Over the Edge

by Brandilyn Collins

  Poison?

  "Maybe he did tell the truth about when he broke in," Jud said. "It's possible the nightmares started long after the actual event."

  Brock nodded. "Maybe. Look, if his story's true, and she's got Lyme—great. A round of antibiotics will take care of it."

  "He said I'd need long-term treatment because I've had the disease for awhile."

  Brock puffed out air. "Jannie, no matter when you got it—if you have Lyme at all—two to four weeks of antibiotics eradicate the spirochetes in the body, it's as simple as that. The man's lying through his teeth. He's one of those nuts in the Lyme community who'll stop at nothing to prove his point. Maybe he's working on some so-called medicine that could be worth millions, if only my committee will declare the disease is serious and widespread." Brock's face contorted. "What's even more amazing is that he thinks he can get away with this. That I would disavow clear scientific findings to please some madman!"

  I fixed Brock with a dull stare. I did not want to go to the hospital.

  Brock and Jud Maxwell continued talking, the detective prodding him for more information about his committee and why its findings were so important. I half listened as Brock explained how the findings were crucial to the correct health care of patients. That they were key in determining treatment procedures, and ultimately insurance companies used them in fixing coverage policies—although insurance was not the committee's focus.

  Jud stood and clicked off the tape recorder. "I'd like to check that sliding door in your kitchen—the one the caller said was his entry point. And I'll look around in the backyard."

  I looked to Brock. "What'll we tell Lauren?"

  "I'll just step out back." Officer Maxwell smiled at me. "I'll be unobtrusive about it."

  Brock rose. "I'll take you."

  They left the room. I sat like a lump in my chair, listening to the distant mumble of the television. Maybe if Lauren was involved enough in some show she'd pay little attention to the policeman searching her backyard.

  Sometime later the men returned, Jud reporting he'd seen nothing. No sign of a break-in or even a scratch on the door lock. No discernible footprints in the grass. I could have told him as much. I'd been through that door and out in the backyard many times in the past few days. If anything were amiss, I'd have spotted it.

  The detective prepared to leave. He gave Brock and me each one of his cards. "I'll be in touch with you soon about tapping the phones, Dr. McNeil. And I'll need you to keep me apprised of the hospital test findings."

  "Right."

  "You're headed to the hospital now?"

  No, Brock.

  "Yes."

  "You need help transporting?"

  "We'll be all right." Brock thumbed the corner of the business card. "Look, I want this kept quiet. Last thing we need is for this to be in the media."

  Jud held up a hand. "They won't hear it from me. But in investigating this case I will have to talk to your associates at work. Someone may have seen or heard something that will trigger a lead."

  Brock frowned. "There's no point in doing that. Nobody at Stanford's going to know a thing. This is the work of some Lyme awareness nut."

  I don't want to go to the hospital.

  "That may well be," Jud said. "But we have to start somewhere. And that somewhere is the people around you. In this case those closest to your work."

  Brock stared at the detective, clearly not happy. Well, what did he expect? You call the police about a break-in, they have to follow up.

  My husband never liked not being in control.

  After an awkward moment, Brock gave a curt nod.

  He showed Jud Maxwell to the door. I remained in the chair, my mind numb. Vaguely I registered the smell of roast wafting through the house. I looked at my watch. Four forty-five. The meat would be done in another . . . what?

  How long did roast take to cook, anyway?

  I stared at Brock's desk, trying to remember. Trying to comprehend what was happening.

  Could poison act like this? Take away my strength and mind function so quickly?

  Brock returned, steely determination in his every move. "All right. I'm taking you to Stanford's emergency room. We need to get tests started as soon as possible."

  "But Lauren . . ."

  Brock rubbed his forehead. "I'll call your friend—Katie's mom. What's her name?"

  I had to think. What was my good friend's name? Something with an M. "Maria."

  "Maria. We'll take Lauren over there for the night." He leaned down and laid a hand on my knee. "We'll just let her continue to think Jud's visit was about another matter—nothing to do with your illness. All right?"

