An Equal Measure

by Bliss Addison

  ***

  Lou wasn’t home from the paper yet when I left for the hospital at six o’clock. Despite my new best friend’s attempts to tag along, I delivered him to Mabel and asked her to tell Lou I’d see him later.

  I hoped it would be the case. If Jackson murdered those men, I could be setting myself up for the same fatal ending.

  Jackson agreed to meet me at Della’s Café across from the Freedom Police Department at eight o’clock. He’d wanted to come to me right then, which told me two things: Either he was in a rush to kill me, or his concern for me was genuine.

  My heart wanted to believe the latter.

  Vail’s cell had gone straight to voice mail. I left a message setting out the details of my plan to lure Jackson out from hiding and finesse him into my confidence. A confession seemed too much to expect, so I didn’t mention it.

  Hopefully, Vail would accommodate me. If he didn’t, I might find myself with a bullet between my eyes. It would play hell with my makeover. Vanessa at the First Lady Beauty Salon and Spa would be livid. I imagined Carlos fluttering his hand and saying, “Girl, what have you done to yourself!”

  I drove the van to the hospital. Wisterlawn was country living within city limits but still a twenty-minute drive to downtown Freedom.

  Surveillance and self-protection came natural to me now. Before getting into the van, I’d checked for unwanted passengers, then surreptitiously scanned the street for anything and anyone out of the ordinary. As I drove, I kept a close watch out the rear view and side mirrors.

  Everything seemed normal.

  At the hospital, I parked under four two hundred and fifty watt lights suspended from a twenty-foot metal pole and walked with a group of seven teenagers who, I took from their giddy conversation, were paying a visit on their friend and classmate who’d given birth to a ten-pound baby boy.

  Once inside, I pulled my baseball cap hard down on my ears, picked up my pace and made for the stairs. By the time I entered Amy’s room, my breath came in episodic gasps, a culmination of anxiety and fatigue. I stuffed my cap in my back pocket.

  Amy was napping.

  I let her sleep. When she rested, her body healed. I checked the dinner tray and saw she’d barely eaten. Hospital food was the pits but healthy nevertheless, and Amy needed proper nourishment to regain her strength.

  She’d been doing so well. I wondered whether her spirit had taken a hit when Dr. Coville refused to consider an earlier release from the hospital. That, combined with my hesitation to interfere with his orders, might end in a depression. Still, Amy couldn’t always get her way. True, though, patients healed faster at home. Dr. Coville would know that. Perhaps, he wasn’t telling me everything.

  Amy stirred. I walked to the side of her bed.

  “Hi, honey,” I said when she opened her eyes. She yawned and stretched. “I must have dozed off. How long have you been here?”

  “Not long. How are you feeling?”

  She took a moment to answer. “Fine, but I get really tired sometimes.”

  I patted her hand. “It’s normal after surgery, sweetie.”

  “Even for someone my age?”

  “Of course. Your body underwent a trauma and needs time to rejuvenate. Kind of like a bad sprain. It’ll take time to heal.”

  She nodded. “If you say so.”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  She rested her head against the pillow and closed her eyes. “Remember when we were kids and you told me that mud puddle was only a half-inch deep?”

  “I was eight and still learning measurement.”

  “I loved those sandals.”

  From a child, Amy was fashion conscious. That she became a buyer for a major chain of women’s apparel didn’t come as a surprise.

  “Who was in to see you today?” I asked, knowing she would have had a parade of visitors. Everyone loved my sister.

  “Marie. She gave me your message. Carrie dropped by. You remember her, don’t you?”

  I scrunched my eyes as though that would help conjure a face to match the name. It didn’t. Amy helped me out.

  “The brunette with the two shades of brown eyes.”

  I recalled her now. “One darker brown than the other.” I’d heard of a person having two different colored eyes but never heard of anyone having lighter shades of the same color.

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “She’s married to the gym teacher at Freedom High, isn’t she?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I noticed a change in Amy’s demeanor. Something troubled her. “Was the pregnancy planned?”

  “Uh-huh. They’re ecstatic.”

  I wondered why Amy wasn’t. It was unlike her not to share in a friend’s happiness. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was something, and Amy was either too shy, ashamed or embarrassed to say. We could always talk about anything. I wouldn’t let that change.

  “But.”

  “I’m feeling a little envious.” She looked at me. “Is it wrong of me?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s a totally natural reaction.”

  “Would you feel that way about a friend of yours?”

  “First of all, you’re my only friend, and I know I’d be deliriously happy for you if you became pregnant, if it’s what you wanted. Of course, I’d prefer the socially acceptable order of these things.”

  “Guy, courtship, love, marriage, white picket fence, babies. Times have changed, Josie.”

  “Some principles never do, and some traditions are meant to be upheld.”

  “I don’t need love and marriage to have a baby.”

  I saw that logic coming. “Isn’t it like telling the father of your child he’s not good enough for you to marry but an acceptable sperm donor?”

  “He doesn’t need to know.”

  Obviously, Amy had given this matter serious thought. That gave me the willies.

  “The father has the right to know,” I said.

  Amy fell silent.

  Tomorrow was another day. I didn’t want her coming to a decision she might later regret and needed to divert her thoughts. I played on her weakness for dumb blonde jokes.

  “Did you hear about the redhead who complained to her doctor her body hurt wherever she touched it. She pushes her finger against her shoulder and screams, then pushes her elbow and screams even louder. She stabs her knee and screams again. “See?” she says. Her doctor looks at her and asks, “You’re not really a redhead, are you?”

  “Well, no. I’m really a blonde.” The doctor says, “I thought so. Your finger is broken.”