The Secret Between Us Page 12

  Jill held up her hand and rose. “I’m not goin’ there, Deborah. I don’t know what Dad’s doing because he keeps me at arm’s length. Do you serve Dad his booze? No. Do you encourage him to drink? No. Are you denying that there may be a potential problem? In speaking to him, yes, because you’re terrified of a confrontation. I would be, too, if I were in your shoes. See, that’s where I’m the lucky one. Your life is entwined with his. Mine is not.”

  “Of course it is,” Deborah argued, because fair was fair. She was thinking about Jill’s rebellion at home and in school, even regarding the conception of her child. “So much of what you do is in defiance of him. It always has been. Talk of denial…”

  “There’s a difference,” Jill pointed out with the wisp of a smile. “Deny his drinking, and you stand to pay the price. Deny his influence over me, and I pay nothing.”

  A short time later, Deborah pulled up at the house. If her father’s behavior over the weekend was a prediction of what today would be like, she was in for a fight. Girding herself, she went into the kitchen.

  And there he was, wide awake and hearty, sitting at the kitchen table. He had dressed, made his coffee, and was nursing a mug while he read the paper. Not only had he eaten his bagel, but he had toasted it first, to judge from the dark crumbs on his plate.

  “Good morning,” she said with relief.

  “Good morning yourself,” he said with a smile. “Kids get off okay?”

  “They did.” She leaned against the door. “You’re looking good. Is that a new tie?”

  He glanced down, took the tie in his hand. “Your mother got it for me shortly before she took sick. I haven’t wanted to wear it.” He looked up and winked. “She’s telling me I need to get my act together and that this tie will help. Think it will?”

  Deborah’s smile grew. “Definitely.” She was so relieved—as much to see her father his old buoyant self, as to have escaped the unpleasantness of a fight. “What else did she say?”

  “That I’ve been wallowing in self-pity.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “That may be. What else?”

  “That my missing those early appointments on Saturday was inexcusable.”

  Deborah waved a hand. “Inexcusable? I’d settle for…disappointing to those patients who would much rather see you than me.”

  “She also said I should have been at brunch yesterday.”

  An interesting point, that one. Had he been at brunch, Deborah might not have been able to talk with Cal McKenna’s brother the way she had.

  Not wanting to go there, she simply said, “We missed you. Last week was a hard one. The kids suffered as much as I did. Brunch fizzled without you.”

  He looked genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry. I was wallowing in self-pity. Your mother was right.”

  Deborah gave him a hug, absorbing the strength she remembered from her childhood. And it turned out to be a good morning at the office. May meant pollen, which brought a rush of patients with acute allergy attacks. Between those and the typical Monday morning emergencies, the four examining rooms accommodated a revolving door of patients, with Michael and Deborah shuttling from one to the next.

  Fortunately, the receptionist was able to put off two house calls until Tuesday, allowing Deborah to see patients in the office after lunch as well. All of these were for annual wellness visits, and since Deborah liked to talk in depth with each patient, she was actually grateful when a last-minute cancellation called in. The break enabled her to finish up the last of the blood work herself before settling in at her desk.

  Navigating around insurance companies was one of the least favorite parts of her job, and it was getting worse by the year. Her father, definitely old school in his approach, had even less patience filling out forms than she did. Deborah had finished the first and begun a second when Michael appeared at her door. No longer the cheery guy of the morning, he had a tense hand on the knob and an ominous look on his face.

  “Dean LeMay just called,” he said. “He wants to know why you blew his wife off last week.”

  Deborah felt a jolt. “I didn’t blow her off.” She vividly recalled the visit. “I simply told her she needed to lose weight.”

  “Dean says you were wholly unsympathetic about her arthritis. He says you told her she was imagining a broken bone just to give her an excuse not to move.”

  “I never said that.”

  “He says you told her that she needed to get off her butt and get a job.”

  “She does.”

  Michael’s cheeks reddened. “Did you say that?”

  Feeling the sting of his reproach, Deborah said, “Absolutely not, certainly not in those words. I talked gently with her, but it wasn’t a discussion we haven’t had before. She refuses to admit how overweight she is and that it does affect her ankles. I suggested she try walking even the littlest bit around the house, which is what the specialist suggests as well. She sits in the kitchen, Dad. Eating. I suggested a part-time job as a way to get her out of the house.”

  “Dean considers that an insult to his earning ability.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “It’s ours, if they decide to switch doctors.”

  Deborah felt a spurt of anger. “Is it? I’m not paid for the time I spend driving to Darcy’s house. If she doesn’t like what I say, let her find a doctor who’ll drive out there and say what she wants. If she thinks arthritis is bad, let her try diabetes or heart disease, because that’s where she’s headed.”

  Michael pushed off from her door. “I told Dean I’d get back to him once I knew the facts. What do you want me to tell him?”

  Deborah was still smarting. “Why did he call you? Why didn’t he call me directly?” She held up a hand. “Okay. I guess he’s between a rock and a hard place. Darcy needs a scapegoat. I’m the nearest one.” Her phone rang.

  “What do I tell him?” her father repeated.