  I nodded.

  He straightened and swiveled toward the door.

  "Brock, what if it is Lyme?"

  My husband turned back, a scowl on his face. "Then you're in good shape." His words were curt. "If it's Lyme, antibiotics will soon cure it."

  I so wanted to believe that. But the frightening warnings of the man who'd called me still rang in my head.

  Chapter 7

  THE REST OF THE EVENING BLURRED. BROCK HELPED ME INTO HIS CAR, Lauren in tow. Our daughter toted her backpack and a small suitcase. Her cheeks were tearstained. She showed no excitement at staying with her friend on a school night. Instead she'd begged to come with us, stay by my side in the emergency room. I'd argued against Lauren spending the night with Katie. Why couldn't we just pick her up on the way home from the hospital?

  "I can help Mom while she's there, Daddy!" Lauren's mouth trembled as she argued one more time.

  "Honey, no, you can't." Brock put his hands on Lauren's shoulders and drew her close. "You just stay with Katie and don't worry about anything. I'll take care of your mom."

  "You promise?"

  "Promise."

  I heard the exchange from the front passenger seat, my heart swelling. This was awful. It was one thing to make me sick. But to scare my daughter? To harm Lauren in any way? That was unforgivable. Whatever this man had done to me, I would hunt him down when I was well. I would make him pay.

  Brock drove to El Camino and headed south toward Katie's house. I kept my eyes closed, feeling the turns, the stops and starts at intersections. Everything seemed hazy and disconnected. Twice I asked Brock about the roast I'd put in the oven.

  "We took it out, Jannie. Remember?"

  "Oh." Vaguely I did. "Yes."

  At Katie's house, Lauren opened my door to lean in and hug me hard before we drove off. The hug hurt. My muscles were so tender. I tried not to wince.

  "Love you, Mom."

  "Love you too, honey. I'll see you soon."

  Maria crouched down to greet me next, laying a hand on my cheek. "I'll be praying for you."

  I gave her a wan smile. Thanks to Maria, who'd talked to me about her faith, I'd become a Christian two years ago. "I can use that."

  At the exchange I could feel apathy and disdain roll off Brock. He had no need for God and couldn't understand mine. That is, he wouldn't understand. I'd explained it more than once—the cleansing I'd experienced. The new purpose and freedom. God had helped heal the wounds of my past. But Brock wanted no part of it. And he'd talked me out of attending church with Lauren. With his constant work, we had so little time together—and now I wanted to leave him every Sunday morning? Truth was, as much as he'd drawn away from me in the past months, Sunday did seem to be the only day we had together.

  Maria stepped back from the car. She and Lauren waved as Brock and I drove away.

  On our trip back north to the hospital, silence hovered. Brock finally broke it as we pulled into the emergency room entrance. "We're going to have to tell the doctors about what's happened—the phone calls and our police report. They need to understand why they should be looking
for poisons and things they wouldn't normally look for."

  "Okay." I licked my lips. "Brock. What do you think is wrong with me?"

  He hesitated. "I don't know."

  We reached the Stanford Hospital emergency room. Brock walked me in as I leaned heavily on his arm. My equilibrium felt off, as if a breeze would tip me over. And the bottoms of my feet had a strange burning sensation. Brock settled me into a chair and went to check me in. The place was nearly empty. I could hear my husband's voice, declaring who he was and demanding that someone see his wife immediately.

  I could barely sit up in the waiting chair.

  How could this happen so fast? How could I plunge from healthy to hapless in so few days? I stared at the hands twisting in my lap. Maybe Brock was right. That man who'd stalked me had injected me with some kind of poison. Once the doctors found it in my system, they'd know what to do. They'd fix me. In a few days I would be better.

  Brock sat down beside me, tapping his knees, his back not touching the chair. Such energy it took to be impatient.

