Total Control

by Pamela Britton

  That’s why she did it; that’s why she’d fly to Richmond next weekend, darn it all. She owed it to kids like Benjamin to help them out.

  Because she hadn’t been able to help her nephew.

  BUT KNOWING HOW EXCITED Benjamin was didn’t make it any easier to pack the next week. Nor did it make the drive over to Stanford Children’s Hospital any easier to bear. Dealing with sick children stank. Every time Indi entered the children’s wing, she felt her insides turn over, especially when she spotted any of the hospital’s many patients, their pale faces and anxious eyes never failing to tug on Indi’s heart. It reminded her of Kyle.

  “Hey there, Indi,” the pink-clothed receptionist said, her winsome smile always making Indi grin in return.

  “Hi, Sam,” Indi said right back.

  “Today’s the big day, huh?” Sam said, spinning the visitor sheet toward her.

  “Yes, it is,” Indi said, signing her name with a flourish.

  “You know,” Sam said, her frizzy brown hair bouncing along her shoulders as she abruptly stood, the bright blue countertop she sat behind nearly the same shade as her eyes. “My boyfriend’s a huge NASCAR fan. He would die, just die to meet Todd Peters.”

  Indi’s smile dissolved like rained-on sugar. “Tell your boyfriend he’s not missing much.”

  Sam’s smile fizzled, too. “Really?”

  “Really,” Indi said.

  “Wow,” Sam said, sinking like a spent balloon. “He seems so nice on TV.”

  Indi leaned toward Sam. “That’s just it,” she said. “Every celebrity seems nice, at least until you spend some time with them. Then they become self-centered, egotistical brats…at least in my experience.” Like her ex-boyfriend. But she didn’t need to go down that road today.

  “Huh,” Sam said, her eyes going dim, as if she were erasing her memory banks of every secret feminine fantasy she’d ever had about Todd. “Don’t forget your badge,” she murmured distractedly.

  “Thanks,” Indi said, clipping the thing on before heading toward Benjamin’s room. If she felt a little twinge of guilt over Todd losing one of his fans, then she pushed it aside.

  Sunlight illuminated the tips of her black tennis shoes as she walked through the facility. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a crystalline blue sky that she could glimpse through tall windows to her right. Outside, oak trees pointed dark green leaves heavenward. Indi thought that nowhere on earth could there be a more beautiful place than Palo Alto, California.

  Certainly not Richmond.

  She sighed, her grimace fading when she spotted a little girl being wheeled toward her, the red, white and blue scarf on her head a bright contrast to her pale face.

  “Indi,” the little girl cried, a smile breaking out on her face, her dull blue eyes seeming to light from within when it finally registered who was smiling down at her.

  “Erin,” Indi said with a big smile of her own, one that included the nurse who pushed Erin’s wheelchair. “Has he asked to marry you yet?”

  “Not yet.” The thirteen-year-old’s smile grew, if possible, even bigger. The nurse slowly rolled to a stop as, above Erin’s head, the IV bag swung on the end of its hanger. “But he calls me once a week.”

  And just like that, Indi’s overactive tear ducts switched on. She had to work hard to keep Erin from seeing the sudden moisture in her eyes. Miracles had recently arranged a “date” with one of Erin’s favorite pop stars. Maggie had been the one to orchestrate the whole thing, but Indi had been the one to accompany Erin on her big night out. Much to Erin’s surprise, the object of Erin’s affection turned out to be a “hip-hog”—a high-profile person with a heart of gold—as Maggie and Indi liked to call them.

  “I’m not surprised,” Indi said. “He’d be a fool not to fall head over heels for you.”

  Erin’s laughter was as carefree and high-spirited as any other child’s, and Indi felt her heart lurch all over again. This was why she did what she did. Erin’s joy was so palatable, Indi could feel her own spirits lift in return.

  “I wish,” Erin said, the nurse pushing her forward again.

  “I don’t know,” Indi teased in singsong voice, walking backward a few steps and nearly crashing into a potted palm in the process. That made Erin laugh all over again. “I think I hear wedding bells in the air.”

