He made damn good money and they lived in a fine house in an exclusive neighborhood. Of course, it was a new neighborhood outside the city limits, each home situated on three acres of land. When his in-laws stopped by for their housewarming party, Annette moaned and complained about “living in the sticks” and not “in an established neighborhood.” He wanted to wrap his fingers around her scrawny neck when the old bitch actually admonished Drake in front of his guests for making his wife drive so far to work each day. He had a BMW and Angie drove a fully loaded Tahoe, for Christ’s sake. What really irked him was Dr. and Mrs. Langford sought out his services for creating their wills and trusts, which is how he met Angie. He was good enough to handle their wealth, but not good enough for their daughter?
The woman’s priorities were beyond fucked up. She doted on Angie like she was still a small child. The minute she found out Angie was pregnant, Annette Langford’s maternal instincts soared into the stratosphere. Her four-day stay at the house while Angie recuperated from her little bleeding problem, damn near drove him insane. When she finally left—after assurances from Angie she was fine—Drake wanted to jump up and down for joy. At least it was a reprieve from her presence before the baby arrived. He groaned inwardly at the thought of what life would be like once the baby did come. At least Annette’s other half was a cold, stoic prick who stayed away. Hell, Drake couldn’t blame him. If Annette was his wife, he’d be just like him: a crotchety grump who preferred to be at work rather than at home.
“Hi Mrs. Langford.”
“Drake! Thank goodness! Is Angie okay? I’ve tried calling her twice, but she isn’t answering.”
He stifled a groan of irritation and forced his voice to remain neutral. “Yes ma’am. She’s asleep on the couch, and I didn’t hear her phone, so it must be muted.”
“Asleep? At this time of day? She must not be feeling well. Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone. It’s too soon.”
Annette’s words struck Drake’s nerves like fingernails down a chalkboard. What, was he invisible now? He wanted to shout into the phone, tell her to get a fucking life, and that Angie wasn’t alone. Her husband was in the house, and he was more than capable of taking care of her if needed. Instead, Drake replied, “She’s fine, Mrs. Langford. Snuggled up under a blanket by the warm fire on a cold winter day, which would make anybody drowsy.”
His phone beeped with another call, and it couldn’t have arrived at a better time. “Listen, I need to take this call. When Angie wakes up, I’ll make sure she gets back with you. Duty calls.”
Drake didn’t wait for a response. Clicking over to the other call, he had to hold the phone away from his ear. Mrs. Williamson’s voice was loud and in high gear. Drake shifted directions and headed back to the study, knowing the call would generate copious notes.
Great! Back-to-back calls from obnoxious, demanding females. My lucky day.
“Drake!”
He shot up out of his chair, the notes from his conversation with Mrs. Williamson fluttering to the floor. Angie yelled, which she rarely did, and Drake sensed the fear in her voice. Racing down the hall, he slid to a stop when he saw her leaning against the counter, her face pale and hands clutching her stomach. Dark, red blood stained the tile where Angie stood, mixed with a milky-looking fluid.
“Oh, God… What’s wrong, honey?”
Angie looked up at him, her enormous blue eyes wild with fright and pain. “Contractions. Not the Braxton-Hicks kind, either. They woke me up, and by the time I made it here, I lost the plug and my water broke. Oh, Jesus!” Angie screamed, doubling over. In a flash, Drake was by her side. Through clenched teeth, Angie mumbled, “Need to get to the hospital. Now! Call an ambulance.”
Adrenaline in high gear, Drake took her arms and led her to the closest kitchen chair. He glanced out the window, then down at his watch. It was after five, and at least a foot of snow covered the ground. Drake went into action. “In this weather, there’s no telling how long it will be before one can get here, if there are even any available. Hang on. I’ll go get your bag and jacket. I’m taking you.”
“No-owww! Whatever! Just hurry!” Angie yelled, followed by the breathing exercises they’d practiced for months. Hee-hee, hoo-hoo…
Drake ran to the bedroom, yanked the pre-packed suitcase from the closet, along with Angie’s parka and boots, and sprinted back to the kitchen. Angie was trying to make a phone call, but her hands were shaking so hard, she couldn’t.
