by Mona Shroff
Also by Mona Shroff
Then, Now, Always
Mona Shroff
Then There Was You
To Anand,
You are the embodiment of your name,
bringing happiness and joy everywhere you go,
especially to my heart.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
ANNIKA
FIRSTS WERE ALWAYS ripe with possibilities. First steps. First friend. First love. But nothing was ever quite like the first day of school. Especially not this year. This year, Annika Mehta was in charge of her first classroom. The familiar aromas of chalk and paper, crayons and paint took on new meaning as Annika surveyed her summer handiwork. She was proud of the setup. Science area, art area, reading nook (complete with small cushy pillows), math section with beads and plenty of paper. It had taken her a while to get here, and she inhaled, satisfied.
That was when the butterflies hit. Annika hadn’t been this nervous since her student-teaching days, and that was mostly because the parents all thought she looked too young to be a teacher, which always amused her, as she was actually a few years older than most student teachers. Now, however, Annika was the head teacher. She put her hand to her stomach, as if doing so would calm the fluttering. She inhaled the familiar scents of cut grass and city exhaust as she opened a few windows. The air was cool right now, but the stickiness proved that summer still prevailed despite the fact that it was after Labor Day.
She was ready. Or at least as ready as she’d ever be.
A knock and shuffling at the door gave her butterflies new wings, but they settled as she greeted the first of her students.
“Good morning, Allison!” Annika walked over and made eye contact with the little girl, then turned to the mother. “Good morning, Mrs. Peterson.”
“Good morning. Good to see you again,” Mrs. Peterson replied, her smile warm and welcoming.
Annika gave her full attention to the child. “Do you remember where things go?” Orientation had been a few days ago, but Allison nodded.
“I do, Ms. Mehta.” She beamed and looked at her mother, as if asking permission to go.
Mrs. Peterson smiled, tilting her head at her daughter. “You’ll have to ask Ms. Mehta when you’re in her classroom.”
“Oh. Ms. Mehta, can I go put my things away?”
Annika grinned, relaxing. “Of course.”
Allison walked over to the coatrack and placed her backpack and lunch in the appropriate cubby.
Mrs. Peterson sighed. “She’s talked about nothing else but this classroom since meeting you. We’re very excited about her kindergarten year.”
“Me, too.” Annika smiled.
Mrs. Peterson waved at her daughter and placed her hand on her heart. “They grow so fast.” She smiled at Annika, her eyes moist, before gripping Annika’s hand in both of hers. “Thank you.”
“It’s going to be a wonderful year, Mrs. Peterson,” Annika assured her.
Other students and parents followed soon after, leaving Annika so busy and energized there just wasn’t room for butterflies.
The buzz of animated children filled her classroom, with only two of them so far having shed any tears. With a few minutes left in drop-off, Annika turned for a moment to observe the members of her class who were there. A small group had gathered around the books, another couple had pulled out blocks to play with and others were simply coloring quietly.
“Ah. Excuse me?” a male voice called from the door.
Annika walked over and addressed the child who stood with the man. “Good morning, Mitch. Do you remember me?”
Large brown eyes looked up at her, a small, shy smile breaking through on Mitch’s face. Annika turned her attention to the man with him. “Hi, I’m Ms. Mehta.” She extended her hand. “I don’t believe we met at orientation.”
The man stiffened, merely glancing at her hand. “Are you the teacher?”
Annika smiled, keeping her hand extended. “Yes, I am.”
He looked around and behind her, his brow furrowed and a small frown forming at his mouth. “There’s no one else here?”
Annika pressed her lips together and forced the smile to stay put. Here it was. The typical No way you’re old enough to teach. Good skin and genetics were a blessing and a curse. Hopefully, she’d still look young when she was fifty.
“No need. I’m the teacher. Annika Mehta. I’m new, but completely qualified.” She laughed. “I can assure you, they won’t let just anyone teach here.”
The man stared at her extended hand, then looked at her, his eyes hardening. “Clearly, that’s not true. Seems they’ll let anyone teach.”
Confused, Annika dropped her hand. “I’m sorry?” She paused. “I only look young. This is my first classroom on my own, but I have done extensive training—”
The man scoffed. “It’s not your age.” He nudged his son forward, narrowing his eyes, a scowl settling in on his face. “Go on, now, Mitch. Your mother will get you later.”
Mitch ran to the cubbies, and his father turned on his heel and headed out the door. Annika stood frozen to her spot. Not her age? He couldn’t possibly have meant... No, that didn’t happen. Not in this day and age. Not to her.
