by DiAnn Mills
After drying off, she popped the thermometer under her tongue, closed her eyes, and listened for the digital click. It read 101.5.
Moaning, she phoned Dr. Maberry’s office. The kind gentleman had been her doctor since she moved to Houston. Thirty-five-year-old women weren’t supposed to run a fever like a child. She scheduled a one thirty appointment for this afternoon. Her calendar indicated a Pomeranian suffering from a possible ear infection would be at the clinic around 11:30. That gave her ample time to do her part in ending the water hoax, and she’d return from the doctor before Whitt arrived home from school. The good thing was she had her bodyguard in case the situation at the clinic got sticky.
By 8:30, the police officers were in the rear of the clinic within earshot of whatever transpired. At 9:20, the door opened and a tall man in jeans entered the clinic with a bulldog on a leash. Could he be the man they were looking for? Why the dog?
“I’m new to the community,” he said. “Mind if I look around, check out your pet supplies and food? Cookie-Buttons is particular.”
Cookie-Buttons was a male. “Certainly. If you have any questions about pet care, I’d be happy to help you.”
“Dr. Broussard,” an officer called from the rear. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s one of us.”
She burst into laughter, the stress lifting like a bag of rocks. “Good one.”
“His name is Oscar.” The man patted the dog.
She bent to the dog’s side and let him sniff her. “Beautiful animal.”
Nine thirty became ten o’clock, as the undercover officer and his dog lingered. She phoned the number on the letter, the same one she’d used previously. It simply rang with no voice mail. The deception crew must have learned about the sting. They could have been watching the clinic since early morning and figured out the plainclothes officers were not there for a pet check. This had been a huge waste of everyone’s time and energy.
The morning dragged on uneventfully, and Stacy found herself looking forward to the doctor’s appointment in a weird way. She felt too bad to phone the woman with the Pomeranian when she failed to keep her appointment. Whitt took priority this week, and she needed to be game-on for Wednesday, and flu was notorious for sticking its claws into the sufferer and hanging on. Stuffing her keys into her purse, she moved slowly to the parking lot. The officer assigned to her today would follow, and she almost asked if he’d drive her. But that would be awkward, embarrassing. Her best friend, Hannah, was on a mission trip, or she’d ask her for a ride.
For sure, Stacy needed an injection and a boatload of medicine. Too much going on to risk not being 100 percent. . . .
The custody hearing. Nothing would stand in her way of that battle.
WHITT ACED THE SPANISH FOUR PLACEMENT TEST. When his quizzes and daily work had hit 100 percent each time, his teacher suggested testing out. One more class under his belt.
He unlocked his bike and noted the police officer parked across the street. His stomach growled, reminding him of the leftover turkey and cheese in the clinic’s fridge. Next time, he’d pack fruit and chips with his sandwiches.
Two guys he recognized as trouble blocked his entrance to the street. Incorrigible. Sophomoric.
“Hey, loser. Where ya going?” the tall one said, a ninth grader who’d taken summer school to make it to the tenth grade.
“None of your business.” He stared into the kid’s eyes and hoped he and his sidekick left him alone. The idea of the police officer rescuing him made him physically ill. It would only make the next time worse.
The tall kid sneered and exposed rotten teeth. “Trash like you needs to learn how to respect others.”
Whitt clenched his fists. “Respect has to be earned.”
“Big talk for a popcorn shrimp. You need to learn some manners.”
“And you think you have some?” He’d gotten into a few fights, but Miss Stacy didn’t know about them. Why tell her when she’d be disappointed? She’d assess the situation and determine she’d messed up when he made his own choices. He might not be bulking up as fast as he’d like, but he could hold his own and dodge the hits. But there were two of these guys.
“Shrimp, we’re talking to you.” The tall kid stood over a foot above Whitt.
“What do you want?” The bullies’ backs were to the officer’s car. From there it would only look like three guys talking.
“Cash. We know you work at the animal place. Hand it over.”
He figured as much, but he was through with people demanding money from him. “Don’t have any on me.”
The stockier one grabbed Whitt’s handlebar. “We’ll take this. Looks like it’s in good shape.”
No way would they get his wheels without a fight. Miss Stacy had bought it for him two months ago on his twelfth birthday. “I’ll bring money tomorrow.”
“Now,” the tall kid said. He laughed with the stocky one. “Cash or the bike. You choose.”
“Got a few twenties in my backpack,” Whitt said.
“Then get it. Don’t have all day here.”
He’d heard those words enough times. Unzipping his backpack, he dug deep to find the can of Mace. Yanking it out, he sprayed both guys in the face. The tall kid screamed like a girl and lunged blindly at him. The stocky kid swore and released Whitt’s bike.
He jumped back to avoid their fists.
Leaving the two guys behind, he didn’t want to think about what would happen when he met up with them again. The officer hurried from his car, but Whitt just waved and raced to the clinic, Mace in one hand, and his backpack slung over his shoulder.
Bullies existed in every community, but this neighborhood had a 90 percent crime rate, as huge as their foreclosures. Miss Stacy claimed if she got custody, they’d have to move. He wanted to believe the adoption would be reality too. Couldn’t happen fast enough.
