"Put that thing down."
The cane slipped from my hands, the pain in my knuckles too great to hold its weight. It hit the floor with a rattle that pierced my ears. I ogled the thing, shiny and slick, my mouth ajar and sweat trickling down my spine. Despair sucked me in until I nearly fell over. I grasped the sofa cushions, steadying myself. There. There went my heart, pulsing again. Draining so much energy.
How miserable that I was sick at this moment, my anger left with no way to vent, my muscles like puddles of water.
"I will talk to Lauren." Brock sounded so calm, so quiet. "We'll work it out. She'll come to visit me as often as possible. We can take joint custody. I'd never walk away from my daughter, you know that."
"You are walking away, Brock. You step through that door, and she stays here—that's w-walking away. Just try explaining to Lauren how Alicia"—I sing-songed the name—"is more important than she is."
He looked at his hands. Hit a nerve, did I, Dr. McNeil?
"And what am I supposed to do, Brock? I don't think I can even d-drive. You're just leaving us to fend for ourselves?"
"You'll get better."
"Will I, now."
"Yes." His voice sharpened. "Probably about as soon as I pack my things."
I glared at him. "You're the liar here, not me."
He pinned me with a look. "It takes two to make a marriage fall apart."
"Do tell. And what exactly is it that I've . . . done to you? Other than take care of you and our house and child. Other than love you"—my voice caught—"with my entire life."
He looked away, his jaw set. "You've put me through a lot of worry in the past few days."
Well, excuse me.
"Brock. I didn't know you were leaving. Naïve as that makes me, I didn't know. This illness, the phone calls—they're not faked. I know you'd l-love to believe that. Makes it easier to walk out that door. 'Cause what kind of man leaves his w-wife when she can barely walk? Not to mention when some man's stalking her."
Brock stared at the floor. Shook his head.
I tore my eyes away from the sickening sight of him. Brought a hand to my forehead. Should I have known he had someone else? Had I been that stupid? All those late nights 'at work,' the months of his pulling away from me. Maybe I had known, but I hadn't allowed myself to see. How could I, after all Brock had done for me? That mistreated, ailment-faking child had grown up but was never quite whole until Brock stepped into her life with the missing pieces.
Now Brock was missing a few of his own. Like common sense. And morals and loyalty.
Out of nowhere, Stalking Man's voice played in my head. I looked back to Brock. "Tell me—would your p-professional reputation be ruined if you reversed your opinion on Lyme?"
His jaw tightened, and his narrowed gaze rose to mine. "Is that what this is all about? You want to bring me down. You want to ruin me."
Like you're ruining me?
All the same, I had to admit there was a certain logic to his accusation. He was leaving me for some young assistant at work. Someone who helped daily in the lab, on his research. Why shouldn't I strike back at him professionally?
Still, how quickly Brock had concluded that. Just three days ago who would have believed I was capable of such a thing? Who'd believe, that is, except someone just as low, who could recognize the wash of the very traits he was drowning in.
"How did you ever g-guess?" My tone ran as chilled and hard as a brick dam against snow melt. "Yes. I made it up. All the symptoms, the phone c-calls. My fear. I lied to you. Lied to the police. Launched a f-formal investigation into thin air. Which, I believe, is a . . . crime." Tears bit my eyes, but I blinked them back. I would not cry in front of this man. Not here, not now. Not ever. "If that's what you want to believe, Brock, go right ahead. Must make you feel better. Because only a louse would walk out on a s-sick wife just home from the hospital."
He jumped up. "I don't have to listen to this."
Sudden fear raked nails across my chest. This was really going to happen. Within an hour or two he'd be gone. "Brock, please. He threatened to infect Lauren, don't you hear? We can't let him get to Lauren!"
Brock whirled on me, then stomped over to shake a finger in my face. "Don't you bring my daughter into your little scheme, Jannie. Don't you dare! Because if you do, I'll take her away from you. That's a promise."
