Mirror Image

by Sandra Brown

  They were all friendly and cheerful when speaking to her. They chose their words carefully, so as not to alarm or distress her. What they didn’t say interested her more than what they did.

  She studied their expressions, which were generally guarded. Their smiles were tentative or strained. Tate’s family treated his wife courteously, but there were undercurrents of dislike.

  “This is a lovely gown,” Zee said, drawing Avery’s thoughts back into the room. She was unpacking the things that Tate had brought from home and hanging them in the narrow closet. “Maybe you should wear this tomorrow for Mandy’s visit.”

  Avery gave her a slight nod.

  “Are you about finished there, Mom? I think she’s getting tired.” Tate moved closer to the bed and looked deeply into her eyes. “You’ll have a full day tomorrow. We’d better let you get some rest.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Nelson said to her. “You’re getting along fine, just like we knew you would. Come on, Zee, let’s give them a minute alone.”

  “Good-bye, Carole,” Zee said.

  They slipped out. Tate lowered himself to the edge of her bed again. He looked weary. She wished she had the courage to reach out and touch him, but she didn’t. He’d never touched her with anything except consolation—certainly not affection.

  “We’ll come in the middle of the afternoon, after Mandy’s nap.” He paused inquiringly; she nodded. “Look for us around three o’clock. I think it would be best if Mandy and I came alone—without anybody else.”

  He glanced away, and drew a hesitant breath. “I have no idea how she’ll respond, Carole, but take into account all that she’s been through. I know you’ve been through a lot, too—a hell of a lot—but you’re an adult. You’ve got more power to cope than she does.”

  He met her eyes again. “She’s just a little girl. Remember that.” Then he straightened and smiled briefly. “But, hey, I’m sure the visit will go well.”

  He stood to go. As usual when he was about to leave, Avery experienced a flurry of panic. He was the only link she had with the world. He was her only reality. When he left, he took her courage with him, leaving her to feel alone, afraid, and alienated.

  “Have a restful evening and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  In farewell, he brushed her fingertips with his own, but he didn’t kiss her. He never kissed her. There wasn’t too much of her that was accessible to kiss, but Avery thought that a husband would have found a way to kiss his wife if he had really wanted to.

  She watched his retreating back until it disappeared through the door of her room. Loneliness crept in from all sides to smother her. The only way she could combat it was to think. She spent her waking hours planning how she was going to tell Tate Rutledge the heartbreaking news that she wasn’t who he thought she was. His Carole was no doubt buried in a grave marked Avery Daniels. How would she tell him that?

  How could she tell him that somebody close to him wanted him dead?

  At least a thousand times during the past week, she had tried convincing herself that her ghostly visitor had been a nightmare. Any one of a number of contributing factors could have made her hallucinate. It was easier to believe that the speaker of those malevolent words had been a delusion.

  But she knew better. He had been real. In her mind, his words were as clear as a tropical lagoon. She had memorized them. The sinister tone and inflection were indelibly recorded on her brain. He had meant what he had said. There was no mistaking that.

  He had to have been someone in the Rutledge family because only immediate family was allowed in the intensive care unit. But who? None seemed to show any malice toward Tate; quite the contrary, everyone seemed to adore him.

  She considered each of them: His father? Unthinkable. It was evident that both parents doted on him. Jack? He didn’t appear to harbor any grudges toward his younger brother. Though Eddy wasn’t a blood relation, he was treated like a member of the family, and the camaraderie between Tate and his best friend was plain to see. She had yet to hear Dorothy Rae or Fancy speak, but she was fairly certain the voice she had heard had been masculine.

  None of the voices she had heard recently belonged to her visitor. But how could a stranger have sneaked into her room? The man had been no stranger to Carole; he had spoken to her as a confidante and coconspirator.

  Did Tate realize that his wife was conspiring to have him killed? Did he guess she meant him harm? Was that why he administered comfort and encouragement from behind an invisible barrier? Avery knew he gave her what he was expected to give, but nothing more.

  Lord, she wished she could sit down with Irish and lay out all the components of this tangle, as she often did before tackling a complex story. They would try to piece together the missing elements. Irish possessed almost supernatural insight into human behavior, and she valued his opinion above all others.

  Thinking about the Rutledges had given Avery a splitting headache, so she welcomed the sedative that was injected into her IV that evening to help her sleep. Unlike the constant brilliance of the ICU, only one small night-light was left burning in her room every night.

  Wavering between sleep and consciousness, Avery allowed herself to wonder what would happen if she assumed the role of Carole Rutledge indefinitely. It would postpone Tate’s becoming a widower. Mandy would have a mother’s support during her emotional recuperation. Avery Daniels could perhaps expose an attempted assassin and be hailed a heroine.

  In her mind, she laughed. Irish would think she had gone crazy for sure. He would rant and rave and probably threaten to bend her over his knee and spank her for even thinking up such a preposterous idea.

  Still, it was a provocative one. What a story she would have when the charade was over—politics, human relationships, and intrigue.

  The fantasy lulled her to sleep.