At the clinic’s parking lot, her truck was gone. Weird. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d left the clinic alone during business hours. But she’d been sick this morning. He used his key to unlock the door and stepped inside, with the officer right behind him.
“Whitt, what happened back there?” The officer had a fatherly look about him.
He had no intention of providing details. “Two guys wanted the stuff in my backpack.”
“The next time you might not be so lucky.”
“I’ll worry about it then.”
“Have you thought about learning martial arts? Won’t need Mace when you can fight with your body.”
Respect washed over Whitt. He’d spent his life dodging and mistrusting men, and this guy offered encouragement. In his head, he knew not every man was like his dad, but trusting took guts. “I will. Thanks. You understand I couldn’t have you running them off.”
“Right. A man has his pride.”
Whitt grinned.
“I received a call from my partner, and Dr. Broussard dismissed our protection detail, but I wanted to see you home from school.”
The sting this morning must have led to an arrest. Relieved, Whitt turned to the officer. “Okay. That’s the best news today. I mean, the officers must have made an arrest. I’ll get the whole story as soon as she returns.”
The officer handed him his card. “Call if you need anything.”
The officer drove away, leaving Whitt alone with his own worries. Concern for Miss Stacy pelted his mind. Remembering he hadn’t turned his cell phone on after the test, he checked for texts and voice messages. A text indicated she had a doctor’s appointment and would be gone until around two thirty or three. It was now 3:45.
She must have had a quick errand to run. He checked on Xena and gave her water. No other animals were at the clinic, and clients were canceling because of sickness. Hard to take a pet for an exam when the owner didn’t feel well enough to drive. No surgeries were scheduled either. His mind stayed fixed on Miss Stacy. They’d been foolish not to take more precautions against the flu. Although washing hands and staying away from tho
se who were sick was the best preventative against a virus, it might not have helped in her case. At least he didn’t have any symptoms. That way he could help her.
The light on the office phone blinked a message. When he checked the online scheduling, he learned she hadn’t kept any of her day’s appointments. The woman who owned the Pomeranian had been detained and been a no-show. She’d left three frantic messages apologizing and cried through each one of them. He’d return her call as soon as he figured out what was going on.
He pressed in Miss Stacy’s cell phone number. No response, but he left a message.
She must be really sick and resting at home. For once he wished she had a landline there.
He locked up and pedaled the short distance through the subdivision to her home. After discovering an empty house, he hurried back to the clinic. Where was she? His heart took a dip. This wasn’t like Miss Stacy. She always kept him informed.
Whom should he call? She had friends at church, but who would have any clue about her doctor’s name? Not exactly what he figured as church talk. He made his way to her desk, a mess of disorganization. Every time he put papers and files in order, she destroyed his efforts. Ten minutes later, he found a stack of business cards and sorted through each one until he found a doctor’s name, an internist. He pressed in the phone number.
“My name is Whitt McMann, and I’m trying to locate my foster mother.” The words slipped out without much thought. “Her name is Stacy Broussard. Is she a patient there?”
“You’re Dr. Broussard’s foster child?”
“Yes, ma’am. I go to summer school and just arrived home. She wasn’t feeling well this morning and mentioned seeing a doctor. I thought she might have scheduled an appointment with Dr. Maberry.”
“Hold on a minute.”
He put the phone on speaker and sorted papers—a stack each for client files, invoices, bills, and the carnival.
The receptionist returned. “Whitt, Dr. Broussard is in the hospital.”
His stomach jolted. “Why?”
“She fainted while here, and we transported her by ambulance to the Woman’s Hospital.”
“Why there?”
“Dr. Maberry has an affiliation at the Woman’s Hospital.”
His nightmares had hit. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s been admitted for testing.”
Miss Stacy believed in straightforward communication. “How sick is she? Is it flu?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. I suggest you contact your social worker to make arrangements for your care.”
A viselike grip clamped onto his heart. “I’d like to give social services solid answers.”
“In view of your age and not being family, it’s against our guidelines to give patient information. However, we can make an allowance for your caseworker.”
“Did Miss Stacy make those recommendations?”
“No. She didn’t mention you.”
“Okay, thanks.” He slid the phone into his shorts pocket and eased into her desk chair, an ergonomically correct variety. He’d insisted upon the design when he noted her poor posture. Life was so much easier when people were predictable.
Calm down. She’ll be fine.
Social services . . . Would they find out she was in the hospital? Would it affect the hearing?
Self-pity smacked him in the face and he berated himself. Miss Stacy’s health came first, before him or any program designed to enhance society’s castoffs. Why couldn’t the receptionist have given him the diagnosis? She’d said testing. Didn’t the doctor know why she’d fainted?
A scratch pad seized his attention, and he quickly scribbled the hospital’s name. He handled critical matters best when he had his thoughts on paper.
1. Call the hospital.
2. Ensure everything at the clinic is in impeccable order.
That always pleased Miss Stacy.
3. Search her house to see if she left a note.
4. Find a way to see her. The bus line might be the best option.
Calling an adult teetered on first-class idiocy. They might contact social services, and he’d be drop-shipped into a home with a dozen other kids. Been there, done that when he was eight. Taking a breath, he found the number for the hospital.