  A nurse soon appeared to usher us into a small room. They laid me on a bed and brought me a warmed blanket. A white-coated physician entered, introducing himself as Dr. Sherar. He looked in his sixties, thinning brown hair and a round, friendly face. The kind of doctor you'd instantly trust. He and Brock seemed to know each other. They shook hands. I didn't hold mine out to shake. It would hurt too much.

  Once again I explained all my symptoms. They sounded so nonsensical I found myself not wanting to name them all. A bona fide hypochondriac would be proud of my list of complaints.

  "This tiredness is so . . ." I had a word, but it wouldn't come. "Different. Weird."

  "How so?" Dr. Sherar looked down upon me, a concerned frown etching his forehead.

  "It's so fierce. I've been pregnant. Had the flu. All the normal things that make you tired. But this is like . . . you know those lead blankets they put on you for protection when you get an X-ray? How heavy they are? I feel like t-ten of those are on me. But not on me. In me. Wrapped around my lungs. It's so hard to move. It's like walking in a . . ." The word I wanted ran and hid. I pushed out air, biting my lip. "Swimming pool. With the water up to your neck."

  Dr. Sherar and Brock exchanged a glance. "All right. Let's take a look at you."

  He lifted my right arm and probed the elbow. Pain shot through me. "Ah!"

  "That hurts, huh."

  I nodded.

  He felt the muscles. I gasped again. My legs were just as bad, as if he were pressing deep bruises. My chest was the worst. "You're pushing too hard!"

  "I'm sorry. I'm actually being gentle. The area is very tender."

  I didn't want any more. I just wanted to go home. "Please." Tears blurred my eyes. "Stop."

  Dr. Sherar and Brock left the room. I could hear them talking in low tones in the hall but couldn't make out the words. No matter. I knew Brock was telling Dr. Sherar about the threatening phone calls, discussing with him the various poisons that may have been injected into me.

  Long minutes ticked by. I drifted into a fitful sleep.

  A nurse awoke me to take blood. She drew vials of it. "Hey, gonna leave me some?" I gave her what I knew was a pasty smile. She patted my shoulder.

  "Almost done."

  I also gave them a urine sample.

  Dr. Sherar and Brock returned. "Mrs. McNeil," Dr. Sherar nodded at me, "we'd like you to stay the night. There are tests we need to run on you tomorrow."

  My mouth opened. I looked from him to my husband, betrayal sluicing through my veins. I thought of Lauren with her suitcase, preparing to stay the night with Katie. Brock had known this would happen.

  "Why can't I just come back tomorrow?"

  "Jannie." Brock's voice was firm. "You need to stay."

  Dr. Sherar picked up my chart. "Who's your regular physician?"

  "Dr. Oppenheimer. But he's an OB/GYN."

  "You don't have a family physician, a general practitioner?"

  "No. I . . . I've always been so healthy." I looked from the doctor to Brock. "I really don't want to stay."

  Dr. Sherar patted my arm. "Few people do. But we think it's important in your case to check you out thoroughly. We'll make sure you see some specialists here."

  I protested a third time, but my words fell on deaf ears. Before I knew it, Brock had secured me a private room. He saw that I was provided with necessities like a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  Ensconced in a cranked-up bed with three pillows for support, I called Maria's house to talk to Lauren. I'd insisted to Brock on breaking the news myself. If he thought me completely helpless he had another thing coming. I still hadn't forgiven him for tricking me into admission.

  "I'll be home tomorrow, sweetie." I kept my voice as steady as possible. My elbow could not get comfortable. I had to bend it too much to hold the phone. "Then I'll be with you again."

  "I don't want you staying in the hospital." The last word stretched out, turned off-key. Lauren sniffled over the line.

  "It's okay, honey, don't you worry. I'll get better soon. You'll see." As I hung up I shot Brock a dark look.

  He hung around, pacing, until a nurse brought me dinner. Chicken and mashed potatoes and peas. A roll and butter. I surveyed the meal, not in the least bit hungry.

  Brock planted a kiss on my head. "Now that you're settled, I should go."