  Erin giggled some more and waved, her hospital gown dropping down and exposing the plastic ID bracelet around her wrist.

  Indi’s smile faded, but she’d turned away before Erin could see it. Another case of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. The hospital was full of them. One-in-five chance of survival. Before her wish had been granted, hospital scuttlebutt was that Erin wouldn’t make it. Her health had deteriorated, her body had grown frail, her blood work didn’t look good. It had just about taken an act of Congress to get her down to Los Angeles, but they’d done it and the results had been…magical. She was rallying. Indi hoped Erin would continue to improve, and she had high hopes she would—what with weekly calls from her hip-hog.

  Indi paused outside Benjamin’s hospital room, one cluttered with stuffed animals and get-well cards from his fifth-grade class, all the while hoping Benjamin’s trip to Richmond would garner the same results as Erin’s trip.

  The boy sat in a stickered-out wheelchair, his back to her while he talked to his mom. On the wall above him, the one opposite his rumpled bed, a TV played—what else—a rebroadcast of last week’s race.

  “You ready there, buddy?” Indi said.

  With an expertise that bespoke months of experience, Benjamin spun his chair around, just about doing a wheelie in the process.

  “Indi!” he cried, his dark green eyes as bright as the sunshine that filtered into the windows behind him.

  “Today’s the big day,” she said after washing her hands and then bending down to give the little guy a hug, his shoulders feeling even more frail than usual, she thought. Or maybe not. She couldn’t be sure. She straightened, noticing then the bright red number 82 scrawled across the front of his T-shirt…and the face that went with it.

  Todd Peters.

  “Hey there,” she said to Benjamin’s mom, but Indi checked the rest of her words when she spotted Linda’s swollen and red-rimmed eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Indi whispered, giving her a hug.

  Linda shook her head, her blond hair brushing Indi’s cheek. “Later,” she whispered back.

  Indi struggled to hide her concern, her attention falling on Benjamin again and searching the boy for telltale signs that something might be more seriously wrong—as if having lymphoma wasn’t serious enough. But he looked the same as always—bright green eyes that belied the bruised flesh beneath them, a complexion that paled against his wide smile. He’d lost his hair, although not as thoroughly as Erin. Benjamin covered what was left of the strands with a red and gold ski cap. Number 82 was on the side.

  “How are you feeling, kiddo?” she asked. “You ready for your trip?”

  “Are you kidding?” Benjamin asked with all the excitement a sick ten-year-old could muster. “I was ready at five this morning.”

  “You were up at five?” Indi asked, her focus settling on Linda.

  He got sick, she mouthed.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” the boy said, missing the exchange. His hands clenched in his lap, his jaw sticking out as if daring his mom to contradict him.

  She didn’t.

  “I know how that is,” Indi said, giving the boy a smile that she hoped shielded the concern she felt budding in her chest. “So. Are we ready to go?”

  Benjamin’s mom pushed a piece of hair off her face, but not before Indi spotted the way her hands shook. And the uncertainty in her eyes as she stared at her son.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” she murmured, her voice cracking a bit.

  What had happened?

  Indi knew it couldn’t be good if brave, always optimistic Linda reacted this way. The woman was a rock, both she and her husband constantly at Benjamin�
�s side. Indi had often marveled at how the three of them had pulled together. So often a terminally ill child put an unbearable strain on a marriage. Indi had lost track of the times she’d watched a formerly strong union crumble. Not so with Linda and Art Koch.

  “Anything you need me to grab?” Indi asked, biding her time. She’d uncover all later.

  “Nope,” Benjamin said. “My mom’s got my bag all packed.”

  “Then let’s go. We have a little under three hours before our plane departs.”

  Benjamin smiled excitedly, his tiny shoulders hunching as he struggled to push himself forward. Indi almost helped him, but Linda stayed her with a hand. “Let him do it,” she said. “He needs that.”

  Indi nodded. “What’s the matter?” she asked when Benjamin rolled through the door.