  Deborah put a hand on the receiver. The incoming call was on their private line, which meant it was either the kids or Jill or one of a few friends who had the number. “That I spent a long time talking with Darcy, precisely because I don’t blow off clients, but that her weight is an ongoing issue, and you and I would both welcome a talk with the two of them if they’d like to come in.” She waited only until her father turned away before picking up the phone.

  “Hello,” she said with a lingering edge.

  “Uh-oh,” came Karen’s tentative voice. “Want me to call back another time?”

  Deborah let out a breath. “No, no, K. This is fine. I was just having an unpleasant discussion about one of our patients.” Dean LeMay’s call still rankled, but she forced herself to relax. “Are you okay?”

  “Well, the elbow is better, which means you were right, but that means I have to ease up from tennis, which doesn’t thrill me. Anyway, I’m really calling about two other things. First, how’s Grace? Danielle keeps trying to get her to talk, but she won’t even text message.”

  “She’s going through a hard time.”

  “Dani may drive over tonight.”

  Deborah welcomed that. “She’s an angel. I hope Grace will give in. Tell Dani not to give up.”

  Karen made a sputtering sound. “Oh, she won’t. She loves you guys.” Her voice sobered. “The second thing is Hal. Is he there?”

  “Here? No. Why?”

  “He said he was meeting with you to talk about Cal McKenna.”

  Deborah’s pulse raced. “Did he hear something from John?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “He didn’t mention the accident report?”

  “No. He just kind of said in passing that he’d be seeing you. He didn’t seem worried.”

  Deborah relaxed a bit. “Well then, he just hasn’t gotten here yet.”

  “His secretary’s trying to reach him. He isn’t answering his cell phone.”

  “Maybe he’s playing golf?”

  “Not on a Monday afternoon. And not without telling me.”

>   Deborah knew what she was thinking. It had nothing to do with the possibility of a car accident and everything to do with the phone call Karen had received the week before.

  “Has she called again?” Deborah asked softly.

  “No.” Karen’s voice lowered. “But something’s up. He snaps at little things I do, like putting the empty recycle bins back in the garage in the wrong order. Or separating junk mail from the rest and throwing it out. I’ve been doing that for years. Last night, he told me that maybe there was something in one of those ads that he wanted, and I shouldn’t take it upon myself to censor his mail. Censor his mail?”

  “Maybe something’s going on at work,” Deborah tried. The intercom buzzed. “A tough prosecutor? A difficult client?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t said. I can only ask so many questions before he gets annoyed. Maybe he’s just going through a midlife crisis. I think that’s it.” She paused. “Don’t you?”

  “Could be.”

  “Then that’s it,” Karen decided. “Thanks, Deb. You’re always a help.”

  Deborah hadn’t done a thing—and was feeling guilty for that, too. “If he shows up here, I’ll have him call you.” The receptionist buzzed her again. “Give him a little more time, sweetie. He may not even realize his cell phone is off.”

  Hal swore by his cell phone. If it was off, it was by design. Deborah guessed that Karen knew this, too, but neither woman was ready to say it aloud.

  “I’m sure that’s it,” Karen said, “and you need to get that call. Want to have coffee later?”

  “Can’t. I promised Grace I’d work out at the gym,” the important part being at the gym. “Want to meet me there and do side-by-side ellipticals?”

  “Name a time.”

  “Four-thirty.”

  “Perfect. Go get that call.”

  Deborah punched in the button. “Yes, Carol?”

  “I have Tom McKenna on line three. He isn’t a patient. He says it’s personal.”

  Personal was one word for it. There were others, like risky, meaning that she shouldn’t be talking with him. But he had been friendly enough Sunday morning, and if he had news about Cal’s Coumadin use, she wanted to know.

  “I’ll take it,” she said and pressed the button.

  His voice held a now-familiar resonance. “Bad time?”

  “No. It’s fine. I’m just finishing. What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid I shocked your daughter yesterday. Is she okay?”

  Two shows of concern in as many days? Deborah was wary. She couldn’t forget the scene at the cemetery, surely couldn’t forget that it was her car that had led to his brother’s death.

  But he did sound sincere. So she said, “You’re kind to ask. She’s okay. She’s still agonizing over the accident, but I think she accepts that you’re not Cal’s ghost. You do look a lot like him.”

  There was a pause, then a lighter, “We took after our mother.”

  “Were you close?”

  “Not to our mother,” he said.

  “To each other?”

  “On and off.” He hesitated, before adding a resigned, “Mostly off. Our personalities were totally different.”

  Naturally curious, Deborah asked, “In what ways?”

  There was a short silence. She was thinking that she might have overstepped her bounds, and that he would change the subject, when he offered a reflective, “He liked things in order. He liked knowing what was going to happen. That’s why he liked history. Read a history book, and there are no surprises. You know how it’s going it end. Cal liked neatness. His house was the same, spare and organized, each piece of furniture in its place, books neatly arranged, three nautilus shells evenly spaced across the mantel. He liked precision.”

  Encouraged by the sheer length of his response, Deborah asked, “And you?”

