pocket.
“After your accident, the hospital did a full battery of tests to be sure you hadn’t sustained a concussion or any other type of head injury. They sent the results to your old address.”
Hearing him say “your old address” feels wrong to me. I hold the envelope a moment looking at my name and the condo address. It’s where I should be, where Stuart is. I don’t pursue that train of thought. Rather, I slide my finger under the flap and rip the envelope open. Pulling out the heavy paper, my brow lines as I scan the writing.
“I don’t know what this means,” I say, trying to decipher the medical jargon.
“Here.” He takes it from me. “I’ve had to look at these before on cases.”
He’s quiet as he reads, and I watch his green-hazel eyes move rapidly. His brow is lowered, and I notice he’s had a haircut. The little bend of curls around his ears that made him look a bit like Patrick are now gone. I couldn’t help also noticing tonight how much Lane resembled his uncle. It sent my mind down the rabbit hole of wondering what his little boys would look like. Our little boys…
“It’s good news,” he says, looking up and catching me in my daydream.
My cheeks pink, and I blink quickly to the papers. “What is it?”
“It basically spells out all the different tests they ran, the CT scan… You passed them all with flying colors.”
“That’s good, I guess?”
“It means your brain function is normal and healthy.” He waits as those words sink in.
“They tested it… Why?”
He reaches out to smooth a loose curl off my cheek. “When you fell, they worried you might have a concussion. The doctor was concerned about your occipital lobe. He said it was all routine tests.”
Broken and Beautiful Page 117
