Daniel's Gift

by Barbara Freethy

  Jenny sent her a curious glance. "Is everything okay with you two?"

  "Of course, why wouldn't it be? Richard's just busy. So am I for that matter."

  "You don't have to stay -- "

  "I didn't mean it that way."

  "I know. Still, it could be a while before -- before Danny wakes up. William and Constance need you."

  "They're both upset about Danny. I told them he'd be fine, and soon. After all, Thanksgiving is next week. We can't have it without Danny."

  Jenny's heart caught at the simple words, without Danny. She turned to her sister in desperation. "Oh, God, Merrilee, what if he isn't there?"

  Merrilee put a hand on her arm. "He'll be there. He knows I never take no for an answer."

  Jenny took in a deep breath and let it out. She couldn't let the doubts take hold. She had to keep them at bay, otherwise, she would break down completely. "You're right."

  "I usually am," Merrilee said with a bright smile.

  Jenny gave her a reluctant grin. "That you are. Did you talk to Matt?"

  Merrilee's smile faded. "I left him a dozen messages. Maybe he went away for the weekend."

  "I saw him last night. He's probably at Brenda's."

  "I wish he'd get his life straightened out."

  "So do I."

  "Jenny," Merrilee said, "I have to ask. What did you tell Luke?"

  Jenny looked at Danny, avoiding Merrilee's probing gaze. "I didn't tell him anything."

  "Good. There's nothing to be gained by telling him that he's Danny's father. He'll only complicate things."

  "I know," Jenny said, but deep down she felt a twinge of longing for the man who had fathered her son, the man Danny wanted so desperately to meet. How ironic that Luke should come now, a day late. Their timing had never been good.

  Jenny stroked Danny's cheek. "The nurse said I should talk to Danny, that maybe he can hear me. Can you hear me, buddy? I love you, you know." Her voice faltered. "You have to fight to wake up. Push hard, baby. The sandman put an extra dose of sand in your eyes, but you can brush it out. You can do it. You're strong. You're a fighter."

  "Jenny -- "

  Jenny glanced back at her sister. "He's my courage, my strength, Merrilee. One night when we came home late from the movies, the back door was ajar. I was scared to death. I wanted to run next door and call the cops, but Danny, my twelve-year-old kid, gets his baseball bat and goes with me to check things out. And I let him, Merrilee. I actually let him." Her voice rose with anguish. "God, I'm a terrible mother. He could have been hurt that night, too. Just like yesterday, when I should have been home, when I should have guessed what he had in mind."

  "Jenny, stop. You're not a terrible mother."

  "How can you say that? You're the first one to criticize me."

  "Only for the little things. I've certainly never thought you put Danny's life in jeopardy."

  "Well, now you know. I've done it -- lots of times." Jenny sat down in the chair next to Danny's bed. "I wish I could go back and do everything differently."

  "There's no point in crying over spilled milk."

  Jenny sighed. "Oh, Merrilee. I know you mean well, but would you mind leaving me alone?"

  "You want me to leave?" Merrilee asked in surprise.

  "Yes."

  Merrilee looked taken aback. "Oh, well, all right. Maybe I'll call Matt again. I won't be far away," Merrilee said as she left.

  Jenny turned to her son, relieved to be alone. She didn't want to talk to Merrilee. She didn't want to talk to anyone but her son. "Come on, Danny, time to rise and shine. Surfs up. We can hit the beach. You and me. Me and you. The two of us."

  Against the world, Jenny silently added. It had always been that way, since the day she had walked away from Luke, with his five hundred dollars burning a hole in her pocket. She had gone to the beach, the way she always did when she was upset. The wind had carried away her tears. The sea had taken away Luke's money.

  It had been an impulsive gesture to throw his money into the ocean when she was dead broke, a pregnant eighteen-year-old with one year of college and a part-time job at the ice cream store. But the gesture had soothed her pride.

  She didn't need Luke Sheridan. So what if he had given her the summer of her life? Summer was over. The leaves had turned, and so had Luke.

