by D. J. Palmer
Carl twisted and turned to free himself. Unsuccessful, he jumped up at the same time he snapped his head backward like a whip. His skull landed a perfect strike against the guard’s bulbous nose. There was a sickening crunch and throaty noise, followed by a cry equal parts surprise and anguish. A gush of blood raced out of the guard’s nostrils in alarming rivers of red as he spun Carl around to face him. He then uncorked a vicious jab to the midsection that doubled Carl over in pain.
Becky went after her husband’s assailant while everyone else moved away. But before she could engage, the other guard clamped his big arms around her.
Becky tried to brake with her heels as he dragged her toward the door. “Why are you doing this to us?” she screamed.
Using the guard’s back for leverage, Becky lifted herself high enough off the ground to kick at the one threatening Carl, but her feet bicycled harmlessly nowhere near her target.
“Stop it! Stop right now!” Knox Singer’s booming voice brought a halt to the chaos like an irate parent putting an end to a sibling quarrel.
Becky’s body went slack as the fight left her. Carl rose shakily to his feet, came to Becky’s side, and pulled her into an embrace. The guard with the injured nose, his white shirt soiled like a Rorschach test, fished a cloth handkerchief from his pants pocket, which he then used to stanch the flow of blood. Becky pressed herself against Carl’s heaving chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Dr. Nash approached the injured guard. She tilted his head back and examined his bloodied nose, but did not appear overly concerned.
Ms. Hope straightened her business suit after fussing with her hair, which needed no fussing. She stood extra tall in her sturdy shoes, and a self-satisfied grin parted her lips, the outburst seeming to have confirmed her doubts about the Gerards’ fitness as parents. The guard who had manhandled Becky unclipped his two-way radio. He was about to call for backup, or so Becky believed, when Knox Singer waved his hands frantically to make him stop.
“Let’s not make this situation any worse than it already is,” Singer said, his perfectly styled mane now slightly unkempt.
Nobody said a word. Nobody was going to sit down.
Carl glared at Singer with daggers for eyes. “I want to see my daughter,” he said with authority.
“I’m afraid at the moment it is not possible to grant you even a supervised visit with Meghan.” Ms. Annabel Hope slipped her hands behind her back to signal no negotiation.
Shock replaced Becky’s anger. She glared wide-eyed at Ms. Hope with utter bewilderment, as though assessing something alien and wholly foreign to her.
Becky had never seen Annabel Hope before today, had not known that they were in the same city, let alone shared the same planet. And yet this woman had in an instant become an integral part of Becky’s world. She, this random person, was in charge of her daughter’s life. Becky thought of it like a car accident: two strangers, unknown to each other moments before impact, collide in a life-altering way.
Cora. That was who flashed in her mind. This was her mother’s fault. This was karma coming back to get her. Cora had played games with health-care providers for herself and for the sake of her family, and Becky had played similar games to help her daughter. Now both were paying a price—Cora stricken with cancer and Becky confronting a nightmare case of medical kidnapping.
Karma.
“When can I see my daughter?” Becky asked. Her voice came out shaky and soft, weaker than she had intended.
“I can’t answer that. Not now, anyway,” Singer said.
“When will you know?”
“When I do, you will. I promise,” Singer said.
“How can I talk to her?” Becky asked, her top lip stiffening. She felt the tears pressing against her lids again.
“We’re not allowing her phone contact or visitation right now,” Dr. Nash said, looking to Dr. Levine, who hesitated before nodding in agreement.
“You can’t do that!” Becky sensed Carl was going to raise a ruckus again. She tugged his arm to get him to look her in the eyes. The last thing she wanted was for her husband to leave in handcuffs. She needed him now more than ever.
Ms. Hope, perhaps sensing Becky’s commitment to de-escalate, came around the table and confidently stood within striking distance.
“When can we speak to Meghan?” Becky directed her question to Ms. Hope.
“Communication with Meghan will be worked out when we’ve completed our assessments,” Ms. Hope said with the same emotion a service manager might use when discussing a car repair timetable.
