"So you're still with Tracey," she said.
"I'll dump her in an instant if you let me come home. We can rip up that separation agreement and make our own agreement." He arched his brows suggestively.
"How come she didn't come to the game?"
Wesley shrugged. "Tracey has a cold. Picked it up from the old folks. She didn't come because she didn't want to pass it on to Colton."
"How considerate of her," Rebecca sneered.
"Becca…"
She ignored the warning in his voice. "You two planning to tie the knot?"
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back. Why had she asked him that, of all things? It made her sound like she was jealous.
Am I?
Wesley smiled, as if reading her mind. "I'll be sure to send you an invite when we do."
She reached for the car door handle. "Don't bother."
"You haven't answered my question, Becca."
With a heavy sigh, she faced him. "Fine. You can have Colton for the week. But not a day more." A grin spread across his face and she scowled. "And please don't go getting any ideas about changing the custody agreement after that, Wesley. The kids need stability."
"Thanks," he said.
"You can thank me by making sure you look after him." She hesitated. "I guess I should tell you I'm going away for a couple of days. The kids will be staying with my sister."
"When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow evening. After supper. I'll be back Monday afternoon."
"That's kind of last minute, don't you think?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I decided to do it today. And I do not owe you any advanced notice. I'm telling you now."
He held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. So where you going?"
"Cadomin. You know I always wanted to see the bat cave."
"I was going to take you."
She shrugged and climbed into the car. "But you didn't."
"I could." He regarded her with suspicion as he held onto the door. "Why aren't you taking the kids?"
"They have school on Monday."
"Who are you going with?"
"Me, myself and I." She scowled. "I'm going alone, Wesley. I need a break, so I'm taking a few days off."
"I'd babysit the kids, but I'll be busy this weekend."
She resisted the urge to tell him it wasn't babysitting when the kids were his own. "It's already arranged, Wesley. Kelly's expecting them."
"Doesn't she already have her hands full?"
Wesley was right. Her sister did have her hands full. Kelly was happily married with four kids―eight-year-old Evan and five-year-old triplets, Aynsley, Megan and Jacob.
"Kelly can handle it. She's a great mother."
Rebecca wouldn't admit it, but she envied her sister. Kelly was married to the perfect man, an electrical engineer who doted on her and their kids. Steve was highly respected, financially stable and he would never lay an angry hand on anyone. Except maybe Wesley. More than once, Steve had offered to help Rebecca "toss that bastard out on his ass"―or words to that effect.
"Well, I'll have Colton's visit to look forward to this summer," Wesley said.
She was starting to have second thoughts about that.
Grasping the door handle to close it, she eyed him. "We have to go."
"Have fun in Cadomin." He didn't sound too sincere.
She aimed a tight smile at him. "I will."
As she pulled the car away from the curb, Rebecca peered into the rearview mirror. Wesley stood on the sidewalk, watching her drive away.
"Did you say yes, Mom?" Colton asked.
"Yes."
In the back seat, her son did a seated jig and jabbed Ella in the side.
"Mommy, Colton's poking me."
"Don't worry, Ella," Colton said, "I'll be outta your hair for a whole week."
Rebecca peered into the mirror. "How did you know it was for a week?"
"Dad told me last weekend he was gonna ask you."
Her lips curled. "You should've said something to me."
"Nah, Dad said he'd ask you himself. And I didn't wanna jinx things."
Colton stuffed two ear buds into his ears, then sat back with a grin. She watched for a minute as he bobbed his head to whatever tune he was listening to on the iPod his father had bought him for his birthday last year.
It was going to kill her to be away from her son for an entire week.
You'll still have Ella.
As if on cue, her beautiful daughter giggled in the backseat.
Come July, Rebecca would keep busy with Ella and enjoy some real mommy-daughter time. But that wouldn't stop her from missing Colton. A week was a long time.
Too long.
Depressed, Rebecca pulled onto Whitemud Drive and headed for home, all the time wondering if she should cancel the summer plans with Wesley.
