by Melissa Hill
Something Declan had in fact pointed out to me the evening before, when he’d called over to the house to update me on progress with the case.
He had been brilliant since that night at the hospital when Rosie woke up, and since then had been instrumental in helping me get my head around some of the more practical implications of Rosie’s future while I tried to deal with the emotional side. There was no doubt that while he was first and foremost my solicitor, and remained utterly professional at all times in that regard, Declan Roe was also gradually becoming a much-needed friend.
When I went to make him the obligatory cup of tea last night, I had discovered, much to my mortification, that there was no milk, and indeed the only things in my fridge were moldy cheese, dried-up condiments and wine.
“Kate, you do know that a person cannot survive on wine and mold alone.” Declan’s tone might have been playful, but his expression was serious. And there was a look in his eye that I couldn’t quite place. Was it worry? Concern, even?
I tried to lighten the mood by arguing that maybe I had a bit of French in my ancestry—but his chiding made me realize that I needed to start paying attention to the day-to-day necessities in life, especially for when Rosie came home.
Now that her infection had cleared and she was pretty much over the worst, the next step was for her to start rehabilitation. Depending on her progress, I hoped she’d do well enough that the doctors would agree to let her come home. Though I knew she and I both had a very long road ahead, I longed for that day.
“You’re right,” I had told Declan as I took a sip of a Pinot Noir I had been saving for a special occasion (a weeknight meeting with my solicitor was as good as it got these days). “First thing tomorrow, I will go grocery shopping.”
And so here I was.
However, as I started to roam the aisles, I worked my hardest to ignore the pointed stare of a woman from Knockroe whose name I couldn’t recall, but whom I recognized as the mother of a girl in Rosie’s dance class. I wondered if my hesitation to engage in the nuances of community living had less and less to do with my daughter’s condition and more to do with the fact that I had become increasingly nervous about showing my face in public.
Not that anyone had ever said anything, but while I knew there were many in the community who supported me, I also knew there were plenty of people talking about me behind my back. And I didn’t have to employ too much imagination to know what they were saying.
Goodness knew I’d encountered enough of that online.
I grimaced as I placed a plastic bottle of orange juice in my cart, the thought reminding me that as bad as I might have had it with the odd accusation of my being “a money-grabber” or “out for blood,” Madeleine Cooper was definitely getting the worst of it.
The other day, Declan had pulled up a clip of Gemma Moore’s recent TV ambush of her on Morning Coffee. I don’t know what the journalist had against her, but one thing was for sure, I certainly didn’t want her in my camp, either.
And while I was utterly bewildered as to why Madeleine would go on national TV given the huge public reaction in relation to our case, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her after watching that segment, and, even worse, when I read some of the hateful things people were saying about her online.
Yes, I, too, was angry at her, but obviously I had never set out for this horrible public shaming.
Declan insisted that I couldn’t blame myself for things like that and that Madeleine’s already public profile taken with such a controversial topic had automatically made her a very easy target. I knew he was only trying to make me feel better, but it wasn’t working.
None of this would have happened if I hadn’t taken the Coopers to court.
But then none of it would have happened if Madeleine had just kept her daughter home from school, either...
Unwilling to think about it, I gripped the handle on the cart tightly and continued pushing it forward. Glancing down at my hands, I realized my knuckles were white and urged myself to relax, to calm down.
As I took a few deep breaths in the bread aisle, I pictured my daughter’s face and tried to think positive. Fingers crossed, the worst was over: she was on the road to recovery and would be coming home soon. Not that it would solve all of our problems—if anything it would be just the beginning. But it was something to be thankful for, whatever way you looked at it.
And once Rosie finally came home and was back settled under her own roof with me taking care of her, all the other challenges that lay ahead might not seem so insurmountable.
“Kate? Is that you?” called a voice from behind me and I immediately felt myself tense up again. Dammit, of course I was going to run into someone.
Turning around, I was glad to discover that it was just Christine. Thank goodness. “Hey,” I said wearily as she pushed her cart up next to mine.
“You OK? You’re white as a sheet. How’s Rosie? All still on track for her to start rehab?”
Say what you liked about Christine, but she’d remained a great friend and confidante throughout and had kept up-to-date with all that was going on with Rosie even after introducing me to Declan.
Unlike Lucy, who, since I’d brought the suit against Madeleine, had shied away a little. She was obviously upset with me for doing so and, while I was dismayed that I seemed to have lost my one true friend in Knockroe, I could completely understand that her loyalties were torn. The problem was that I really needed her to testify when and if this case got to trial. Declan had said that our side was still strong without her, but if we could introduce incontrovertible proof that Madeleine was fully aware Clara was ill when she sent her to school, it would make a decision so much easier for the judge.
She’d said she’d pop in to the hospital to see Rosie this week, though, and, despite her misgivings about me, I knew she still cared deeply about my daughter.
I smiled tightly at Christine. “Ah, just feeling a bit hesitant about coming here.”