“Are you family?” the woman on the other end said when he requested information.
“I’m her son.”
“I’ll connect you with the nurses’ station.”
Couldn’t someone give him a straight answer?
“Can I help you?” another female voice said.
“I’m worried about my mom. Her name is Stacy Broussard. What I’ve learned is she fainted at the doctor’s office and an ambulance transported her there. I have no idea if she’s been admitted or is still in the emergency room.”
“Your father?”
“He’s not in the picture.”
“She’s been admitted and is currently sleeping.”
“What about tests?”
“We’re following her doctor’s orders. Please, hold on a minute.”
Panic raced through his body. The nurse seemed to take forever before returning to the phone. “You’re Whitt?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Dr. Broussard said if you should call, to not worry. She forgot her cell phone at home.”
Whitt wanted to scream. The correct grammar was “not to worry.” He had to gain control of his emotions, the one part of him he found difficult to understand. “Can I talk to her?”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll let her know you called. Are you at home?”
“I will be shortly. Tell her I’m taking care of the clinic first.”
Normally he’d spend time with Xena, but all he could do was walk her and make sure she had food and water. The thought of taking her with him crossed his mind, but not until he had questions answered about Miss Stacy. Xena’s wound had healed nicely, but he still wanted to apply a topical antibiotic. She planted a sloppy kiss on his face as though she understood his apprehension. He shook off the urgency of finding a way to visit Miss Stacy until she called. Locking up the clinic, he rode his bike to her home while forming the appropriate response to the woman who owned the Pomeranian. He’d encourage her to contact Doc Kent without explanation, the veterinarian Miss Stacy referred clients to when she had a full schedule. Once inside the home again, he found her phone on the nightstand beside the charger and plugged it in.
She never forgot her phone.
What could he do? His stomach twisted. Must be the worry over Miss Stacy.
Kitchen.
Yes.
Every woman appreciated a spotless kitchen. Give him something to do while he waited for her to contact him.
Their pastor would suggest praying, so he tried that. But he and God weren’t on the best of terms. Maybe Whitt’s opinion would change after the hearing on Wednesday.
How could she get custody if she was in the hospital? Would the judge be lenient?
His thoughts were honest, and yet he sensed guilt and worry fusing into something horrible.
Her phone rang, and he hurried to answer it. The screen read Alex LeBlanc. “Dr. Stacy Broussard’s phone.”
“Whitt? This is Alex. I wanted to check on how the protection detail is going.”
“She dismissed them.”
“When?”
“Sometime while I was at school.”
“Do you know why?”
“I assumed the officer made an arrest.” Nagging suspicion bubbled like he’d be sick.
“To the best of my knowledge, no one showed up this morning. Is she around so I can talk to her?”
“No. She’s . . .”
“Whitt, what’s wrong?”
“She’s in the hospital. I just found out.”
“Where?”
“Woman’s, near the Medical Center. Look, I don’t know the problem. She wasn’t feeling well this morning. I think she had a fever. Guess it’s the flu spreading around.” He
caught his breath. “The hospital isn’t informative.”
“Do you have someone to drive you there?”
Whitt sank onto the side of her bed. “I’m checking the bus line.” He thought she’d have called by now.
“Would one of her friends take you? Your pastor?”
“Her best friend is on a mission trip in the Dominican Republic, and the pastor isn’t my favorite person.” Whitt had overheard him telling Miss Stacy that she wasn’t equipped to take care of a nearly grown boy who reeked of bad genes. “I’ll walk to a bus stop.”
“No need. I’ll swing by and get you.”
Whoa. What’s his angle? “Why?”
“As a friend.”
A bazillion synapses fired out of control. But he needed to make sure she was okay. “I’ll be ready.”
STACY ATTEMPTED TO OPEN HER EYES. So much of the day blurred no matter how hard she fought to reconstruct it. Her head throbbed worse than when she’d chosen to call the doctor. Nausea swept through her. The idea of having to seek medical attention and embarrassment over the no-show on the sting had caused her to cancel the protection detail. Why had she made such a foolish decision? Who was protecting Whitt? The memory lapses and poor judgment must be a result of her fever. No excuse when she loved him, when motherhood meant sacrifice.
Struggling with a flash of earlier today, she remembered driving to see Dr. Maberry. She’d given him her symptoms. What happened then? Oh, he’d ordered an injection and instructed her to fill two prescriptions and go home to bed. She’d made her way to the reception area when dizziness overcame her, and she couldn’t shake it. She awoke in an ambulance, the sirens howling like a swamp witch. A white-haired female paramedic adjusted an IV. The woman reminded her of an aunt in Louisiana. What happened afterward muddled her brain—someone took blood, machines, more sleep, and horrific nightmares.
Whitt. He must be in a state of panic, worried sick. She had to contact him. She forced her eyes open, to leave the world of confusion behind.
A hand held hers firmly, and a sweet boy’s voice whispered her name. How long before his voice changed and cracked? Would he start a growth spurt soon? When would he tower over her? Her mind wandered toward darkness.
