Back Where She Belongs

by Dawn Atkins

  “How about before the accident? Were people afraid then?”

  “Some were. There was talk about another layoff. It was kind of upsetting when they fired Mr. Pescatore—he was the factory manager. It was because production got behind, but people said it was because he talked about Wharton closing down or outsourcing the factory to some plant in Kentucky. Some engineers left because of the rumors—took jobs in other states.”

  “That would be alarming.”

  “Yeah, plus Mr. Pescatore was so mad he ran a forklift with a palette of batteries right off the loading dock. He wasn’t on it and no one got hurt or anything. He kept yelling that he would sue Wharton, that he’d make them regret this. Everyone was pretty flipped out.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Mr. Goodman is calmer. He took Mr. Pescatore’s place. Some think he’s too calm, that he won’t push production. I try not to think about it and just do my job.”

  So Faye hadn’t been kidding about tensions being high. What the company needed now was strong, stable leadership, and a clear communications plan to reassure employees, clarify the company’s status and counter false rumors. That would be a daunting job for anyone, let alone a man more comfortable with numbers than people, who was worried about his wife.

  Joseph would need help—anyone would—and Tara could provide it. When emotions ran high, a neutral professional could be invaluable when it came to setting priorities and making crucial decisions.

  “Will you confirm the meeting for me?” she said to Carol. Monday would be busy, if she intended to meet with the police chief, too, but it was a relief to have more to do than worry and wait at her sister’s bedside.

  “Absolutely. Faye would be glad you’re here.”

  “I hope so. I hope I can make a difference.” As they exchanged numbers, a terrible thought occurred to Tara. What if the car wreck wasn’t an accident? What if it was related to the troubles at Wharton?

  The livelihoods of a lot of people depended on Wharton’s continued success. If her father and sister were seen as failing the company, would someone take action against them? What about Joseph? He’d been acting strangely. Could he have run the car off the road in a rage?

  No way. Joseph was not a rash or violent person. What about the man they’d fired? Pescatore. He’d threatened a lawsuit and vandalized company property. He’d wanted them to regret firing him. Would he have forced her father into an accident?

  It seemed far-fetched, but she would be careful about sharing her doubts with people. Every person she talked to raised her suspicions. She would find out what happened that night and do what she could to help her family’s company. She couldn’t imagine a better use for her talent and training.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Tara woke exhausted. She’d had a restless night full of worries and plans. She dragged herself out of bed to run, ate the freshly sliced peach and yogurt Judith had set out for her, then took her laptop to the hospital to work on new client proposals between visits with Faye. She missed Rita’s warmth, though the other ICU nurses seemed efficient and caring.

  Joseph brought her mother in the afternoon for a short stay. The control her mother had marshaled for the funeral seemed to have drained her. She seemed shaky and small, the circles under her eyes darker than ever, her face gray and drawn. Joseph seemed equally exhausted. She knew he faced a huge challenge the next day at Wharton. The meeting would likely involve dividing up Faye’s and her father’s duties among the managers.

  When Tara returned home late that afternoon, Judith was accepting delivery of a huge basket of food and wine. “From Bill Fallon,” she said to Tara, rolling her eyes. “Again.”

  Tara jolted. Was the police chief hitting on her mother? Had her mother encouraged him? Tara couldn’t imagine that. Her parents had never seemed close, but she’d believed them to be faithful to each other. “What’s he up to?” Tara asked.

  “He’s always been a kiss-up,” Judith said. Judith didn’t seem to be suspicious, which relieved Tara a bit.

  Uneasily she realized that her questions might uncover secrets about her family she’d rather not know. That couldn’t stop her. She had to know the truth, good or bad.

  Early Monday morning at the hospital, Tara found Joseph asleep, slumped against the back of one of the waiting-room chairs, his briefcase on his lap, legs sprawled, wearing one black sock and one blue one. The poor guy. Tara tapped his shoulder and held out the to-go cup of coffee she’d grabbed in the cafeteria.

  “Wh... What is it?” he said, rubbing his face.