“To the supermarket?” she replied, incredulous. “Why on earth would you be worried about coming here?”
“Exactly for this reason—running into someone I know.”
“Wow. Thanks,” she quipped sarcastically. “Glad I rank so highly on your list.”
Chuckling, I swatted her away and offered a small smile as we began walking together down the aisle. “You know what I mean. And don’t take it personally. Things are just...” I struggled to find the right word. “I suppose awkward is a good word to use. I feel a bit awkward at the moment, with all this stuff that’s coming out in public.”
Christine’s brow furrowed and she leaned into me, placing a free arm around my shoulders. “How are things going? I talked to Declan, but I couldn’t get anything out of him.”
I smiled softly. “Well, I should hope so.” Shaking my head, I decided to give her a short and to-the-point overview of what was happening. “Things are progressing as they’re supposed to—at least that’s what Declan says. We’re just waiting on a trial date now. But I suppose it’s just with all the public attention, this is getting...well, it sort of makes these outings uncomfortable.”
Grimacing, Christine asked, “Well, obviously our friend is getting a lot of flack, but people aren’t hounding you or anything, are they?”
Obviously she knew about Madeleine’s fall from grace, not that she seemed overly concerned.
“I’ve had one or two calls from the papers looking for comment. But I haven’t spoken to anyone. And I don’t plan to. This might be news fodder to some people, but it’s also my life.”
Christine nodded thoughtfully. “That journalist Gemma Moore certainly seems to have it in for Madeleine, doesn’t she?” Her voice took on an all-too-familiar gossipy and conspiratorial tone and I didn’t like it.
I stopped walking and turned to her. “Please, don�
�t be that way. I’m sure Madeleine is having a terrible time and nobody needs to add to it.”
Suitably admonished, she muttered a quiet “Sorry” and I began moving again, keeping pace next to Christine while snatching a loaf of bread off a shelf.
A moment later, we rounded the corner at the end of the aisle and I was met with a blast of cold air from the frozen food section. “In any case, I wish the media would just stay out of it. It’s merely whipping up an already difficult situation and—”
However, I discovered that I couldn’t finish my sentence, because at that particular moment I locked eyes with the one person I had not considered running into today.
Fifteen feet away from where I stood was Madeleine Cooper. She’d been in the process of plucking a liter of milk off the shelf, and in the seconds that had passed since she realized my presence, the look on her face had gone from one of shock and surprise to horror, embarrassment and finally anger.
Breaking my gaze, she tossed the milk into her trolley and turned violently away, rushing back up the aisle quickly. It was obvious she wanted to get as far away from me as possible.
Or had been warned to do so.
I heard Christine gasp and, in that moment, I pushed my cart to the side. “Madeleine, please, wait.” I had no idea what I was doing or even thinking, but I knew I had to talk to her.
Christine called out after me, a warning in her tone, but I had no idea what she was saying, so focused was I on catching up to my so-called nemesis. But, for some reason, seeing her there, looking haggard almost, hair messy and face unmade-up, dressed down in jeans and an old sweatshirt, completely devoid of her usual bubbly glamour, had made me feel ashamed.
“Hold on, please. I need to talk to you.” But even if provided the opportunity, I had no idea what I was going to say.
Then, suddenly, she turned back to face me.
“What...” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her face painted with unbridled strain. “What could you possibly want, Kate? What on earth could we have to talk about now? I tried, you know I did, I tried and tried. Wanted to tell you how desperately sorry I felt about Rosie and how I’d do anything to help. But you didn’t want to talk to me then, didn’t take the time to listen to what I had to say. And now, it seems, there is nothing to say.”
I had stopped my pursuit and now stood lamely in the middle of the supermarket aisle. “Madeleine, I just need—”
“Need what?” she whispered. “I’m so sorry that this happened to your daughter but what else do I have that you need to take from me, Kate? How many more ways can you think of to punish me?”
I felt like I had been slapped. The force of her words made me take a step back and put my hand over my heart, I could feel it pounding so loudly in my chest.
“I’m so...” What—sorry? In that moment I was. I wished desperately that I could go back and undo the legal action, because I didn’t know if I would ever be able to forget the look on Madeleine’s face just then.
“I don’t need to hear anything from you, Kate, and I’m not talking to you, either. If you have something to say, then you can obviously do so in court. I’m finished playing this out in public.”
32
A little while later, Madeleine entered her front door, her heart almost as heavy as the grocery bags she carried.
To her surprise, Tom rushed out to the hallway from the kitchen, a spring in his step and, incredibly, a smile on his face. They’d had so little to smile about lately that she was truly taken aback by his demeanor. Her heart softened on cue; this whole thing had really taken its toll on her husband. Though, thankfully, things had become a little less stressful since they’d decided to circle the wagons and Madeleine had gone quiet on the media front.
But she was never sure when the next blow would strike or where it would come from.