  “They’re going to stop giving him the Phelbuteral.”

  “The chemo? Why?”

  Linda’s eyes welled up, and Indi knew she was trying to stop the tears from falling. Indi had had to do the same many times herself, but Linda’s eyes couldn’t hold back the tears brought on by this latest setback, whatever it was.

  “It’s too hard on his system. His latest blood work came back.” Linda shook her head. “It was pretty bad. They almost didn’t let him go.”

  Indi took the news like a physical blow. “Oh, no.”

  “I would have canceled except I knew how badly Benjamin wants this, needs this. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours praying that nothing bad will happen while we’re gone.”

  Indi almost stopped, almost put her arms around Linda’s shoulders, except she knew if she did that, the woman would crumble. And if Linda crumbled, then Indi would break down. Damn it.

  “What does Art think?”

  Linda looked away, all the troubles of the world seeming to reflect from her eyes. “That we should stay home. But he knows, just as I do, that if we put this off again…”

  Benjamin might not make the trip. Ever.

  Frustration boiled up deep inside Indi, the same frustration she always felt against the unfairness of Benjamin’s disease. It showed no prejudice. No sympathy. No desire to ever let up. Yes, it was a disease, technically not sentient, but sometimes Indi swore it knew when it was under attack.

  Damn that Todd Peters.

  If he hadn’t canceled the first two meetings….

  “We’ll get through this, Linda—” she squeezed the woman’s hand, Linda’s cold fingers clutching hers back “—I promise, with Benjamin none the worse for it. In fact, nine times out of ten a trip like this will do more good than harm.”

  “Do you really think so?” Linda asked, her eyes filling with grudging hope.

  “I know it,” Indi said, because this battle was never over until it was over. She would make certain the weekend was every bit as special as Benjamin hoped. And if Todd Peters made the mistake of brushing Benjamin off again, well, the driver would be the next person to end up in the hospital.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I’M LATE,” Todd said, jumping into the rented SUV.

  “Yes, you are,” Jen said, sliding onto the seat behind him. Someone called his name—probably a fan who’d spotted him from the grandstands across the track.

  “You suck!” the man yelled.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Todd said before slamming the door. “And you paid a couple hundred bucks to watch me drive,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Are we in a hurry?” his chauffeur, Ron, asked, peeking at Todd above dark sunglasses.

  “Yes,” Todd said with a jerk of his chin. “We’re in a hell of a hurry.”

  “Better buckle up then,” Ron said.

  Todd cursed inwardly. He hadn’t meant to leave the media center so late. But he’d been screwed since the beginning of the day, having arrived ten minutes late to a radio station. They’d zoomed him back to the track for a driver appearance, but he’d been fifteen minutes late for that, then afterward he was off to practice, which he’d had to cut short to make up time. He’d thought he was in the clear then, but Dan, his crew chief, requested a meeting. That had made him late for his media center interviews, which in turn had made him late now.

  “You should have gotten me out of there sooner,” Todd grumbled, his body tipping sideways as Ron barreled around a corner. Richmond’s infield was tiny—network trailers, vehicles and what seemed like a million golf carts—but Ron didn’t let that bother him. He shot toward the exit tunnel like a bullet down a barrel. Thank God the directional light was green.

  “I tried,” Jen said plaintively. Todd caught a glimpse of her in his visor’s mirror. “The network refused to give you up. Said you were late and so it wasn’t their fault.”

  That was probably that producer, Barney whatever-his-name-was. The goofy-looking guy with the big eyes and thin lips rubbed Todd the wrong way.

  “Son of a—” Todd said when they slowed just outside the infield tunnel.

  “I’m trying, I’m trying,” Ron said, his horn blaring at the golf cart in front of them. They’d just passed the security station that guarded the infield entrance. That meant they now blended in with a stream of NASCAR fans. The narrow road they traveled upon was lined with pedestrians. They couldn’t get around the damn golf cart. The driver obviously thought he was on the seventh hole judging by the rate he toddled along.

  “Is the strobe light on?” Todd asked, leaning forward and peering up at the front of the rearview mirror.