He jerked away and strode from the room. I sat like a stone, listening to the thump of his footsteps as he hurried upstairs to pack.
Chapter 15
BY THE TIME MARIA BROUGHT LAUREN HOME, lugging her backpack and suitcase, Brock had thrown together two suitcases of clothes and put them in his car. Child returns, husband leaves. He was now in his office with the door closed. My insides had numbed. I hardly knew how to greet my own daughter.
"Sweetie." In the hall I leaned down, pasting a smile on my face. My feet were planted apart, one hand on the cane so I wouldn't fall over. Maria and Katie hung in the doorway, watching. I could feel their shock at my appearance.
"Mom!" Lauren hugged me gently, then pulled back, her eyes shiny. The freckles on her nose looked darker, or was that just my imagination? "I'm so glad you're home."
"Me too." I rubbed the top of her head, my heart turning inside out. What it would do to her to hear her father was leaving. "You and Katie take your things up to your room, okay?"
"Glad you're back." Katie touched my arm as she followed Lauren.
"Thanks, honey."
Maria shut the front door as we watched them disappear upstairs. She regarded me with a shake of her head. "Jannie, you look . . ."
"I know. Let's sit down."
I clumped into the den. To the couch where I'd heard the words that would change my life. Maria took the armchair. "Before I forget, Lauren has some homework to finish. She promised me she'd do it when she got home."
"Okay."
"So." Concern etched Maria's forehead. "They still don't know what's wrong with you?"
"Brock does. I'm faking. And he's leaving me."
Maria's chin tilted down. She looked at me through her white-blonde bangs, eyebrows raised. "What?"
In low tones I told her about Alicia. I said nothing about Stalking Man. That was too much for this conversation. And what if Maria didn't believe me either?
Her gaze coasted toward the stairs. She licked her lips. I watched her struggle to absorb this new reality. "He's going to tell Lauren before he leaves?"
"That's the plan."
Maria made a sound in her throat. "Oh. How awful. That's going to be . . ."
Yeah.
I shifted my position. My head felt so heavy, as if my neck didn't want to hold it up. "Look, I hate to ask you for anything m-more, but I'm going to need help getting Lauren to school until I can find someone around here to take her. Trouble is, none of her friends in this . . . neighborhood go to her school. Maybe I can hire somebody—"
"No, no, don't do that. Of course I'll help." Maria raked a hand through her hair. "I don't understand why Brock thinks you're faking. I mean, just 'cause you did that as a kid—"
Two sets of girl feet pounded down the stairs. Maria's mouth clamped shut.
"Mom, we want a snack!" Lauren and Katie made for the kitchen.
"Go ahead."
Dully, I watched the girls through the pass-through window. "We'll talk later," I whispered to Maria.
She nodded.
Ten minutes later, Maria and Katie prepared to leave. "I want you to call me tonight, tell me how you're doing." Maria firmed her lips in a non-smile.
Don't leave. Don't. Because when they did, Brock would have to talk to Lauren. And the secure world I'd spent nine years building for my daughter would crumble.
I pictured Stalking Man invading our home however long ago. Standing
over my bed as I slept. At the thought of his coming back for Lauren, abject terror seized my throat. Somehow I would keep that fright to myself, not let it affect my daughter. But I couldn't shield her from her own father.
My body started to shake. I slumped over on the couch, then lifted my feet up to lie down. In the kitchen I could see the edge of Lauren's right shoulder as she sat at the table. A schoolbook thumped down before her.
Brock's footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor.
My eyes closed. I needed to get up, be a part of their conversation. Hold Lauren's hand. But my muscles wouldn't move.
Memories marched through my head. Brock after Lauren's birth, holding her for hours. Not even wanting to give her to me for feeding. His tea parties with five-year-old Lauren, both of them sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an array of stuffed animals and a tiny tea set. I'd taken a picture once, the two of them tipping dainty cups to their lips, Brock's pinky extended to match his daughter's. Brock at the school play last year, insisting we sit on the front row so Lauren could see us during her performance.