Drake grabbed Angie’s phone, tossed it into her purse on the table and bent down to put her boots on. “Were you calling the doctor?” Angie nodded as another wave of pain rendered her mute. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll call Dr. Randolph as soon as we get on the road. Here, sit up for a second and let me get you wrapped up.”
In minutes—Angie’s fingers digging into Drake’s arms as he led her to the car—he had her situated in the passenger seat and strapped in. In his frenzy to leave, Drake almost forgot to raise the garage door and nearly backed into it. Once out on the roads, his knuckles turned as white as the snow from gripping the steering wheel. The roads were covered, but thankfully, it was only snow. No ice. Drake’s treasured BMW, with its fancy traction control, trudged through the roads as snow pelted the windshield.
“Oh, Drake, this isn’t good! It’s too early. The… hee-hee, hoo-hoo…baby can’t come yet!”
Without taking his eyes off the white road, Drake tried to reassure Angie by keeping his voice calm, soothing. “We’ll be there in no time, honey. Just concentrate on breathing. Don’t push, no matter how much you want to. Dr. Randolph will know what to do and how to stop the progression.”
“Not if he isn’t there! Call him, now. I don’t want some other doctor. I want Dr. Randolph!”
Drake glanced around, cursing under his breath when he realized he forgot his cell. Pregnancy brain must be contagious. He pushed the button on the steering wheel to make a call from the car, but nothing happened.
Perfect!
Angie’s purse was behind her seat and they were on a straight stretch of road, so Drake eased his right arm behind her and fumbled around until he felt the straps. Yanking it forward, he set it on the console between them, shoving his hand inside until he felt the right shape.
“What are you doing, Drake?” Angie grumbled. Hee-hee, hoo-hoo…
“Just breathe, honey. I’m calling Dr. Randolph. Left my phone at home.”
“Can’t you just call from the car?” Hee-hee, hoo-hoo…
Nerves on edge, Drake snapped back, “Don’t you think I tried already? It’s not working.” Immediately feeling like an ass, he added, “Sorry, babe. I’m nervous, too. Don’t worry, I’ll… Oh shit!”
The back end slid just enough to cause Drake to drop the cell and grip the wheel with both hands. They were on the curvy stretch of the road leading out of their subdivision, but thankfully, no other vehicles were out. Angie’s phone bounced off the console and landed at her feet.
Perfect, absolutely perfect…
“Be careful, Drake. Please?” Angie whimpered from the seat. “Jesus, I knew we should have called an ambulance!”
“Angie, it’s okay. Just reach down and hand me your phone. It’s right next to your left foot.”
“Bend down, says the man to the pregnant woman who’s in labor. Yeah, right.”
“Dr. Randolph, remember?” Drake urged.
“Fine,” Angie muttered, trying to bend far enough to touch the floor. Groaning, she unlatched her seatbelt and tried again.
“There, see, you got it… Oh, God!”
The car spun out of control as Drake hit a patch of slick road. He tried to remember all the proper steps for controlling a vehicle on ice. He took his foot off the gas and didn’t overcorrect the wheel. Angie was screaming, her wails so loud his ears hurt. Inside a storm of white, it all happened so fast. The last thing Drake saw was a small grove of trees in front of the car, and he was helpless to change their trajectory. Panic set in, and instead of hitti
ng the brakes, he tromped on the gas for a split second. Realizing his mistake, Drake slammed on the brakes.
But it was too late.
Light is back. Distant, but there. It ebbs and flows like the tides of the ocean. What? What did you say? It sounded like Angie. Speak louder. What does that mean? Is Angie my name? I don’t know. Can’t recall. Somehow, for some strange reason, it seems right. Familiar.
So, I’m female? Are you here to rescue me? Is your voice a cord, a link, to pull me free? Oh please, please let it be. What? I can’t understand you. Your voice is all wrong. The words are jumbled. Come back? Come back to me, Angie…are those the words? Yes, yes they are. I’m trying, but I don’t know how. Can’t you just come, whisk me to safety?
Wait, who are you? Oh, I don’t care, just keep talking. It makes the light brighter. I don’t know if I’m moving closer to it, or it is coming toward me, but it isn’t as far away as before.