She was shaking, her body understanding fully what her mind was trying to wrap itself around. That it wasn’t her age, it was her skin color. She hadn’t thought it possible, but for the first time she could feel the brown of her skin, as if brown was something less than and something dirty. Rage at this man boiled inside her, intense and sharp. She raged even more at the fact that someone could even for a second make her feel less than she was. Being brown, being Indian, was a part of her. She squared her shoulders and fought the hot tears that came to her eyes, clogging her throat with a hundred things she wanted to scream at that man. Not the very least of which was What are you teaching your son?
She pulled the plastic strip from her pocket. Her name and birthdate were typed on it, along with other numbers she still did not understand. She inhaled, as if she was infusing courage from the air. She squeezed the hospital band and placed it back in her pocket, where it had been for the past five months.
Mitch. Her first day. She had a class to teach. She fought back fiery tears and swallowed hard at the lump of anger. She plastered a smile on her face and readied herself for class.
She turned and clapped a short rhythm. She d
id it again, this time clearing her throat. Her gaze landed on Mitch, and he clapped back at her, copying her rhythm. Her heart swelled and she grinned, focusing on the smiles of the children, as she repeated the clapping pattern again. This time, a few children joined Mitch in answering her. She walked to the edge of the circle, continuing the game, until all the children had joined her.
“Good morning, class. Do you remember my name?” She paused, then allowed her heart to be light at the chorus of “Ms. Mehta” that came to her from her students.
“That’s right.” She floated her gaze around the circle at each child. “We’re going to have a wonderful year.”
That’s a promise.
CHAPTER TWO
DANIEL
DANIEL LAY DOWN in his room at base, shoes still on his feet. The helicopter was clean, equipment ready to go, all paperwork up-to-date. He’d earned himself a bit of a lie-down. He closed his eyes, and the image of Annika Mehta, twenty-seven, popped immediately into his brain. It had been five months since he’d cared for her in the ER, but every time he closed his eyes, there she was, in all her beauty and pain.
He had unwittingly memorized the emergency address she left. He should just go down there and see how she was. Irrational. Stalker, much? Definitely losing it. He relaxed all his muscles and attempted to clear his mind so sleep would come. Just as he hit that place between sleeping and waking, an intense and insistent buzzer jerked him awake. Immediately alert, he grabbed his belt and helmet as he quickly but calmly entered the hallway.
“Base” was where the flight medics and pilot waited for cases to come their way. Daniel’s room was one of three in the house, with a bed, small desk and a chest of drawers. They had a fully stocked kitchen and three bathrooms. Shifts were twenty-four hours, so base was Daniel’s home a couple of days a week. His own apartment in Baltimore was simply a place for him to sleep between shifts on the helicopter and shifts in the ER.
“Gunshot wounds at a bar. EMTs are already there, but the patient needs to get to Hopkins.” Crista rolled her eyes as she donned her helmet. “When will they learn that alcohol and guns don’t mix?”
Daniel followed Crista outside to the helipad. The downwash had churned up fallen leaves, and Daniel squinted to avoid flying debris as he bent over at the waist and followed his partner onto the helicopter. Crista shivered in the unexpected fall chill despite the fact that they each had on an extra layer. When they’d gone up in the afternoon, it had been decidedly warm and muggy. More August than early September.
The pilot was already gearing up. Daniel sat with his back to the pilot and fastened his five-point harness. Crista took the seat that would be next to their patient. He plugged in his helmet so he could communicate with the pilot and donned his night-vision goggles just as the roar of the blades and engine reached a peak and the chopper lifted off.
Daniel cleared his mind, the intense vibrations of the chopper just part of his background. This wasn’t that different from being a nurse practitioner in the ER, in that you never knew what you were facing until you were facing it. Both jobs were intense in different ways, keeping his mind from wandering to painful things.
A few minutes into the flight, the pilot spoke to Daniel through his helmet. “Daniel?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I need an open field to land near 131 North Charles.”
Daniel knew these parts like the back of his hand. And he knew that address. His heart leaped. “Repeat that address?”
“It’s 131 North Charles.”
How the hell was Annika Mehta’s emergency address a bar? That made no sense. Why would she give a bar address as her emergency contact?
“Daniel!” The pilot was waiting on him. “Any ideas?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Daniel mentally shook himself and told the pilot about a high school football field about half a mile from that location. He closed his eyes and pushed thoughts of Annika Mehta out of his mind. If the EMTs had called for the chopper, he was going to need to focus.
A few minutes later, the pilot landed them smoothly in the field. Daniel and Crista grabbed their gear bags and ran for the red flashing lights of the fire truck that would serve as their ride to the site. Daniel barely even registered the siren as they approached the bar. Blue-and-red flashing lights became visible—at least two cop cars as well as an ambulance were parked as if thrown in a semicircle in front of the bar.
“Phil’s Place,” Crista chuckled.
“What?”
She shrugged. “It’s the bar. Kind of place I’d go to.”
“Yeah, sure.” Daniel scanned the area. Not looking for beautiful women with dark curly hair. No. Not at all.