How could he leave her? How could he leave us?
"Hey, Punkin." Brock's steps reached the kitchen.
"Hi, Daddy!" Lauren's chair scraped against the floor. Eyes still closed, I heard the rustle of clothes and pictured them hugging. The chair scraped again as she returned to her seat.
Fresh fear wound its way down my limbs. It curled and crept and stuck to my veins until I would burst with it. How was I going to do this? Where was I going to find the energy to take care of a crushed child?
"Whatcha working on?" Brock asked.
"Science."
I had to get up. I needed to go to her. My muscles gathered for the attempt to rise.
"Listen, Punkin."
I sat up, heart skidding. Swung my feet to the floor. Vertigo hit. I closed my eyes, fighting for equilibrium. Whoa. It hadn't been this hard to get up when Maria and the girls arrived.
"What?" Lauren's voice sounded so innocent, so unprepared.
Silence from the kitchen. I fumbled for my cane, thrust myself toward the edge of the couch. My feet needed to center under me so I could get up. My left hand pushed against the cushion until I managed to stand. I started to move toward the kitchen.
"What is it, Daddy?"
I reached the armchair. Where he'd sat when he told me. That armchair would never look the same again. I stepped around it. The sound of a long sigh reached my ears. Brock. It was a sigh of defeat.
"Just wanted to tell you I have to go on a trip for a week."
I made it to the threshold. Leaned against the doorjamb.
"No, I don't want you to go!" Lauren looked up at her dad, disappointment pulling at her profile.
Brock turned toward me, his eyes grazing mine before bouncing away. "Afraid I have to. In fact, I have to leave right now."
"Where are you going?"
"On a business trip. You know, boring stuff."
Coward. All the same, relief washed over me.
Lauren's shoulders slumped. "But it's Sunday night. And I just got home."
"I don't want to go. But I'll call you every night, okay?"
Lauren glanced over her shoulder at me. "Who's going to take care of Mom?"
Brock stilled. "Guess you'll have to do that."
Lauren looked from him back to me, reticence scrunching her eyes. Even a nine-year-old knew how ridiculous that sounded.
How strong the pull of this Alicia must be. To make Brock do this.
Lauren got up. She and her dad hugged each other. Brock kissed her on the head. "Be a good girl, now."
"Where's your suitcase?"
"Already in the car. I'll talk to you soon. Be a good girl, okay?"
Lauren's head hung. "Yeah. Okay."
Brock turned toward the door leading to the garage, then veered toward me. He leaned in close enough to whisper without Lauren hearing.
"You tell her."
Then he was gone.
Chapter 16
THROUGH THE GLASS HE WATCHED THE ADULT FEMALE TICK crawl on a spindly branch. She was hungry.
In this spring season the tick was reaching the end of her life cycle. Hatched from an egg into larva in July nearly two years ago, she'd been no bigger than a period at the end of a sentence. She'd fed as a nymph and had a second feeding the following spring. That fall she molted into an adult. Denied a blood meal at that time, she'd gone dormant over the winter. Now she sought a meal once again.
He'd chosen this tick with purpose. She was big enough to be spotted with the naked eye. She'd grown significantly since her nymph stage, now measuring about one-eighth of an inch wide. The back of her body was black, seeping into bright red. She was noticeably bigger than her male counterpart, and much brighter. Males showed no red.
After her long-awaited feeding this female tick would lay eggs, then die.
If she fed at all.
He rocked back in his chair, arms folded, gaze drifting upward. A scene filled with Elyse rose in his mind, his wife's round cheeks flushed and large brown eyes bright. They were backpacking in Oregon, an hour from their home at the time and had just found the perfect campsite—a level area tucked in the woods and beside a stream. Elyse wore a blue T-shirt and jeans, her brown arms tanned and strong from weight-lifting. She flung her heavy backpack down with enthusiasm, turning in a complete circle, her ponytail bobbing as she nodded. "Yes, yes. This is just the kind of place I wanted!"