Ouch, that hurts. Oh, God, I feel pain! Glorious pain! If I’m dead, I wouldn’t be able to, right? The burn, the sting, do it again! It brings bursts of color! Reds, blues, greens…Chases the drab hues away.
Where did you go? Are you still there? I can’t see you, don’t hear your voice. Please, please, I’m begging you. Don’t leave me here all alone. I’m scared. Terrified of the dark, the bone-chilling quiet. So cold. So fucking cold.
You’re back! Thank goodness! Oh, I’m finally warm. Yes, that feels good, makes the pressure in my head lessen. I hear you, but can’t see your face. Squeeze? Is that what you said? Squeeze your hand? Yes, you did, but dammit, I can’t. My limbs—I don’t feel them. The only thing I feel is my head and my—oh, my God! My stomach! What are you doing? Stop! For the love of all that’s holy, stop. You’ll hurt my—
Dear God, my baby. I’m pregnant. I can’t feel any movement. Please, fucking talk to me. What’s wrong with my child? No, it’s not going to be all right. Gone? Too late? Brain damaged? No. I won’t accept that.
Get away from me!
A girl? Please, leave her alone. Let her stay with me. I need her. Drake! I need Drake. God, please, where is my husband? Why isn’t he here, fighting for our child?
For me?
For us?
Mom?
Somebody…Help me.
They’re going to take my baby from me!
It’s all over now, I realize that. Too late to bring her back to me. You sick, sadistic fucker. Yanked your own flesh and blood from my womb where she was safe, loved and warm.
Yes, I hear you. “It’s all for the best, Angie. She wasn’t right in the head.” If I could, I’d rip you apart with my bare hands. Don’t you touch me, or try to comfort me in any way. Wow, what an act you have down. Bet everyone feels sorry for you. Have they offered words of encouragement to soothe your wounded heart? Do you smile and force fake crocodile tears as they pat your back, give you a shoulder to cry on?
I remember everything. The setup. The lies. The wicked, wicked deceit.
I remember…everything.
5
Painful Truths
Jerome released the cold, clammy hand of his precious daughter. He stood and stretched his lower back, stiff from sitting in the chair next to Angie for over an hour. Gazing out the window—desperate to look at anything other than the destroyed face of his once beautiful child—Jerome watched the water drip from the roof. The snow that blew in and caused so much destruction was gone, vanquished by the earlier warm rays of the afternoon sun. In less than twenty minutes, the sun would be gone and the cold would once again make his hands throb when he left to go home. Only a few, sporadic patches remained in the hospital parking lot where the maintenance staff had pushed it around in piles as they cleared the asphalt.
He looked down at his gnarled hands, the ones he used to perform surgery. Rheumatoid arthritis set in five years earlier, and though medication eased the pain at times, it did nothing to stop the progression of the disease. Once strong and steady, capable of controlling the intricate, delicate surgical instruments, they’d failed him. Jerome could barely make a fist and hold it long enough to brush his teeth. At sixty-eight, Jerome should be enjoying retirement instead of trying to continue practicing medicine, but he refused to walk away. It would be like admitting defeat, letting his body win, so he gave up his surgical practice and transitioned to general family practitioner.
Anger spread across Jerome’s chest for thinking about his own petty issues, while Angie was less than three feet away, unconscious. He shook off his previous thoughts and bent down to examine the bandages on her face. Thankfully, they were fine. No signs of infection, the stitches expertly done. He peered closer at her shoulder and chest, wincing at the deep, ugly bruises. Angie’s right shoulder took the majority of the impact as her body was ejected from the car. She was lucky her collarbone was only bruised, not broken. Had she gone head first through the windshield… no, Jerome wouldn’t think about that. He took comfort in the fact Angie wasn’t on a respirator and was breathing on her own. What injuries she’d sustained were bad enough.
Damn you, Drake Benson. Damn you to Hell.
Scanning the monitors keeping tabs on Angie’s vitals, Jerome let out a long huff of air. She was stable, and though still in a coma, should awaken soon. Dr. Packard told him earlier the brain scan showed no signs of severe trauma, no broken cranial bones. Full brain activity.