Becky noticed how she said “Meghan” and not “your daughter,” as if the judge’s ruling had erased the last fifteen years of Meghan’s life, and Becky and Carl no longer factored into it.
“I have only one bit of advice to offer you at this moment, Mrs. Gerard, if you’re receptive to hearing it,” Ms. Hope said.
Becky returned a slight nod.
“Get a lawyer, and a damn good one at that.”
Becky straightened. Anger blossomed in her eyes. “You do the same,” she said, pulling Carl’s arm to go.
“This isn’t over,” Carl said, a growl in his voice.
When they were finally out in the hall, Becky counted four guards sent to escort them out. She felt as though she were walking without limbs. She no longer thought of herself as the person she was before. She’d been carved, cleaved, separated from an integral part of herself; cut off suddenly, brutally, from what mattered most; given no clear explanation or even an indication for when she’d speak to, let alone see, Meghan again.
Carl took hold of Becky’s hand. They walked numbly out of the automatic double doors into the ER waiting room. Those seated there gawked at the strange processional passing before them—two beleaguered parents trailed by four guards, one of whom wore a bloody shirt. The guards followed Becky and Carl outside into a chilly night devoid of stars. Before long, Becky and Carl were inside the gleaming spotless Mercedes, driving away from White Memorial with no passenger in the backseat—just the two of them, without their precious daughter.
CHAPTER 20
They drove interred in a weighty silence. Becky was too stunned and numb to even attempt conversation. The hostility radiating from Carl distressed Becky because she sensed it was directed at her.
“It’s not true,” Becky said, willing herself to speak. “None of what they’re saying is true. You know that, don’t you?”
Carl did not respond, nor did he glance her way. His focus stayed fixed on the road, but his intense concentration was obviously a means to avoid her. Becky shriveled inside. She feared what might be coming. During the fight with the guards, Carl had been her champion, her protector, but now she realized that had been his alpha-male instincts taking over. With time and distance, he was thinking other thoughts. Thinking it might all be true.
They arrived at home not having spoken more than a dozen words between them. Carl pulled into the garage and came to a hard stop. He got out of the car, slamming his door shut with a bang that made Becky jump.
“I’m going to call my lawyer,” he grumbled, heading to his office above the garage. Becky made her way to the kitchen, where she poured herself a generous portion of red wine. It rippled in her shaky grasp. She downed it quickly and poured herself a second glass. She called up to Carl, but he did not answer.
Give him space, she thought as she went up to her office on the second floor, wineglass in one hand and bottle in the other. The large home always felt overwhelming to her, even with the cleaners, landscapers, and various repairmen who kept the place operational without her having to do much more than dial a number. Tonight, it felt profoundly empty.
She walked past Meghan’s bedroom, finding it impossible to look inside, let alone sit on her empty bed.
Becky fired up her computer and within moments had Veronica Del Mar on FaceTime. It was after nine o’clock in the evening, but Veronica, draped in a cream-colored cardigan sweater, seemed as fresh and put together as if the day had
just begun.
“Sweetheart, it’s good to see your beautiful face!” Veronica exclaimed. Becky knew for sure that she looked anything but beautiful.
“It’s been a hell of a day,” Becky said, taking a gulp of wine.
Becky recounted the entire story in detail, taking her time to get all the details right, starting with Nash’s request for an emergency exam and ending with Carl storming off into their silent home to call the lawyer.
“They can’t do that!” Veronica sounded shocked. “It’s criminal. It’s kidnapping.”
“That’s what I told them,” Becky said, feeling the familiar crimp that portended tears. Becky had friends to lean on, a sister she should call, but Veronica was the only one she felt able to confide in. Nobody offered a better shoulder—even if it was virtual—to cry on.
“What now, honey?” Veronica asked, her mellifluous voice full of feeling. Veronica poured a glass of wine herself, a rosé of some variety.
“Carl’s going to get us a lawyer. We’ll get her back.”
“Will we?” Carl’s darkly menacing voice came from the doorway.