  The pain had been unbearable for weeks, months. Every time Jenny looked in the mirror and saw her blossoming stomach, she remembered the night they had made Danny -- the the reckless passion that couldn't be stopped not even when the condom broke, the unbearable need to be together, the hot touch of Luke's hand against her breast, his lips trailing love along every inch of her body.

  Danny might not have been born into love, but he was certainly conceived in love.

  She believed that now as strongly as she had then. Luke had simply been afraid. A decade of distance had brought that truth to her mind. Years later, eons wiser, Jenny now saw the picture clearly -- a young man on the brink of a brilliant future, suddenly faced with his barefoot and pregnant girlfriend, who didn't plan beyond her next peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich.

  Of course, Luke could have acted like a hero, the man of her dreams. He could have taken her into his arms, proposed marriage or at least a long engagement. But no, he had turned and fled, as if the fires of hell were licking at his fine Italian shoes.

  So much time had passed since then, weeks and months and years that should have made any connection between them completely impossible. Yet, how quickly the memories had come back. One look, one word, and Jenny remembered the smell of his shampoo, the tenor of his voice, the cleft in his chin, the feel of his arms around her.

  She didn't want to remember those things. She wanted to remember the pain, the coldness in Luke's voice when he told her it was over, the icy touch of his hand as he passed her the money in payoff.

  Jenny focused on the anger. It kept the pain away, at least for the moment. As long as she didn't have to see him again, things would be all right.

  Chapter Ten

  "Mr. Sheridan. I'm pleased to meet you." Dr. Bruce Lowenstein stood up as Luke approached his desk. He shook Luke's hand with a strong, confident shake.

  Luke was pleased by the intensity of his grip. Dr. Lowenstein was the neurosurgeon who had operated on Danny. It was nice to know he had a steady hand.

  "Please call me Luke."

  Dr. Lowenstein smiled. "I understand you've taken over Sheri-Tech. You're stepping into some pretty big shoes. Have a seat." Dr. Lowenstein waved his hand toward the leather chair in front of his desk. "How does it feel to be back home?"

  Luke sat down and crossed his legs. "Not bad."

  "You were at McAuley Perkins, weren't you?"

  "Yes, but that was just training ground. Sheri-Tech has always been my final goal."

  Dr. Lowenstein nodded. "I've met your parents on numerous occasions. Quite a family you've got there. Very impressive."

  "Thank you."

  "I've got four kids, and not one of them wants to come near the hospital." He shook his head. "I can't figure that out. Of course, my wife tells me that I shouldn't get my dreams confused with their dreams."

  Luke stared at him, touched by his words. He didn't think his dreams had ever been separate from those of his parents.

  Dr. Lowenstein scooted his chair in closer to the desk and rested his elbows on the thick layer of glass. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

  Before Luke could answer, the buzzer on the phone sounded.

  "Sorry. Hang on a sec, will you?" Dr. Lowenstein picked up the phone and began to converse with a colleague.

  While the other man was talking on the phone, Luke looked around the office. There was the standard brown leather couch along one side, a credenza behind the desk, an array of diplomas on one wall and a lighted panel for reading X rays and other radiographs.

  He could have had this. He could have practiced medicine in a hospital or private office, instead of concentrating on research and develo
pment, but he had never felt comfortable with the personal part of medicine. He had never wanted to deal with patients, their problems, their fears and sometimes their tears. He didn't know how to give solace, how to impart tragic news with a smile of hope, how to offer a reassuring touch to someone whose heart was breaking.

  He had known early on that any future in medicine for him would have to be in the area of research. He could deal with microscopes and lab work, with clinical trials and statistics far better than he could hold someone's hand as they drifted across the line between life and death.

  It wasn't that he didn't care; he just couldn't express his feelings, get close to people. His parents had never been affectionate with him. There had been no loving hugs to soothe away tears, no warm embraces to chase away fear. That's why he had fallen so hard and fast for Jenny.