Though judging by the ecstatic expression on Tom’s face, whatever was going on must be positive for a change. But while her husband might be happy about something now, she knew she was definitely going to ruin his mood when she told him about her run-in with Kate at the shops.
“Great news, Maddie,” he said with palpable excitement. “I just got an email that could be huge for our defense. Seriously huge.” He took several of the bags she had been struggling with out of her arms and onto the counter.
Waiting for him to elaborate, Madeleine smiled encouragingly.
“So do you remember me telling you about that doctor from the States, a neurologist I contacted a couple of weeks back? Dr. Pitt?”
She searched her memory for the conversation that Tom was referencing. She couldn’t really remember anything like that, but in truth she might not have been listening as hard as she should have been. After all, she had been pretty distracted lately.
But she didn’t want to admit that to Tom. “I think so,” she replied.
“Well, I just received an email from him. I contacted him through his website and told him all about our case. About why we were being sued.”
Tom briefly provided Madeleine with the doctor’s bio as she began unloading the shopping bags. Pitt was a ranking member of the California Medical Review Board. Apparently there had been some disapproving mutterings in the US because of his sometimes-controversial stance on vaccines, but nothing had ever come of it.
“The guy is perfect, Madeleine. He came out and admitted publicly that the presence of viruses did mean that ultimately some people would get sick and die, but that the human body also had ways of countering these attackers—which has been happening for hundreds and thousands of years before the introduction of vaccines. He believes that there is a new reality that needs to be faced—children should not be injected with unnatural, man-made chemicals—and the pharma companies only promote these ‘medicines’ in order to line their own pockets.”
Madeleine nodded, wondering why this was such a big deal. They’d basically come to the same conclusion themselves years ago. It was hardly news and she had no idea why he was so excited about it. There were pro-and anti-vaccine proponents all over the place, and on the internet especially.
But her husband was still smiling like it was Christmas morning and he had just received a new Lexus tied with a big red bow. She looked blankly at him, urging him to continue. “And? How does this help us?”
“Because he’s agreed to act as an expert witness for us.” Tom cheered. Madeleine really wouldn’t have been surprised if her husband had started dancing a jig on the kitchen floor.
“That is promising,” she agreed. She was well aware that Matt Townsend had been having a hard time securing bona fide medical professionals to defend their position on vaccination in building their case for the trial, and it sounded like Dr. Pitt was exactly what they needed.
“Madeleine, here is a guy who regularly contributes to respected medical journals. He was recently published in the North American Journal of Pediatrics. This is absolutely huge. No one is going to be able to call him a quack or some kind of conspiracy theorist. He’s still a practicing neurologist, too, but he has developed this other line around his work. This is seriously the best thing that could have happened for us.”
Feeling her heart lose some of its heaviness, Madeleine moved a few steps forward and put her arms around Tom’s neck. “And you did this all by yourself? Tracked him down, I mean?” She had been married to him long enough to know that her husband loved to feel like a hero in situations such as this.
Puffing out his chest ever so slightly, Tom looked at her as he pulled her close. “Indeed I did. In fact, he was quite indignant about what we had been through and what we were being accused of, so much so that he even agreed to provide his expert testimony at a reduced rate.”
Madeleine thought about it, but decided not to ask just what that rate was. She didn’t want to ruin the mood. It was the first time she and Tom had
anything to be happy about in weeks. Turning back to the kitchen counter, Madeleine continued putting away groceries. She reached into a bag and, spying the liter of milk she had been holding when she ran into Kate earlier, she debated briefly whether to tell Tom about the encounter.
But she decided against it. Her husband would have a stroke if she admitted she’d been in the same room as Kate O’Hara, let alone spoken to her. She was intrigued, though, that Kate had seemed embarrassed, apologetic, even, when all this time she had assumed the other woman hated her.
But even if Kate had wanted to talk to her, apologize, even, Madeleine realized sadly that they both knew it was much too late for that.
33
Declan was sitting on Kate’s front step when her Astra chugged into the driveway.
He’d expected to find her at home this morning—he knew she was heading to the hospital after lunch—and he had some papers that he needed her to sign.
But as he rang the doorbell, it had dawned on him; maybe she had in fact taken his advice and gone grocery shopping. His suspicions were confirmed when he rang her mobile and she told him that she would be back shortly.
Now, getting up, he walked to the driver’s side as Kate pulled to a stop. Even through the tint of the glass he could see that she looked drawn, shaken, even.
He was immediately concerned and wondered if something else (something terrible?) had happened with Rosie. Hell, how much more could one woman take?
Trying to put on a smile and keep the worry off his face, he opened the door for her, struck again by how fragile she looked, and how tired.
She had definitely lost some weight since he first met her back in April, and her clothes had now started to hang on her limply. He knew that she was unaccountably stressed about all that was to come, and now he had the overwhelming desire to pull her close, give her a hug and insist that she eat a big meal.