Becky turned to see him take an unsteady step into the room. Light from the hallway cast Carl in shadows, but she could still make out the glass tumbler clutched in his hand, only a sliver of whiskey at the bottom. She speculated it had been full not moments ago.
“I’ll be off in a minute,” Becky said, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling creeping through her. Her home should be a sanctuary, and her husband should be her stalwart supporter—yet neither felt true.
Carl took a few more steps into the room. Becky could hear the clank of ice tumbling inside the glass. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, his voice brooding.
“Just Veronica,” Becky said, trying to pass it off as nothing.
“Just Veronica,” Carl repeated, drawing out the words, slurring them slightly so they blended together. He came closer until Becky could smell the whiskey. “Just Veronica,” he repeated almost as an aside. “Did you tell Veronica what happened today?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Becky said, turning her attention to the camera so she could focus on a friendly face.
“Carl, I’m so sorry,” Veronica said through the computer speakers.
“Oh, are you?” Carl came forward to stand behind Becky, looming over her, his face lit strangely in the glow of her monitor. She craned her neck to look up at him.
“I know this is difficult,” Veronica said. “But I’m sure it’ll resolve itself soon, and Meghan will be home where she belongs in no time.” Becky could hear the apprehension in Veronica’s voice. Despite being thousands of miles away, her friend knew to be nervous.
“Or,” Carl said, crouching low so that his face filled the camera’s lens. He put his arm around Becky’s chair as if to demonstrate solidarity, though Becky sensed it was a charade. “It won’t resolve itself. Maybe I’ll have to mortgage the house to pay the legal bills. Maybe our daughter will come back with PTSD from the experience.” Carl pointed an accusatory finger at the camera lens and, by proxy, at Veronica. “Or maybe—and here’s the big one for you, Veronica—maybe it’s your fault.” Carl took the final drink of whiskey and licked the liquid from his lips.
Veronica reflexively, or anxiously, brushed some platinum hair from her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow?”
“You don’t?” Carl asked, his voice taking an even darker turn. “Have you ever fed a stray animal, Veronica?” Becky hated how Carl said her name with such simmering contempt. “Do you know what happens when you do?”
“Carl, I don’t see how a stray—”
“The animal comes back for more food,” Carl said before she could finish. “Do you know why?”
“Please, Carl,” Becky whispered.
Carl turned slightly, sending Becky an uneven smile that made her shiver. “Do you know why?” Carl asked again.
Veronica let out a sigh that could just as easily have been a groan. “Because it’s hungry, Carl,” she said snippily, stating the obvious.
“And now it doesn’t have to look for food, because the food is right there, at your doorstep. So it gets conditioned to come to you, to visit, because you’ve made it need you.”
“Are you implying that I’m feeding your wife ideas like she’s some stray cat?”
“No,” Carl said, removing his arm from the back of Becky’s chair, his hard jaw set even tighter than usual. “I’m not implying it; I’m telling you that’s what you’re doing. You and all your little cohorts here on social media are nothing but a never-ending spin cycle of nonsense. But you don’t think about the repercussions or the consequences. You don’t think about how your actions affect real lives, do you? Do you!” Carl’s face contorted with raw rage.
“I think you’ve had a long, traumatic day, and maybe a little too much to drink,” Veronica said calmly enough, though Becky could see the strain on her friend’s face.
“And I think you’ve put ideas into my wife’s head. I think you’re feeding off her worry and anxiety like some kind of vampire. Just because you screwed it up with your kid, doesn’t mean I’m going to let you screw it up with mine.” Carl picked up the laptop from Becky’s desk, the magnetic power adapter coming free of its port. He held the laptop at eye level, peering angrily at Veronica.
Becky watched him warily. “What are you doing?” Becky said with some bite. “Leave us alone, Carl. You’re being an asshole. Go somewhere else, please!”
Carl stepped away from Becky, but kept the computer’s camera held up to his face so that Veronica could still see him. “The hospital is convinced that my wife is intentionally making my daughter sick. Did she tell you that?”