  Her natural affection had been like balm to a sore that never quite healed. She had gotten past his defenses, seen through his hard exterior to the lonely, vulnerable man beneath. She had touched his soul, and even though he hadn't seen her in years, hadn't dared to call her or write to her, he had never forgotten her.

  Now, they were drawn together again, in the worst possible circumstances, brought together by the child who had once split them apart. A child who might not live another day.

  Dr. Lowenstein hung up the phone and offered Luke an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. I've been trying to catch up with him for two days."

  "No problem."

  "Now, what can I do for you?"

  "I'm interested in one of your patients, Danny St. Claire."

  Dr. Lowenstein's expression turned grim. "Kids. I hate operating on kids. I never get used to it. Danny's in critical condition. I guess you already know that."

  "Is he breathing on his own?"

  "No, he's on the ventilator. There is very little reflexive action. He doesn't respond to commands or to touch. But it's early yet. Jack Berman will look in on him later today," Dr. Lowenstein said, mentioning one of the top neurologists in the Bay area. "I'll be interested to hear his opinion."

  "So will I."

  The doctor studied Luke with a thoughtful expression. "Mind if I ask what's your interest?"

  "I'm a friend of the family," Luke said, choosing to be discreet. He could hardly tell this man that he was the boy's father when he hadn't even told Denise yet.

  "His mother seems like a nice woman. She's got backbone. I'm afraid she'll need it."

  Luke nodded as he pulled out a business card. "Would you mind keeping me informed? I want the best for Danny. Whatever it takes."

  "Of course." Dr. Lowenstein took the card. "Tell me something. Haven't you ever wanted to practice medicine, the way you were trained -- hands-on with real people?"

  Luke shook his head. "Not once."

  "Interesting. I can't imagine being a doctor and not treating patients. That's the part I enjoy the most."

  "Even when those patients are twelve-year-old boys in critical condition?" Luke shook his head. "I don't think I could tell someone their child was critical. I couldn't find the words."

  "You rarely need words. They almost always know. Especially mothers."

  Luke leaned forward in his chair. "I know you don't have any answers, but what does your gut tell you about Danny's prognosis?"

  "Seventy to thirty."

  "For or against?"

  "Against."

  The word struck Luke hard, leaving him breathless. He took a moment to regroup. Finally, he could breathe again. "I hope your gut instinct is wrong."

  "So do I."

  "Thanks for your time."

  Dr. Lowenstein got up and walked Luke to the door. "I hope they catch whoever did this to Danny. That little boy is facing the fight of his life. It's a shame, a damn shame."

  * * *

  It was almost five o'clock Saturday evening when Alan threw himself into the beat-up, half-torn leather chair behind his desk and relished the sound of the disapproving squeal. Familiarity. Comfort. At least something in his world was still right side up.

  There were three other desks in the room, but only one was occupied, and that individual was on the phone, saving Alan from having to explain to yet another person exactly what had happened the night before. He had already gone over the details of the accident scene with his supervisor and the other officers on duty. Unfortunately, they still had no leads.

  Sue Spencer entered the room with two cups of coffee and set one down in front of Alan. "Thought you might need a shot of caffeine. You look like hell."

  Alan rubbed the day's growth of beard on his chin and frowned as he took a sip of coffee. "Jesus, Armando made the coffee again?"

  "He likes it strong."

  "Remind me to have him make a batch when we want to re-tar the roof."

  Sue perched her lithe, trim body on the corner of his desk and smiled, but her usually friendly eyes were filled with concern. "I thought you were taking the night off."

  "I might as well be working. I'm not doing any good anywhere else."

  "How's Danny?"

  Alan shook his head, feeling his entire body tighten up at the familiar question. The words were beginning to echo like a maddening refrain that wouldn't leave his mind. "Not good."

  "Damn."

  "You can say that again. I need answers, Spence, and I need them fast. Witnesses, skid marks, anything?"

  "Broken glass, probably from a headlight. That's it. The road is narrow, and there is thick foliage on both sides. No businesses or houses within a hundred yards. Nearest store, Ida's Ice Cream. No one heard a thing."

  "I know. I drove by there a few minutes ago. Just to see if we missed anything."