  “Yup,” Ron answered right as Todd spotted the flickering blue-and-white light. “But it doesn’t do any good if the guy isn’t paying attention,” Ron said with another beep of his horn.

  The golf-cart driver gave them the bird.

  “Why that little piece of sh—”

  “Todd, calm down,” Jen said as they crossed by a chain-link fenced parking area to their left, which was filled with trailers belonging to television media. “I’ve already called Ms. Wilcox and explained the situation.”

  Terrific. Indi would be in a fine frame of mind by the time they arrived. “Why couldn’t they come to the track?”

  “Something about the boy being sick.”

  “Of course he’s sick. He’s got cancer.”

  Jen shook her head. “It’s something else. A cold, I think.”

  “Great,” Todd muttered as they turned down another road. Unfortunately, the golf cart went the same way. With the way his day was going, he’d probably end up catching whatever the kid had. And then he’d be sick while driving on Sunday.

  Todd.

  His inner conscience—yes, he did have one—reminded him that at least he’d get over the cold, whereas little Benjamin was sick for life. Maybe. What was the survival rate for the type of leukemia he had, anyway?

  “What the heck is it?” Todd asked, splaying his hands toward the front windows and the infamous golf cart which, instead of pulling over when the road cleared, kept on driving at five miles an hour. “Is he a Lance Cooper fan or something?”

  “Just a sec,” Ron said.

  The road split into a Y. Ron yanked the wheel right, giving the golf cart a honk. He, in turn, gave them the finger. Again.

  “Whatever,” Ron grumbled, stepping on the gas.

  “Finally,” Todd said, their sudden burst of speed startling a state trooper who directed traffic coming off the main road. He yelled something at them as they raced by.

  “Go ahead. Write us a ticket,” Ron told him.

  “After this, you’ve got that thing with the sponsor,” Jen, ever the efficient PR rep, said as they were waved through a special exit used for race teams and the media. In a few seconds they were out on one of the thoroughfares, Ron flicking off the strobe lights.

  “What time?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Damn. I wanted to watch the Busch race tonight,” Todd said, clutching the dash as Ron made a sudden left onto a side road—the main road was clogged with traffic—but he nearly ran over a gaggle of race fans in the process.


  “You can TiVo the race,” Jen answered, flipping through some pages. “It’s a cocktail party hosted by one of the associate sponsors. And wait until you see what they want you to drive to the event.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They have a MINI Cooper for you to drive—and don’t worry, I already cleared your driving a foreign car with your manufacturer. They understand it’s a sponsor thing.”

  “A MINI Cooper, eh? I’ve always wanted to try one of those.”

  “Even one that’s decked out with the Snappy Lube mascot on the roof?”

  “Huh?”

  “Roadrunner is on the roof.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope. And it’s painted the Snappy Lube colors. Orange, yellow and white.”

  The chuckle emerged before he could haul it back. “Great,” he said.

  “But you don’t have to drive the car to the event. Not if you don’t want to. I can have someone meet you at the track with the car.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Actually, I think I kind of want to drive the thing.” A little self-humiliation was never a bad thing, at least according to his mom.

  “Terrific,” Jen said with a blinding smile. “I’ll arrange for it to be delivered to your hotel.”

  “I can hardly wait,” he said.

  The engine whined as they flew down the road. Barely any traffic. Todd felt himself relax a bit. “What’s on for tomorrow?”

  “You have an appointment at that fitness club at seven. Someone named Andy will be your trainer for the day. Your first interview is at nine. Local affiliate. After that, there’s a lot of corporate stuff—a whole day of it, actually. You have a team meeting at four, then another souvenir rig signing after that. From there you’ll go to the media center. Everyone wants to talk to you since you just might make the Chase. Immediately following that is another interview, then driver intros at seven—”

  “Do I have time to breathe?” he asked, refusing to think about the word might. He would make the damn Chase.

  “I’ve arranged for a stop at an oxygen bar in between the hospitality tents and the team meeting.”