“I was getting the full story when you interrupted us,” Veronica said.
Becky rose from her chair. She stormed over to Carl, trying desperately to pry the computer from his grasp, only to have him turn his back to her. “Give it to me,” she said, jaw clenched, pounding away on Carl’s back with her fists.
Undeterred, Carl took a few steps toward the window. He cradled the laptop in his hands while Becky landed blow after blow against his back. “I’ll tell you what I think,” Carl said, his voice flat. “I think you’re poison. I think you’ve filled my wife’s head with so much crap, she doesn’t know what to think.”
“I’m a big enough girl to think for myself, Carl!” Becky shouted. “Now, give me back my computer!” She pulled on his shirt but managed only to free the fabric from the waistband of his jeans.
Carl whirled.
Becky took a step back, afraid for a second he might smash the computer on her head. In all their time together, she’d never once feared him. He was strong, but never violent.
“You want to keep chatting with your virtual pal, is that it, Becky?”
Becky reached for the computer, but Carl pulled it away as her fingers brushed the outer casing.
“Or maybe you want to call your mother. Get some pointers on how to fool the system. You’re obviously nowhere near her level of mastery.”
Becky looked away, unable to stand the sight of his face.
Veronica cried out: “Carl, stop it! Stop it right now!”
“I told you,” Carl said, narrowing his eyes at Becky. “I told you what was going to happen if you kept up your search, kept pushing for more tests, more treatments.”
“Your daughter is sick, Carl,” Veronica said, trying to keep an even tone.
“You took my daughter from me!” Carl shouted at the computer, at Veronica. “You did this! You!”
Becky rushed at Carl, reaching for him, but did not see the chair in her way. Before she knew it, she was on the floor, landing hard on her knees. On her way down, Becky’s arm clipped the wineglass on the desk, shattering it to pieces on impact. A pool of red liquid seeped into the rug like a gruesome stain.
Carl moved toward the window. “No more feeding my wife your cracked-up ideas about our daughter,” he told Veronica. “Leave us alone. You’re not we
lcome here. Not now. Not ever.”
Carl opened the window. He used the computer to push out the screen as Becky yelled for him to stop.
“It’s for your own good,” Carl said impassively. “And mine.”
Without another word, Carl opened his hands and let the computer fall from his grasp. Becky heard Veronica scream as though she were the one he’d tossed out the open window.
CHAPTER 21
ZACH
When Zach heard the news, he knew he’d be cutting his Cleveland trip short.
He’d already given his speech about childhood mitochondrial disease to a packed room of doctors, researchers, and parents, all of whom had a stake, some bigger than others, in finding a cure for the incurable.
Zach’s presentation had gone over quite well. As expected, he had fielded a number of questions about the Elamvia clinical trial he was helping to coordinate. He’d also facilitated a lively Q&A focused on the mito cocktail, which some believed had little scientific data to support its effectiveness.
There was also considerable discussion around coenzyme Q10, a substance similar to a vitamin, which segued into a somewhat contentious dosing debate that Zach knew was coming and would have preferred to avoid. There were no clear answers with this disease. Every potential solution had drawbacks, including high dosing of coenzyme Q10, which offered evidence of improvement in muscle fatigue for some but also led to muscle breakdown in 10 to 20 percent of patients. With mitochondrial disease, it always seemed to be one step forward and five steps in reverse.
For Zach, it was another year at another conference, attending lectures, dinners, and breakout sessions as he endured the discomfort of a stiff back from his sagging hotel mattress. And, as usual, he’d be leaving with no new medical breakthroughs or hints of a cure. In essence, it had been another year with nothing much gained but the renewed promise of a better tomorrow. But it was time away from Boston, from home, from memories he could not, would not forget. And oddly enough, whenever Zach left the Boston area, the dream left with him. Zach kept his phone in his hotel room so he would not be distracted during the lectures, but when he checked his voice mail for the first time that day, he found a different sort of nightmare waiting for him: an extremely irate message from Becky that had made him shake with anger at Nash.