"What if there are bears?"
"Nuh-uh, I'll fight them for this spot!" She spread her arms wide and grinned.
That was Elyse, full of energy and light. Nothing got the best of her; nothing deterred her from exploring the world. At work, her third-grade students loved her, and at home Elyse exuded optimism in the midst of his melancholic spirit. She was his strength and supporter, his best friend and lover. She buoyed him up and urged him on when his personal demons threatened to overcome him. And she made sure he took his meds. Without them he tended to go a little crazy, conjure up things that weren't true. Elyse evened him out, gave him a reason to breathe.
She was his life.
He watched the tick venture upon a new twig, its eight legs moving in slow precision.
"We don't have Lyme in Oregon," the doctor had said when Elyse asked for the test. She'd gone to him with a mysterious weakness in her limbs and pain in her joints, a creeping depression that sucked away her sprightly demeanor and spat out listlessness. Some friend had suggested she might have Lyme. Elyse insisted on the test, which the grudging doctor ordered. Result: negative.
Five years crawled by before they discovered the truth, years during which the Lyme spirochetes deep inside her tissues reproduced and thrived and laid siege to her body. By the time of her diagnosis—at last an answer!—Elyse no longer walked.
One day he brought home a scientific journal containing the "Clinical Practice Guidelines for Lyme Disease," written by the fourteen-member committee under the auspices of the Infectious Diseases Society of America. By that time he and Elyse had moved to another state where she could be better treated. But their insurance was balking at continuing to cover the huge cost of antibiotics. His mouth twisted at the memory of lying beside his wife in bed as he read the guidelines that would render her more helpless than ever. "There is no convincing biologic evidence" for the existence of chronic Lyme, wrote the esteemed panel. Long-term antibiotic treatment was not warranted.
All those years of suffering—and these people were saying Elyse wasn't even sick. His fingers curled inward until his nails bit both palms. His body shook with an anger that would not be bound by muscle and sinew.
The IDSA committee had spoken. Insurance companies listened. After that their coverage for treatment dried up completely. Their debt mounted—until
they could no longer pay for treatment at all. Without antibiotics, Elyse quickly grew worse. Her eyes couldn't stand light, and constant facial tics tugged at her mouth and cheeks. She lost memory, the ability to read. The will or energy to do anything. Her heart weakened.
He leaned forward and placed his finger against the glass, following the tick's crawl. The words from the TV interview all those years ago echoed in his head. One of the doctors on that committee, so sure of himself, so learned and wise: "Those claiming to have chronic Lyme disease do not, it's as simple as that. They may have some autoimmune issue caused by the presence of spirochetes long ago. Or they may need psychiatric counseling.
"People do not die from Lyme disease," the doctor declared a few moments later.
Two months after that, Elyse was gone. Cause of death on her certificate: Lyme disease.
"Promise me," she'd whispered as she lay in bed, unable to move. "Promise me you'll change this for other Lyme patients. You'll do something."
He could barely get the words out. "I promise."
Afterward he'd found an online list of patients who had died from Lyme—the memorialized kin Elyse had now joined. He was shocked to see the names of adults and children. The ages covered all generations. Seventy-seven, sixty-four, forty-seven. Elyse had been thirty-one. And the children. Age seventeen, eleven, five. Even babies could be born with Lyme from the mother, as the disease was able to cross the placental wall. Of course doctors like those on the committee would deny that possibility too.
Staring at that list on the monitor, he felt sudden heat track through his body. He shoved from his chair and paced, mounting anger pounding in his veins. All of it—Elyse's illness, her death—was so preventable. So unbelievably stupid. A few biased doctors could control the whole country like this? Could snap their fingers and launch their declarations from lofty laboratories and schools of medicine, far from the hue and cry of real patients and real pain? Then denigrate the doctors in the trenches who treated those patients no one else would treat. Their reported professional ties to patents and insurance companies, their arrogance in protecting their reputations at all costs—all of it was so disgustingly, ridiculously wrong.
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