Sirens blipped, red and blue lights flashed, a flurry of activity around the ambulance and the police cars. Daniel automatically tuned out every distraction and focused on the bleeding man thrashing about on the gurney. The EMTs had him strapped down while treating his wounds, but it didn’t deter his attempts to be free of his restraints.
“Let me out!” His voice was strangled with sobs, taking the fight out of him, but he continued to twist against the straps around his wrists. “I don’t want to live! I can’t—” His wail of pain distracted Daniel for a quick moment before he registered it clinically. An EMT was cleaning one of the man’s wounds.
Daniel met Crista’s eyes and stepped up, taking the lead. He motioned for light. The scent of gunpowder confirmed shots fired, and a quick scan revealed one gunshot wound in the man’s shoulder and another in his upper thigh.
“What happened, Andy?” Daniel asked the EMT. The patient was crying out in a nonstop stream that quickly became background noise as Daniel’s focus narrowed to his patient and how he was going to best care for him in a quick and efficient manner.
“Looks like he tried suicide by cop.”
Daniel flicked his gaze to the EMT. “Seriously?” This was not entirely uncommon, but still not your run-of-the-mill gunshot wound.
“Yeah. Apparently, he buried his wife today.” The heft in Andy’s voice was metered by the clinical tone that was a side effect of their job, where life-changing events became information.
Daniel approached his patient with new eyes. Young, male, late twenties, maybe a few years younger than Daniel. A nod of silent communication to Crista, who started her clinical assessment while Daniel addressed the patient. “So, hey. What’s your name?”
“Mark.”
“Okay, listen up, Mark. I’m Daniel. This is Crista. She’s the best. We’re going to fix you up, get you to a hospital.”
“Don’t bother.” Mark started crying. “My wife...”
“Yeah, I know.” Daniel motioned to Crista as he continued to address Mark. “I need you to focus.”
“Daniel, he’s...uh...got a child.” Andy didn’t meet Daniel’s eyes.
Daniel froze. The words came to him as if from a tunnel, shattering his fine-tuned focus, and transporting him instead to the scene of a hectic ER filled with doctors and nurses frantically trying to take care of a little girl. Daniel suddenly felt as though Andy were speaking a different language, and he couldn’t decipher the words and numbers the EMT was rattling off.
“Daniel. Hey, Daniel, are you listening?”
“Give me the vitals, Andy.” Crista stepped in front of Daniel, and he let himself be shoved aside as she took over.
Daniel registered Andy saying something to him—maybe an apology—just as Crista barked, “Forget him. Just give me the rest of the information.”
Daniel caught her eye as Andy finished speaking. Her gaze was fierce, but her words weren’t without concern. “You working tonight, Daniel?”
“Yeah.” He snapped out of it. “Yeah, I’m working.”
“Well, let’s get to it. It’s going to take us both.” She turned to her patient. “I hear you got a kid?”
“Yeah. A little boy.”
Mark turned his focus to Daniel. “You have kids?”
“No.” Daniel needed to say something to Mark, something comforting, but he couldn’t do it. Silence hung in the air for a moment before Mark started wailing his grief once more.
Yet again, Daniel froze.
He felt, rather than heard, Crista’s curse before she addressed Mark herself. “Listen, Mark. What’s your little boy’s name? Huh? Look at me, Mark. What’s his name?”
“Nick.” Mark stopped thrashing about. “His name is Nick.”
Crista grinned as she stabilized Mark for the chopper ride. “Nick. That’s a great name. How old is he?” She leaned closer to Daniel for a split second, elbowing him painfully in the ribs. “Snap out of it, huh?” she hissed.
Daniel grunted, glaring at Crista for the jab, though it was well deserved. To say she looked unapologetic was an understatement. He took over caring for Mark’s wounds as Crista continued to talk.
“He’s seven.”
“Well, Mark. Seems that little Nick needs a father, don’t you think? I mean, who’s going to teach him to throw a ball?”
Mark looked away as he considered her words. Daniel continued with the business of medicine. He could not participate in a conversation where a father needed to be goaded back to caring for his child.
Mark looked at Daniel. “You married?” Why did this guy feel the need to keep talking to him?
“Not anymore.” Daniel’s words were clipped. They had an IV going, and the bleeding was temporarily under control, but they needed to get Mark onto the chopper. He caught Crista’s eye and nodded, indicating that they were ready to move.
“Too bad. I loved my Lisa. She—she was everything,” Mark sobbed again as they moved him into the ambulance.
Daniel couldn’t hold his peace any longer. “Maybe she was—I don’t know,” he growled. “But what I do know is that you have a little boy. You’re a father. Nothing trumps that. Nothing.” His voice was gruff and filled with anger—not at all the comforting tone of a paramedic or a nurse practitioner. “You want your little boy in foster care?”