"You can do this," she whispered. "It's only a week."
It would be the longest week of her life. After it was over, she'd convince Wesley to go back to their original summer plan. Alternating weekends during the summer holidays. There was no way on earth she was ever going to be separated from either of her children for longer than that.
Colton and Ella are my life and soul.
"Can we get pizza to celebrate?" Colton asked.
"Sure. Pepperoni and mushroom?"
"Yeah."
"With double cheese?" Ella piped up.
"With double cheese."
Somehow, pizza made the world seem right again, and Rebecca smiled. She was in the proverbial driver's seat, in control of her life again.
She should have realized that life is never predictable.
Chapter Three
Edson, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 4:55 PM
The afternoon had crawled past at worm speed. Using the Kindle application on his iPhone, Marcus downloaded an eBook on sleep disorders and spent the time between calls reading about somniphobia―the fear of sleeping—something Leo was adamant Marcus had.
He yawned and stretched his legs beneath the cramped desk. Three calls had come in during the first three hours of his shift, and neither had warranted emergency vehicles.
"Pussy Willow's back home," Mrs. Mortimer said when she called in the second time. "One of my neighbors was kind enough to coax her down from the maple tree. They bribed her with—"
"Thanks for calling back," Marcus cut in, "but 911 is for emergencies, Mrs. Mortimer."
"This is an emergency. I didn't want you to trouble yourself by sending out a fire truck."
Marcus gritted his teeth. "Thank you, Mrs. Mortimer."
"You're welcome, dear. You have a nice day now."
He couldn't help but grin.
The third call had been a false alarm. Some kid had pulled the fire alarm at the elementary school. School staff had conducted a thorough check of the school and found nothing. No smoke, no fire. That was one of the good calls.
"Supper time," Leo said behind him.
"You read my mind."
Leo and Marcus preferred to take the five-o'clock slot, while the casuals―Carol and Rudy―took the six-o'clock supper break. That way there were always two people on the phones. They alternated the two fifteen-minute breaks the same way. Of course, if there was a major emergency during that time, Leo and Marcus would rush back to the phones.
Marcus followed Leo into the cramped break room with its bare walls and mismatched chairs. He grabbed a plastic container from the bar fridge, popped the lid and placed it in the microwave.
"Got anything good today?" Leo asked, eyeing him hungrily.
"Leftover lasagna."
"That's three days in a row, Marcus."
"I thought Italians were supposed to love pasta."
Leo scowled. "Not three-day-old lasagna. Besides, I was hoping you made one of your fancy dinners."
It was no secret that Marcus enjoyed cooking. He spent hours flipping through the cable channels on the prowl for the next
great recipe. He watched Gordon Ramsey, Jamie Oliver and a few others, then concocted his own recipes using fresh herbs and lots of vegetables. He'd cook, day or night, depending on his shift. There was something almost magical about cooking up something delicious in the early hours of the morning, when the sun hadn't even made an appearance yet and his neighbors were all sleeping soundly in their beds.
With the container of hot lasagna in hand, he sat down at the single table in the break room, a warped slab of melamine with deformed metal legs, one of them propped up by a bent piece of cardboard. As Leo sat down in the chair across from him, Marcus rocked his chair back and forth, waiting for the legs to settle into the grooves in the old linoleum.
He took a bite of lasagna. "What about you, Leo? What's on the menu?"
"KFC." Leo held up a crispy drumstick.
Marcus laughed. "Again? Haven't you had that the past three days?"
"It's KFC."
Fried chicken was Leo's weakness. Marcus was concerned that one day all the grease would catch up to Leo and his arteries. The man was already overweight. And exercise wasn't in Leo's vocabulary, unless it was picking up the phone to order take-out on the way home.
But Leo did love Marcus's cooking.
At least someone does, Marcus thought.
"You and Val should come over for dinner Monday. Before work."
"Maybe. We might be busy that night."