  Eight

  She was more nervous than she had been before her first television audition at that dumpy little TV station in Arkansas eight years earlier. With damp palms and a dry throat, she had stood ankle deep in mud and swill, gripping the microphone with bloodless fingers and bluffing her way through an on-location story about a parasite currently affecting swine farmers. Afterward, the news director had drolly reminded her that the disease was affecting the swine, not the farmers. But he had given her the job of field reporter anyway.

  This was an audition, too. Would Mandy detect what no one else had been able to—that the woman behind the battered face was not Carole Rutledge?

  During the day, while the caring, talkative nurses had bathed and dressed her, while the physical therapist had gone through her exercises with her, a haunting question persisted: Did she want the truth to be revealed?

  She had arrived at no definite answer. For the time being, what difference did it make who they perceived her to be? She couldn’t alter fate. She was alive and Carole Rutledge was dead. Some cosmic force had deemed the outcome of that plane crash, not she.

  She had tried desperately, with her severely limited capabilities, to alert everyone to their error, but without success. There was nothing she could do about the consequences of it now. Until she could use a tablet and pencil to communicate, she must remain Carole. While playing that role, she could do some undercover research into a bizarre news story and repay Tate Rutledge for his kindness. If he believed that Mandy would benefit from seeing her “mother,” then Avery would temporarily go along with that. She thought the child might be better off by knowing the truth of her mother’s death right away, but she wasn’t in a position to tell her. Hopefully, her appearance wouldn’t frighten the child so badly that she regressed.

  The nurse adjusted the scarf covering her head, where her hair was still no more than an inch long. “There. Not bad at all,” she said, appraising her handiwork. “In a couple more weeks, that handsome husband of yours won’t be able to take his eyes off you. You know, of course, that all the single nurses, as well as a few married ones,” she amende
d dryly, “are wildly in love with him.”

  She was moving around the bed, straightening the sheets and fussing with the flowers, pinching off blooms that had already peaked and were withering.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked. “Surely you’re used to other women lusting after him by now. How long have y’all been married? Four years, I believe he said when one of the nurses asked.” She patted Avery’s shoulder. “Dr. Sawyer works miracles. Wait and see. Y’all will be the best-looking couple in Washington.”

  “You’re taking a lot for granted, aren’t you?”

  At the sound of his voice, Avery’s heart fluttered. She looked toward the door to find him filling it. As he came farther into the room, he said to the nurse, “I’m convinced that Dr. Sawyer can work miracles. But are you that sure I’ll win the election?”

  “You’ve got my vote.”

  His laugh was deep and rich and as comfortable as an old, worn blanket. “Good. I’ll need all the votes I can get.”

  “Where’s your little girl?”

  “I left her at the nurses’ station. I’ll get her in a few minutes.”

  Taking his subtle cue for what it was, the nurse smiled down at Avery and winked. “Good luck.”

  As soon as they were alone, Tate moved to Avery’s side. “Hi. You look nice.” He expelled a deep breath. “Well, she’s here. I’m not sure how it’ll go. Don’t be disappointed if she—”

  He broke off as his eyes flickered across her breasts. She didn’t adequately fill the bodice of Carole’s nightgown, modest as it was. Avery saw the puzzlement register on his face and her heart began to pound.

  “Carole?” he said huskily.

  He knew!

  “My God.”

  How could she explain?

  “You’ve lost so much weight,” he whispered. Gently, he pressed his hand against the side of her breast. He looked over her body. Avery’s blood flowed toward the contact of his hand. A small, helpless sound issued out of her throat.

  “I don’t mean to imply that you look bad—just… different. Stands to reason, I guess, that you would lose several pounds.” Their eyes met and held for a moment, then he withdrew his hand. “I’ll go get Mandy.”

  Avery took a deep breath to steady her jangled nerves. Until now she hadn’t realized how unnerving the discovery of the truth was going to be to both of them. Nor had she realized how far her feelings for him had extended. His touch had left her insides as weak as her extremities.

  But she didn’t have the luxury of letting her emotions crumble now. She braced herself for what was to come. She even closed her eyes, dreading the horror she would see on the child’s face when she first looked at her disfigured “mother.” She heard them enter and approach the bed. “Carole?”

  Slowly, Avery opened her eyes. Tate was carrying Mandy against his chest. She was dressed in a white pinafore with a navy blue and white print dress beneath it. Her legs were encased in white stockings and she had on navy leather shoes. There was a cast on her left arm.

  Her hair was dark and glossy. It was very thick and heavy, but not as long as Avery remembered it. As though reading her mind, Tate explained, “We had to cut her hair because some of it was singed.” It was bobbed to chin length. She wore straight bangs above solemn brown eyes as large and round as quarters and as resigned as a doe’s caught in cross hairs.

  She was a beautiful child, yet she was unnaturally impassive. Instead of registering repulsion or fear or curiosity, which would have been the expected reactions, she registered nothing.

  “Give Mommy the present you brought her,” Tate prompted.

  With her right fist she was strangling the stems of a bouquet of daisies. She timidly extended them toward Avery. When Avery’s fingers failed to grasp them, Tate took them from Mandy and gently laid them on Avery’s chest.