Though he didn’t want to, Jerome forced himself to look at her abdomen. The sheet covering Angie’s torso lay almost flat against her body. Though he would never, ever, admit it out loud because it went against his scientific mindset, the father in him wondered if the reason Angie was still unconscious was because of the loss. Was her mind aware she’d lost the fetus? Did it decide to remain gridlocked until her body healed before allowing reality to settle back in?
Poor Angie. Stubborn, insistent, persistent Angie. He’d warned her of the risks. Told his headstrong daughter the dangers of carrying a child in women over thirty-five. How they were more susceptible to complications during pregnancy, and Angie was even at greater risk because of their family’s history. Angie just rolled her eyes, laughed it off. Told Jerome he was a worry-wart, and everything would be fine. Assured both he and Annette she was taking good care of herself, eating right, exercising. Self-monitoring her blood pressure, heart rate, and vigilant about keeping in constant contact with the obstetrician. Jerome’s heart rate increased as he remembered their last argument about the subject. It happened in the parking lot of the hospital before Angie began her shift several weeks ago. He thought if he approached her from a clinical standpoint, minus the emotional intrusion and tear-filled pleas of her mother, Angie would listen to him. He was mistaken. Angie lit into him, told him it was her decision to make, not his, and to drop the subject.
At times, not only did Angie look just like her mother, she acted like her as well. The thought made Jerome’s stomach clench.
Sighing inside the confines of her room, for a moment Jerome wished he would have yelled right back, insisting Angie listen to him. However, raw displays of emotions were not part of his psyche. Never had been. Jerome was a critical thinker. Looked at life through a black-and-white camera, not a full-colored lens. Had he succeeded in letting some emotion out, Angie would have taken the test. Though the results would have been difficult to grapple with at first, the right choice would have been made, the pregnancy terminated, and the chain of events leading up to where Angie rested now, never would have occurred. Drake—the perfectionist who had to have the best of everything, no exceptions—would have come over to Jerome’s side and convinced Angie terminating the pregnancy was the best for everyone.
Yes, he shouldered part of the blame for the predicament Angie was in. Had he released a modicum of emotion, Jerome wouldn’t be staring at his battered and bruised child. His sweet Angie, clinging to life and lost inside her mind. The memory of Drake’s grief-stricken face as he signed the consent papers not to resuscitate the fetus would never have been embedded in Jerome’s
memory banks. Yet another disturbing recollection Jerome would need to learn to live with, along with a multitude of others. If Jerome could have shed even one tear, he wouldn’t be hiding out in his daughter’s hospital room, dreading going home to an empty house.
Annette had fallen apart, which left Jerome with no choice: he’d been forced to call his sister-in-law for help. Thankfully, Miriam stepped up to the plate, took her hysterical sister in, comforted Annette while Jerome remained at the hospital by his only child’s side.
Jerome stifled a sigh as he thought about Annette. She had always been a fragile, emotionally-driven woman. Her vivaciousness and love of life had drawn Jerome to her in the beginning when they met. Her zest for life, her effervescent personality. Those beautiful green eyes. A scatterbrain. That’s what Annette’s own mother called her, and Jerome initially thought her inability to focus on one thing for more than a few minutes was adorable. Then, things changed after Angie arrived. He’d chalked up her issues to a bout with the baby blues, short episodes that would pass once her hormones regulated themselves. At the time, he had not recognized her mood swings were a sign of troubling times in the future.
Jerome and Annette were the epitome of the expression “opposites attract.” But when Amelia died, so did the woman Jerome married. Annette retreated inside her mind, dulling the pain with drugs and alcohol. He’d been unable to offer comfort, to give Annette an outlet to help deal with the loss. When three separate doctors diagnosed Annette as a manic-depressive, Jerome refused to accept their conclusions. Annette wasn’t crazy, just grieving. Even Miriam, Annette’s beloved sister, had been unable to reach her. Years of expensive therapy, drugs and rehab clinics didn’t work. Annette finally climbed out of her troubled mind when Angie married. Annette’s vibrant spark reappeared, and for the last several years they weren’t exactly happy, but content.
Whispered Pain Page 3