  “I’m a slob.”

  It was so blunt, and unexpected, that she laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “Was that in a reaction to Cal?”

  “No. I’m the older brother by four years.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a slob.”

  “There is,” he warned, “if it means you can’t see through the clutter. I keep thinking I should have known my brother was taking Coumadin.”

  “How could you know, if he chose not to tell you?”

  “We hadn’t talked in a while. I shouldn’t have let it go so long.” His tone eased. “I’m still working on why he was taking the drug. What do you know about it?”

  “Coumadin? It’s an anticoagulant, most widely used after heart attack or stroke to prevent the formation of blood clots in arteries and veins.”

  “Do I assume Cal had a heart attack or stroke?”

  “No. He may have had a blood clot, in which case Coumadin would have been prescribed to prevent another. He was actually young to have this kind of problem.”

  “There’s a history of it,” Tom said. “My father had a massive stroke at forty-eight.” He paused, then asked cautiously, “Would Cal have taken Coumadin preventatively?”

  “I doubt it. The risk of side effects is too great.” She wondered whether he was testing her somehow. But she was a doctor, and, still smarting from Dean LeMay’s call, she told Tom what she knew. “Normally, a person with a family history would simply make sure he was checked regularly. He’d keep his weight down and watch things like blood pressure and cholesterol. Did your brother do those things?”

  “He was thin. I don’t know about the rest.”

  “Was he worried about taking after his father?”

  “We both were.”

  “Do you take preventive action?”

  “No. But we slobs don’t like regimentation,” he said. “Taking daily pills would drive me nuts. Cal used to pop ’em like candy.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Vitamins. If he used stronger things, I didn’t know. Could he have taken too much Coumadin?”

  “Possibly, but even a standard dose can cause bleeding. That’s why the warnings are so visible.”

  “What’s the normal dosage?”

  “A tablet a day in a strength that varies with the patient. Some people take it for a limited period, say, three to six months. Others take it for life. The latter are usually patients who’ve had repeated life-threatening episodes. I can’t imagine your brother falling into that category without anyone else knowing.”

  “No,” Tom said, then, “How do you know all this? Do you personally prescribe Coumadin? Or did you look it up after Cal died?”

  She smiled. “I don’t personally prescribe it, but I read journals. I talk with colleagues at conferences. I learn from specialists who see my patients. One thing’s for sure. Patients on Coumadin require close monitoring. No doctor would renew a Coumadin prescription without follow-up exams and tests, and those tests wouldn’t be done by a generalist like me. If your brother had a condition that warranted his taking Coumadin, he was seeing a specialist. His insurance company would know.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “Yes. I talked with them this morning. The problem is confidentiality. They won’t give out information unless Selena signs a release.”

  Deborah sensed an edge in the way he said her name. It emboldened her. “Why would she not sign a release? This is information she’ll need if she’s planning to sue me.” And if she was, Deborah reminded herself, Tom would be an adversary. “By the way, my friend, the lawyer, would not be pleased with this conversation. He’d be afraid I might say something that you’ll use against me in court. I just want you to know that I’m being as honest as I can. I want answers as much as you do.”

  “I sense that. That’s why I called.”

  She did hear sincerity. Either he was an amazing actor, or it was there. She figured she had to hear more to decide which it was. “How is Selena doing?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked with her today.”

  “Oh,” Deborah said in surprise. “Aren’t you
staying with her?”

  “God, no. I live in Cambridge.”

  “Cambridge.” That was a surprise. She had assumed Tom lived out of state and was simply here for the funeral. Cambridge was an easy drive. But there was also that God, no, which indicated that he didn’t adore his sister-in-law. Deborah was more interested in his relationship with his brother. “And you didn’t see Cal often?”

  “If I had, I might have known more about his health,” Tom snapped. “If I’d known more about his health, I might have been able to alert the doctors myself. That’s assuming Selena had called me sooner. She might have if Cal and I had been closer. How pathetic is it when two brothers don’t know anything about each other’s lives?”

  Deborah sympathized. “It happens more often than you’d expect.”

  “Does that make it any less pathetic?”

  “No.”

  There was a brief silence, then a soft, “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Being honest. It’s easier to delude ourselves than to be blunt about the truth. I’ll bet you’re blunt with your family.”

  She was bemused. “Why do you say that?”

  “You seem like an honest person.”

  How ironic was that? It occurred to her that, just possibly, she was being baited. “There’s a difference between being blunt and being honest. Blunt can be hurtful. I try to be honest without being hurtful.”

  “A straight shooter.”

  Another irony. “Usually.”

  “When aren’t you?”

  She took a breath. “When being honest can betray a confidence.” Deborah was thinking of this morning’s discussion with Grace. “My daughter tells me things about her friends that I have to keep to myself.”

  “Serious things?”

  “Sometimes. It can be tricky. If Grace told me that one of her friends was cutting herself, I’d have a hard time keeping still. Self-mutilation is a cry for help.”

  “Wouldn’t Grace understand that?”

  “I’d hope so. She might not want to know the details, like who I called. But she’d probably be relieved to share the responsibility.”