"What, you got a hot date planned?"
"Naw, man."
"Why's your face so red? What's going on?"
"Val wants to try again."
"Try what?"
Leo leaned close. "She wants a kid."
"Ah, and Monday is D-Night."
"Yeah. De night for love."
Marcus chuckled. "Then how come you don't look too happy about it?"
"It's so…I don't know…planned. You know. Feels like the damn doctor is standing over us, telling us where to put what and for how long."
"You mean you haven't figured that out yet?"
Leo took an angry bite of a drumstick. "Hey, stop laughing. This ain't funny. Trying to have a kid puts a lot of pressure on a guy."
"At least you're getting laid."
A rumble of laugher came from deep within Leo's burly chest. "Yeah, there's that."
Marcus scraped the last bite of lasagna from the container. "You're a lucky man, Leo."
"And don't I know it."
Marcus studied his friend. Leo would make a great dad. The kind that would always be there, always be cheering his kid on.
And God forbid anyone dumb enough to bully his kid.
"Why you staring at me like that?"
"I'm trying to imagine you with a teenage son."
Leo beamed. "A son? That what you think I'll have?"
"Yeah, a big, burly kid who looks just like you. Talks like you too. We'll call him Smartass Junior. What do you think?"
"You talkin' to me?" Leo said in his best De Niro.
Marcus laughed. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to you." Unfurling his long legs, he walked over to the sink and washed the empty container.
"You coming to the meeting tonight?" Leo asked, licking greasy fingers.
"I'm not sure."
"Marcus…"
There was a piece of onion stuck to the bottom of the plastic container, and Marcus spent a minute trying to scrape it off with his fingernail. It kept him from having to see the disapproval he knew was in his friend's eyes.
Leo grunted. "This'll be the second week you've missed. That's not good."
"So who's counting? Except you, Leo."
"You should be."
Marcus placed the container on a dish towel to air dry, then glanced at Leo. "Hey, don't look so pissed. I'm still good."
"Are you? Like I said before, you don't look too hot."
Marcus let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, I'll go. Happy now?"
"Yeah, happy as a snitch in concrete blocks."
"Careful, Leo. Your inner mobster is showing."
"And don't you forget it." Leo threw the empty KFC carton in the garbage can and let out a loud belch. "I'll drive tonight."
"Great," Marcus drawled. "I'll call ahead to the traffic cops. I'm sure they can use the extra ticket money." He turned abruptly as footsteps approached.
Carol Burnett entered the break room. Though allegedly named after the witty television comedian from the '80s, that's where the resemblance ended. Carol was a scrawny-looking gray woman―gray in hair color, pallor, attire and personality. There wasn't much evidence of a sense of humor either.
"It's 6:05," she said, unsmiling.
Leo gave Marcus a look of mock horror. "Good God! We're late."
"We've got a date…with destiny," Marcus said in an overdramatic tone.
Carol glared at them, then shook her head and wandered over to the fridge.
"One day we'll make her laugh," Marcus said to Leo.
His friend responded by taking a low bow, which showed off his butt crack in Carol's direction.
"Funny, Leonardo," she muttered. "Very funny."
Leo winked at her. "Someone around here has gotta be."
"You're the class clown of 911," Marcus said as they made their way back to their desks. "The guy who always gets a laugh."
Leo pouted. "From everyone except Carol. She's ruining my mojo."
"Hey, even Shipley thinks you're funny, which is pretty damned amazing considering he rarely cracks a smile for anyone."
"Taylor!"
Marcus grimaced. "Shit. Speak of the Devil."
Shipley stood in the doorway to his office. He raised a hand, and at first Marcus wondered if he was going to wave. But he didn't. Instead, Shipley pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then pointed at Marcus.
Marcus nodded. Got it. You're watching me.
He strode to his desk while his supervisor's stare followed him. He knew exactly what the man was thinking. Shipley was praying he'd mess up again. But he'd already messed up enough.