  "Already?"

  He made a tsking sound. "I have to get back to the office and wrap up some things. I hadn't expected to leave so soon. On the way I'm going to call Jud, tell him you'll be staying here tonight."

  I gazed at him, a dozen questions and suspicions filtering through my head. None would form into words. Some I pushed to the corner of my brain marked No Trespassing. "Okay."

  He gave me a pained smile and turned to go.

  I watched the back of him as he walked away from me. "Brock?"

  My husband turned.

  "I love you."

  He nodded. "Love you too, Jannie."

  As he disappeared through the door his words drifted through me, as light and insubstantial as air.

  FRIDAY

  Chapter 8

  AS EXHAUSTED AS I WAS THAT NIGHT I COULD NOT SLEEP. I awoke again and again in a sweat, my body aching as if I'd just endured a triathlon. I thought of Lauren, grateful she wasn't sleeping at our house. She wasn't safe there, none of us were. What were we going to do about that? Could the police post a guard outside our home?

  What about Brock tonight, in our bedroom by himself? What if that stalking man came back with a tick for him?

  And what Stalking Man had done—it wasn't really blackmail, as Brock claimed. Blackmail was a threat of harm if you didn't do something. But the man had already harmed me. So if I didn't convince Brock to change his medical opinion of Lyme—so what?

  I stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to logic through that. Something didn't fit.

  The man's a lunatic. Why should anything he does make sense?

  When morning finally came I pushed myself from bed and onto shaky legs to visit the bathroom. Every muscle hurt with new desperation, and my body weighed a ton.

  Back in bed I called Brock on his cell phone.

  "How are you today?"

  "Worse."

  Silence. "We'll find the cause of this, Jannie."

  Let's hope. "Have you heard anything from Jud?"

  "I'll be talking with him to see how soon they'll be able to get those phone records. Now you just worry about yourself, okay?" Brock would come by to see me when he could, between classes and lab experiments and all the myriad critical tasks he undertook each day.

  As I hung up depression settled over me, coated with fear of the unknown. I wasn't sure of my husband anymore. And I didn't know
my own body. I aimed a vacant stare at the wall, dark imaginings filling my head.

  God, please help me. I'm drowning here.

  From somewhere in the depths of me vague words arose and shimmered. "God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble." Where was that from? A psalm? Wherever it came from, I needed that kind of promise right now. I repeated it aloud. Wrapped the words around my heart.

  That same hour the tests began.

  They drew more blood, why I didn't know. Hadn't they already taken enough? And they took another urine sample. After that I was transported to a room to see a specialist. "What for?" I asked as a buxom nurse helped me into a wheelchair. Her hands were cold and her blonde curls tight.

  "They're going to test you for multiple sclerosis, hon."

  MS? Is this what Brock suspected?

  Rolling down the hall and into the elevator, smelling the antiseptic of mopped floors, I numbed out. People with MS lost the ability to walk. It couldn't be cured. How would I take care of Lauren?

  "I don't have MS," I told the nurse. "I have Lyme."

  "Well, we're testing for all kinds of things, just to be sure."

  The two-part test was horrendous. Surely it came straight out of Nazi Germany. First a nurse attached electrodes to my legs, sending shocks at higher and higher levels until I didn't think I could stand it. I gasped and moaned at each jolt of electricity. If I'd possessed normal energy, if my entire body didn't already ache, I'd have endured it better. I'm no baby when it comes to pain. But I was already worn down. The shocks were followed by long needles stuck deep into my leg muscles while on a computer monitor my nerves twanged a virtual scream.

  By the time the procedure was done I was bathed in sweat and trembling.

  The doctor studied the test results. "Doesn't look to me like you have MS," he pronounced.

  Back in my room I was visited by an infectious disease specialist. Dr. Belkin, a trim man with long-fingered hands, was taking on my case. "We want to be completely thorough, Mrs. McNeil. Your husband insists on it, and we agree." He firmed his lips in a doctorly smile.