  “I’m going to set you here on the bed while I find some water to put the flowers in.” Tate eased Mandy down on the edge of the bed, but when he moved away, she whimpered and fearfully clutched the lapels of his sports jacket.

  “Okay,” he said, “guess not.” He shot Avery a wry smile and gingerly sat down behind Mandy, barely supporting his hip on the edge of the mattress.

  “She colored this for you today,” he said, addressing Avery over Mandy’s head. From the breast pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a folded piece of manila paper and shook it out. “Tell her what it is, Mandy.”

  The multicolored scribbles didn’t look like anything, but Mandy whispered, “Horses.”

  “Grandpa’s horses,” Tate said. “He took her riding yesterday, so this morning I suggested that she color you a picture of the horses while I was working.”

  Avery lifted her hand and signaled for him to hold the picture in front of her. She studied it at length before Tate laid it on her chest, along with the bouquet of daisies.

  “I think Mommy likes your picture.” Tate continued looking at Avery with that odd expression.

  The child wasn’t much interested in whether or not her artwork was appreciated. She pointed at the splint on Avery’s nose. “What that?”

  “That’s part of the bandages Grandma and I told you about, remember?” To Avery he said, “I thought it was coming off today.”

  She rolled her hand from a palm down position to palm up.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “What’s it doing?” Mandy asked, still intrigued by the splint.

  “It’s sort of like your cast. It’s protecting Mommy’s face until it gets well, like the cast is protecting your arm while the bone inside grows back together.”

  Mandy listened to the explanation, then turned her solemn stare back onto Avery. “Mommy’s crying.”

  “I think it’s because she’s very glad to see you.”

  Avery nodded, closed her eyes, held them closed for several seconds, then opened them. In that way she hoped to convey an emphatic yes. She was glad to see the child, who could so easily have died a fiery death. The crash had left emotional scars, but Mandy had survived and she would live to overcome her residual fear and timidity. Avery was also assailed by guilt and sorrow that she wasn’t who they thought she was.

  In one of those sudden, unexpected moves that only a child can execute, Mandy thrust out her hand, ready to touch Avery’s bruised cheek. Tate reached around her and caught her hand just before it made contact. Then, thinking better of it, he guided her hand down.

  “You can touch it very gently. Don’t hurt Mommy.”

  Tears welled up in the child’s eyes. “Mommy’s hurt.” Her lower lip began to tremble and she inclined toward Avery.

  Avery couldn’t bear to witness Mandy’s anguish. Responding to a spontaneous maternal urge, she reached up and cradled Mandy’s head with her scarred hand. Applying only as much pressure as her strength and pain would afford, she guided Mandy’s head down to her breasts. Mandy came willingly, curling her small body against Avery’s side. Avery smoothed her hand over Mandy’s head and crooned to her wordlessly.

  That inarticulate reassurance communicated itself to the child. In a few moments she stopped crying, sat up, and meekly announced, “I didn’t spill my milk, Mommy.”

  Avery’s heart melted. She wanted to take the child in her arms and hold her tight. She wanted to tell her that spilled milk didn’t matter a damn because they had both survived a disaster. Instead, she watched Tate stand and pull Mandy back up into his arms.

  “We don’t want to wear out our welcome,” he said. “Blow Mommy a kiss, Mandy.” She didn’t. Instead, she shyly wrapped her arms around his neck and turned her face into his collar. “Some other time,” he told Avery with an apologetic shrug. “I’ll be right back.”

  He was gone for a few minutes and returned alone. “I left her at the nurses’ station. They gave her a Dixie cup of ice cream.”

  He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and sat with his hands between his knees. Rather than look at her, he stared at his hands. “Sin
ce it went so well, I may bring her back later in the week. At least I felt like it went well. Did you?” He glanced over his shoulder for her answer. She nodded.

  He diverted his attention back to his hands. “I’m not sure how Mandy felt about it. It’s hard to tell how she feels about anything. We can’t seem to get through, Carole.” The despair in his voice tore at Avery’s heart. “A trip to McDonald’s used to make her do cartwheels. Now, nothing.” His elbows settled on his knees and he dropped his head into his waiting palms. “I’ve tried everything I know of to reach her. Nothing works. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Avery lifted her arm and smoothed back the hair that grew away from his temple.

  He flinched and whipped his head around, almost knocking her hand away. She snatched it back so quickly and reflexively that it sent a pain shooting up her arm. She moaned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, instantly coming to his feet. “Are you all right? Should I call somebody?”

  She made a negative motion with her head, then self-consciously repositioned the slipping scarf. More than ever before, she felt exposed and naked. She wished she could conceal her ugliness from him.

  When he was convinced she was no longer in pain, he said, “Don’t worry about Mandy. Given time, I’m sure she’ll be fine. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m just tired. The campaign is escalating and… never mind. Those are my concerns, not yours. I’ve got to be going. I know our visit has been hard on you. Good-bye, Carole.”

  This time, he didn’t even brush her fingertips in farewell.

  Nine

  “Are we boring you, Tate?”

  Guiltily, he glanced up at his campaign manager. “Sorry.”