  “Drink. You need this more than I do.”

  “Thanks.” He clutched it in both hands and sipped as if his life depended on it. “Did you bring your mother?”

  “Judith’s driving her later. Mom’s car is back, but she doesn’t seem steady enough to drive.”

  Joseph nodded, drinking more coffee.

  “How’s Faye doing?” she asked, wishing she could ask him about the office quarrels, but knowing it was too soon and too abrupt.

  “They’re moving her to a regular room.” He took another sip. “This coffee’s good. You get it downstairs? Was there cream or just powdered crap?”

  “Wait! What? She’s getting out of the ICU? She’s better? Why didn’t you call us?”

  “She’s far from better. This just means she’s stable.”

  “That’s big, Joseph. It’s great news. We have to tell Mom. It’s a first step.”

  But her enthusiasm had no effect on Joseph who maintained his grim expression. “Don’t know when they’ll move her. Could be anytime...or hours from now. I’ve got to take off. Lots going on at work.”

  “Absolutely.” Like the meeting she hoped to drop in on later in the morning.

  A half hour later, two orderlies arrived to move Faye. Tara peeled the Sunset Crater photo from the bed tray, and accepted the plastic bag with Faye’s personal belongings from one of the techs. She tucked the bag under her arm and walked beside the bed as they rolled it toward the elevator.

  On the second floor, they headed down a hall. Tara spotted Rita backing out of a supply closet and stopped to talk to her, watching as the techs entered the last room on the left. “Rita?” she said.

  The nurse jumped, dropping two boxes, the beads in her hair clicking wildly. “Damn, girl, you took a year off my life.”

  Tara bent to pick up the boxes of latex gloves, handing them back. “Sorry, but Faye’s moving onto your floor. Last room on the left.” She pointed.

  “And here I thought I’d ditched you.” She grinned. “Don’t forget headphones when you bring in that foul music.”

  “I won’t.” She realized Rita might be able to help her with a crucial question. “You can look at my sister’s chart, right?”

  “Why?” Rita’s eyes narrowed.

  “I need to know if she had alcohol in her bloodstream when they brought her in. Could you check for me?”

  “Sorry. Your brother-in-law is the family contact. He would have to ask one of her doctors to do that. Talk to him.”

  “I can’t, Rita. He’ll take it wrong. It’s a long story, but, trust me, it wouldn’t go well.” She didn’t want to make Joseph more guarded around her. “People are saying she was driving drunk. It’s her reputation on the line.” She threw in a guess. “Plus, it could mess with our insurance coverage.”

  “No can do. And don’t give me those sad-girl eyes. People lose their jobs for violating patient privacy.”

  “What about her regular M.D.? Could he see her chart?” Their longtime family physician Dr. McAlister had been at the funeral.

  “Depends on what releases got signed, whether or not he’s got privileges at this hospital.”

  “I’ll ask him, I guess. They brought my father here, too. He died in the accident. He’d have a chart, right?”

  “And his next of kin would be the one to request the information.”

  “That would be my mom, I guess, but—”

  “You know wha
t I’m going to say.”

  “Patient privacy, right. But if you happen to glance at the chart...”

  “The favor shop is closed,” Rita said. “Now leave me be.” She set off with her armload of boxes.

  Tara sighed. Asking her mother did not sound like a promising option. She headed for Faye’s room. The orderlies were gone and the room was eerily quiet compared to the ICU, where a nurse was always popping in to change an IV bag, get blood or check vital signs. This room was utterly still. It almost echoed. It was like they’d given up on her.

  In a way, they had. Medically, they’d done all they could.

  Hurry up and heal, Faye, Tara silently commanded, looking down at her sister. She seemed to barely raise a bump in the sheets, as if she were wasting away. Tara attached the photo to the new bed tray. Faye’s smile in the picture was a heartbreaking contrast with how she looked now. The bruises had begun to fade, but she was so pale, so lifeless.

  “What you need is a makeover,” she said cheerfully. “That’ll be fun.” Tara would bring in makeup, nail polish, a flatiron and comb for Faye’s frizzy hair. Faye hated when it got bushy like it was now.

