The Secret Between Us

by Barbara Delinsky

  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.”

  “Eccentric,” Tom confirmed. “He comes by it honestly.”

  “How did you escape it?”

  There was a short silence, then, “How do you know I did?”

  She tried to decide if he was serious or not. “I guess I don’t,” she finally said.

  There were a dozen more questions she wanted to ask, not the least of which was why, if Cal was taking Coumadin on the up-and-up, he had chosen not to enlighten the doctors, when a car rounded the corner. It was John Colby’s dark sedan. Waving, she caught his eye.

  “I have to run now,” she told Tom. “Thank you for sharing what you did.”

  “Your lawyer will be pleased.”

  “My lawyer won’t know.” She watched John turn into the alley. “Gotta run. Thanks again.” Ending the call, she walked over to the car. She had an issue with Colby. “What happened Saturday night?” she asked.

  “Saturday night?” he echoed, puzzled.

  “Someone reported the Hubers to the police.” She stepped back to let him out of the car.

  “Ah. That. It was a neighbor. He’s a chronic complainer—calls all the time about car radios blaring. He thought the party was too noisy.”

  “Did you tell the Hubers who called?”

  “No,” John replied cautiously and looked at her.

  “Did they ask if it was me?”

  He looked away. “Yes. I told them I hadn’t talked with you at all.”

  “But they didn’t accept that.”

  “No.” He faced her again. “They claimed it was because Grace wasn’t at the party. Wasn’t she invited?”

  “Oh, she was,” Deborah said with a sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “She just didn’t want to go. I lost two patients over this, John. Emily removed the girls from our practice.”

  “Oh, hey, I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely so. “I told her it wasn’t you. Want me to go over and tell her who it really was?”

  Deborah feared that would only raise charges that the police were favoring her. “No. If the trust is gone, it’s gone.”

  “For what it’s worth,” he confided, “it’s just as well Grace didn’t go. The Hubers used to serve their older girl beer when she had friends over. There’s no reason to think they don’t do the same with Kim. I’d have gone there in person to take a look if the noise hadn’t quieted down, but when I didn’t get another complaint, I let it go. ’Course, I’d be kicking myself right now if one of the kids had wrapped his car around a tree. But there was only that one complaint.” He ran his hand over the curve of his stomach. “It’s a tough call in this town, with so many affluent parents and all. Sometimes you have to take them at their word.” He propped an elbow on the roof of the car. “I saw Grace yesterday.”

  Deborah raised her brows. “You did?”

  “At the oval. She was working out with the team. Boy, can she run. Left everyone else in the dust.” He smiled. “She reminded me of you.”

  “I never ran.”

  “No, you swam, but you were fast
. Still have those trophies?”

  “Uh-huh. They’re in a carton in the basement.”

  “Not on display? You should be proud of those things. You did great for the local team.”

  Deborah hadn’t thought about the trophies in a while. The last time she had taken them out was to show the kids, and then, only because Karen had gone on about them. To Greg, they were the epitome of convention, won at a time when he had been building houses in the inner city, wearing long hair, grayed shorts, and a week’s worth of sweat. By the time he met Deborah, he had started his business and was growing more conventional himself, but he never warmed to her high school trophies.

  Now, in response to John’s question, she shrugged. “Once I got married and had kids, the prizes didn’t mean much. I don’t want to live in the past.”

  “That’s smart. It’s not good for the kids. Some just can’t duplicate what Mom and Dad did—not that your Grace isn’t a winner on her own, but you know what I mean. You’re one strong lady. Grace has big shoes to fill. She still into science?”

  Deborah nodded.

  “Gonna join you and your dad?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And she wants it, like you did?”

  “She says she does.”

  “Better be sure about that,” he advised, staring at his shoes. “I know what it’s like to disappoint a parent. You want to be a what? my dad used to ask. My family’s all lawyers.”

  “You’re the chief of police. That’s not too shabby.”

  “There’s a difference, my parents would say if they were alive.” He looked up. “Don’t know what got me going on that. I guess it’s still a sore spot. You’re such a rock, even now after the accident. I worry about Grace. She’s young. She may not be as strong.”

  “I think the week just overwhelmed her.”

  “I hope she’s not isolating herself from her friends.”

  Deborah gave it a positive spin. “She’s just lying low.”

  “Huh. Grace Kelly’s girl should’ve done that.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Remember Grace Kelly?”

  “Of course,” Deborah said with a touch of unease. “She was living out every young girl’s dream. I was barely into my teens when she died.”