  "So did I, and we didn't. There was nothing to be missed. Danny was struck by the car, apparently hurled at least twenty feet, judging by the position of his body and placement on the road. From the description of his injuries, it appears that the car hit him around the rib cage. His sweatshirt was torn and there were abrasions, possibly cuts from the glass, on his abdomen. He's lucky there wasn't another car coming in the opposite direction or he could have been hit twice."

  "Lucky," he echoed. "What about Christopher?"

  "When he turned around, he saw lights fading in the distance. He ran into the middle of the road, tried to rouse Danny, and flagged down the first car that came. Thank God he didn't panic and leave him in the road. It was too dark for anyone to see anything."

  Alan drummed his fingers restlessly against his desk. He felt frustrated and angry and wanted desperately to hit something or somebody, preferably the somebody who had driven their car into a little boy and left him for dead on the highway.

  "Visibility was terrible last night," Sue reminded him. "I did check with the bus driver. He said he dropped the boys off and warned them to be careful, but he didn't see them cross the road."

  "There must have been someone. Maybe a customer who left Ida's Ice Cream and drove recklessly away."

  "We can go back, see if we can get names. It's a small community. Everyone knows everybody else. I think it's more likely that whoever did this left one of the bars down the road."

  Alan nodded grimly. "I hate those fucking drunks. I'm going to find this bastard and nail his ass to the wall."

  "I thought you'd say that. Want to pay a visit to the Acapulco Lounge?"

  Alan smiled for the first time in the past twenty-four hours. "I like the way you think, Spence."

  "We're partners. I'm with you all the way, buddy."

  "Thanks. You know, Jenny ..." He stopped, not sure what he wanted to say, except that he needed someone to talk to, and Spence was a woman after all.

  "What about Jenny?"

  "She's -- Oh, hell, I don't know what she is. I don't know what she's supposed to be. Her heart is breaking. I want to tell her it will be all right, but she looks at me like she hates me." Alan picked up his pen and rolled it around with his fingers.

  Sue put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, not wanting to show any
sign of weakness. He was a tough cop, always had been, always would be.

  "She's hurting, Alan. And she's angry. Maybe she had to take some of that anger out on you or she'd explode."

  "I don't know," Alan said slowly. "Things haven't been good the last couple of weeks. I don't know what this accident will do to us."

  "Maybe it will make your relationship stronger."

  "Maybe it will break us up."

  "Look on the bright side."

  "Is there one?"

  Sue shrugged apologetically. "Guess not."

  Alan tossed his pen down on the desk. "Oh, hell, I can't do anything to help Danny right now, or Jenny for that matter, but I can find whoever did this and make them pay." He stood up. "First stop, the Acapulco Lounge."

  Matt hung up his phone for the third time that day and stared at the family picture on the wall. It had been taken years ago when his mother was alive.

  They were sitting in the family living room in front of the Christmas tree.

  His mom and dad were on a piano bench. The kids were standing behind them. Everyone was smiling, except his father, who never found much in life to smile about.

  Matt's gaze turned toward his mother. Katherine St. Claire -- she reminded him of Jenny. The same impulsive smile, the same wild brown hair. Katherine had been the soft touch in the family, the one who kissed "owies" and tried to keep his father off his back.

  When Katherine died, the family lost the glue that had held them together. Merrilee, who was twenty-two at the time, became an obsessive control freak, taking over Jenny and Matt as if they were preschoolers instead of teenagers.

  He hadn't paid her much attention at the time. He had been eighteen and playing his first year at Stanford on a football scholarship. He'd been cocky, arrogant, full of himself. Without his mother to remind him that humbleness was a virtue, he had become a complete asshole.

  Jenny had been fifteen, a sophomore in high school, and the most vulnerable of all of them. He looked at her face in the photo and smiled with genuine tenderness. Jen-Jen looked like a young filly, skinny legs, long arms, and hair blowing loose around her face. In the photo she was only a year or two older than Danny was now, and the similarity between them was striking and heartbreaking.