Marcus's addiction had led to countless lies, theft of drugs and forging doctors' prescriptions. And though he didn't feel he deserved their support, his EMT-P platoon had gone to bat for him, defending him to the higher-ups. The powers that be agreed to rehabilitation and counseling, as long as Marcus promised to abide by the rules. It was a fair deal. He would serve no prison time for the theft of the drugs and had to abide by other conditions, and in exchange he'd work at the center as part of his rehab.
He recalled the day he started at the center five years ago. The first time he'd stepped into Shipley's office he knew he'd have problems with the man.
"So you're a druggie," Shipley said, referring to a folder in his hands.
"A recovering addict."
Shipley's eyes narrowed. "A druggie. I have no use for people who refuse to value life. Our job here is to save lives." He stared at Marcus. With a sigh, he slapped the folder on the desk. "But my hands are tied, and you've been assigned the job. Don't screw it up."
"I won't."
The man's mouth lifted in a sneer. "We'll see. Won't we? Personally, I doubt you'll make it a month here."
Marcus had smiled then. He knew an alpha male when he saw one. He also recognized a challenge. "I don't give a shit what you think, Mr. Shipley. I'll do my job."
"Don't forget the mandatory drug testing every week."
"I know the drill."
Yeah, he knew the drill well. He adhered to the rules, pissed in a plastic bottle on demand and stayed away from his old dealer haunts. It was the price he had to pay. Whenever the cravings teased him—and some nights they hit with a vengeance—he pictured Jane and Ryan. He recalled the look of despair and disappointment in her eyes when she'd first learned of his addiction.
Everything had started out so innocently. As a paramedic he was surrounded by drugs. He'd administered them to victims when needed. He stocked them, counted them and restocked them. After three grueling multiple car accidents and an apartment fire, both claiming dozens of lives and i
njuring dozens more, he'd suffered from burnout and back and shoulder pain.
The first time he used, he convinced himself it was only going to be that one time. He popped a couple of misappropriated Vicodin, and the rest of his day was a productive fog of pain-free activity. In the beginning, it was easy to "accidentally misplace" the drug when he needed more. On one occasion, he faked dropping a bottle so the pills spilled out on the ambulance floor. As he and Ashton Campbell, his partner, cleaned up the mess, Marcus furtively pocketed every other handful. Not one of his proudest moments.
When Ashton began to notice the missing Vicodin, Marcus resorted to Tylenol 3s, an easy prescription to get. He broke them down in cold water and separated the codeine, an opiate used for pain relief. The concentrated codeine numbed the pain and had the added effect of making him high. Unfortunately he liked the feeling a bit too much. He tricked himself into believing he was more efficient as a paramedic when he was high. It made him feel more confident, alert, in control.
Who the hell was he kidding?
Over time, his addiction became more demanding. Codeine stopped working, and he returned to Vicodin and Percocet. Occasionally, he'd inject himself with morphine, when the pain became unbearable. Soon his dilated pupils gave him away.
Jane broached the subject one evening, but he walked out of the house, pissed that she'd accused him—a paramedic, for God's sake—of being an addict. Then Ashton told Marcus he knew about the pilfered drugs.
Within days, Marcus's deep, dark secret was out. He was exposed, humiliated and ashamed. He was given a choice—rehab or jail.
Wasn't much of a choice.
Jane had stood by him. She was wonderful that way, always forgiving. She even supported his decision to take off to Cadomin for a week, without her or Ryan. Fishing, he told her.
In actuality, he'd gone there to contemplate his life and the terrible choices he'd made. The box with the insignia had gone with him. It would be his last time using, he promised himself. Then he'd bury the box and be done with it all. He swore he go to meetings, get clean, whatever it took, as soon as he returned home. But he spent most of the time in the cabin high on morphine and sleeping. That was back in the days when he could sleep.
He remembered sitting in the candlelit cabin, a hypodermic needle in his arm. He was dozing, embracing the flow of lightness, when his cell phone rang.
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