  The room could use livening up, too, she thought, looking around. Yeah. She’d make the place so homey that life would be far more welcoming than death. At the very least, it would make Tara feel like she was doing something.

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Carol. Meeting postponed until Wednesday. Joseph must not have felt ready. That wasn’t a good sign for the company, Tara knew, but that cleared Tara’s day for a visit to Chief Fallon.

  She still held the sack with Faye’s belongings, so she carried it to the cupboard. What was inside anyway? Bloody clothes? Probably. She twisted the top of the sack, not wanting to see any of that. Then she noticed it felt boxy at the bottom. And heavy. Faye’s purse probably. And it might have her phone. It felt heavy enough to have an iPad. Both might contain clues about that night.

  Tara braced herself to look inside. The first thing she saw was a shoe. It had splashes of dried mud...or was that blood? Her stomach lurched and she averted her gaze, checking the contents by feel. She found Faye’s purse—leather, messenger-bag style—and pulled it out by its strap. It was merely dusty, thank God.

  Inside was the usual purse debris—lipstick, mirror, wallet with cash and credit cards, tissues, gum, pen, keys—and an iPad. No phone.

  The iPad would have contacts and a calendar, if Faye was as organized as Tara knew she would be. At the very least, she could get Dr. McAlister’s number. Her heart racing, Tara clicked the on button and located Faye’s calendar. The only thing written for the day of the accident was a grocery list: Crowley’s—low-carb ketchup, salad stuff, prescriptions.

  What medicine had Faye been on? Tara would pick up the pills when she got to town. Sure enough, Dr. McAlister’s name and number were listed. Tara left a message for the doctor on the machine, which informed her he would return calls at the end of the day.

  That was that. Tara shoved the sack into the cupboard and shut the door, unwilling to examine its contents further. She’d felt only one shoe, she realized. Where was the other one? She didn’t want to think about that.

  “I’ll find out what happened,” she said, bending down to kiss her sister’s cool forehead. “Just wake up, okay?”

  She was so preoccupied driving back to Wharton that she missed the business loop exit. As the highway curved and began to climb the mountain, she realized she was about to pass the accident site.

  Her stomach bottomed out. She stared straight ahead, trying not to see, but her peripheral vision caught orange warning cones in front of the crushed guardrail and the flutter of a torn strip of yellow caution tape tied around a eucalyptus tree.

  Her mind conjured up the accident again, this time with more detail—her sister’s shriek as she wrestled with the wheel and slammed the brakes, her father’s bellow, the crunch of metal, the snap of breaking branches, smashing glass...the car rolling and rolling, finally stopping with a sickening thud.

  Panic surged inside Tara. Her vision grayed and her stomach heaved. Scared she might wreck, she gripped the wheel, slowed down and pulled to the shoulder to compose herself. When she finally felt normal, she looked out the windshield. Across the highway she saw more caution tape tied to a railing. On the highway below were bright black tire marks in parallel snakes. Was this where the accident had begun? This far back from the rail? Had her sister swerved to avoid hitting another car or an animal? There were deer in the hills, coyotes and javelina. It could have been a dog.

  She got out of her car and surveyed the distance between the swerve marks and the rail. Not another mark on the highway. Surely slamming on the brakes would have left more rubber. In fact, she realized the car had to have been going pretty fast to hit the barrier hard enough to go over.

  This did not make sense. Had the brakes failed? Should she go down the embankment and check the crash site? She didn’t have the nerve.

  Tara took several slow breaths, forcing her stomach to settle, digging her nails into her palms to distract herself from the woozy sensation. When she felt safe to drive, she went into town.

  Her first stop was Crowley’s for Faye’s pills. She pasted a smile on her face, then marched straight to the back of the store, where the pharmacy was, relieved not to hear her name called by any shoppers, thankful she didn’t recognize the pharmacist, either.

  “I’m picking up for Faye Wharton. I’m her sister.”

  The pharmacist’s eyebrows lifted, clearly knowing about Faye, but she hesitated for only a moment before she said, “Certainly,” and went to get the orders. There were two pills—one for anxiety and one for depression.

  Tara carried them out to the car, troubled to learn her sister was so emotionally upset. How long had she been struggling? At least a month, since the orders were refills. Faye had always been even-tempered and optimistic. Happy, as her mother had pointed out. What had shaken her so much she’d sought medical help? The prescribing doctor was Eli Finch, not McAlister, so probably a psychiatrist. Locating the number among Faye’s contacts, she called it. Pretending that she wanted to cancel an upcoming appointment for her sister, Tara chatted with the receptionist, learning that Faye had seen Dr. Finch in Tucson five times, starting not long before the call she’d made to Tara. No doubt Faye would have shared a little of her troubles if Tara hadn’t been so damned oblivious, busy showing off instead of listening.

  Then she had another thought: What if the medication had affected Faye’s driving? Made her sleepy or inattentive or slow to respond? That would be horrible. And when Faye woke up and learned her condition had caused the accident, she would be devastated.

  Setting aside that worry, Tara drove the few blocks to the town complex and headed inside the seventies-era building. She was still reeling from seeing the accident site, but she was determined to find out what she could from Fallon.

  Tara entered the complex. The police department was to the right, the utilities department and post office to the left. Down the center was a wing of glassed-in offices. She was startled to see Dylan through the glass of the second office. He was town manager, so of course that made sense. Just the sight of him cheered her, she found, eased a little of her distress.

  As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up. Tara felt that swirl of excitement and relief...that twist and sink of her stomach that she used to feel when they spotted each other. Had he sensed her presence?

  He smiled, then started out of his office, but was intercepted by a woman with a file. Tara nodded and waved her hand, telling him to stick with his work. She would stop by when she’d finished with Fallon.

  She headed for the police receptionist, who was flipping through a magazine. Cosmopolitan, Tara saw when she got close enough.

  “I’d like to talk with Chief Fallon, if I may,” she said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The receptionist lifted her eyes reluctantly from Sixty Tricks to Unman Your Man.


  Really? Was the guy that busy? Tara took a deep breath. She had to be patient. Small towns weren’t known for their efficiency.

  When the receptionist saw Tara, she grinned. “Tara Wharton! Hi! Robin Walker. Reed’s little sister? Remember?”

  Oh, yeah. Robin had been a chunky thirteen-year-old with braces and acne, miserable in the way only girls who’d just walked into puberty could be. “Sure.”

  “You gave me this expensive makeup you said you didn’t need and made Reed apologize when he said I looked like a slut wearing it.”

  “That’s right.” Tara had emptied out her cosmetics bag for the girl, who had to cope with four older brothers, including Reed, the guy who’d dumped his motorcycle the night Dylan acted as her white knight.

  “I still use that brand. It’s the best zit cover-up ever.” She turned her face side to side to demonstrate.

  “You look great, Robin.” She smiled. “So how about—?”

  “Chief Fallon, right. He hates drop-ins. Hates them.” She studied Tara. “Tell you what. He’s pretending to prepare for a town council meeting, but he’s actually playing online poker. If I catch him, he’ll get flustered and say yes to whatever I ask.”

  “I really appreciate your help.”

  “It’s the least I could do. Pay it forward I always say.” She jumped up and went to tap on Fallon’s door before she entered. When she came out, she gave Tara a thumbs-up. “The chief will see you now,” she said in an official tone.

  It was ridiculous to have to play games to talk to an officer of the law, but she hadn’t really expected better. She was glad to learn she’d helped Robin. Thinking about it, she realized the girl would likely tell her brother that Tara had come in to talk to the police. Word would spread and soon the whole town would know. She hadn’t thought about that. She’d always hated living in the fishbowl of Wharton.

  Chief Fallon came around his desk and clasped her hand in both of his. “So sorry for your loss,” he said, holding her gaze too long, as if to impress her with the enormity of his sympathy. He was a big man with a barrel chest, gray hair in a military cut and a florid face. “How’s your mother holding up?”