Lacy's End Page 8

“Because of your father?”

  “Mostly, but partly my mom, too. I thought she and I were together in this, but tonight…”

  “But tonight you were ready, and she wasn’t,” he said, finishing her sentence.

  “I’ve been carrying around that stupid card for so long.” Tears welled in her eyes, and angrily she wiped them with her sleeve. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Every morning I put it in my back pocket as if it were a necessary part of my day. Every day I hope for enough strength to pick up the phone and dial the number on it. And every night I take it out of my pocket, look at it, and swear tomorrow will be the day.”

  “You can do it without your mother’s help if you really want to.”

  She shook her head, looking at Jake with shock. “I could never leave Mom behind.” She paced, stopping occasionally to kick a rock. “If only I could make her realize.” She stopped, an inspiration coming to her. She ran to Jake, pleading with her eyes. “Could you talk to her?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lacy. I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because she wouldn’t listen to me, for one. And two, that’s not my job. It’s not why I’m here.”

  She furrowed her brows. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will when the time is right.”

  She wanted to push the issue but felt she would get nowhere, so instead she said, “I don’t know why, but I feel as if I can talk to you.”

  “You can tell me anything, and it’s safe with me.”

  “That’s the thing. I know that—feel that!” She took a breath and went on. “He’s getting worse. It takes so little to set him off now that I’m sometimes afraid to move around the house.” She paused to wipe her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Mother pretends not to notice most of the time, but I can see it in her eyes. I don’t understand why she takes the abuse.”

  “Why do you?”

  Lacy shrugged. “I guess part of me feels I deserve it. I feel like such a screw-up.”

  “Why do you deserve it, but your mother doesn’t?”

  “Mom does everything for him. She cooks. She cleans. She mends... She works her fingers to the bone, and he gives her nothing. Well, nothing but bruises, anyway.”

  “What about you. You seem to work pretty hard, too.”

  “I’m a kid. Aren’t kids supposed to be their parents’ slaves?”

  Jake shook his head. “No, Lacy—they aren’t.”

  Lacy looked around, suddenly cognizant of the night. “It’s pretty lonely out here.” Jake said nothing. Lacy turned to look at him. “You’re so different, Jake.”

  “How so, Lacy?”

  “Most of the kids at school judge me, even my best friend, Millie. She tries to comfort me, but I can tell she’s not very comfortable with the whole thing.”

  “So you hold back. You don’t tell them how bad it really is.”

  She nodded. “They all seem to think I’m some weird freak because I come to school with bruises all the time. They act like I have some kind of horrible disease.” She fell silent, looking out at the vastness of the desert below, the bluff lit eerily by the moonlight. The wind played with her hair, this time blowing it softly away from her face. The moonlight shadowed her, giving her an angelic appearance.

  After a moment, she said, “I guess I had better go. Mom will be worried about me.”

  She stood. Jake followed.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

  “I have to be,” she said. “Mom needs me.”

  She started to walk away. Jake reached out and touched her arm. She turned and looked at him. Sad tears glistened in her eyes. “I need you to be okay for yourself,” Jake said.

  She attempted a smile. In a barely audible whisper, she said, “You don’t need to worry about me, Jake. I’ll be fine.”

  He watched her disappear over the dunes. His heart tugged, and he cursed this assignment. For a brief moment, he thought he should walk her home, but what would the use in that be? She was probably safer out in the world than she was at home. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Suddenly, he decided he didn’t like this job anymore.

  Chapter Eight

  Allen Petoro paused by the coffee pot. Fatigue hollowed out his eyes, giving them a haunted look. Rachel Walker handed him two packs of sugar and two packs of creamer. He looked at them skeptically.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You want to stay awake, don’t you?” She laughed and thrust the offered delicacies at him. “Go on,” she urged. “I’m only half-kidding. Just how do you think we nurses stay awake for double shifts?”

  He shrugged, took a sip of the coffee, and winced. “Wow!”

  She laughed and handed him a file. “Richie Jones is here again.” She pointed at a curtained room. “Bed three.”

  He gave her the cup in exchange for the file. She took a large sip of the coffee, winced, and tossed the remains in the garbage. Somehow, it tasted better when she made it.

  Dr. Petoro sighed before opening the curtain. Richie Jones was four years old and dying from a rare form of cancer. His mother, Taja Jones, refused to accept the fact. Despite his being under the care of one of the best oncologists in the country, she still brought Richie in several times a month for various symptoms associated with his illness. He knew it was really Taja in need of care. He imagined caring for a young child would be difficult enough, but dealing with a terminal illness on top of it had to be exhausting.

  Bracing himself, he opened the curtain and pasted on the biggest, award-winning smile he could muster. “Well, if it isn’t my good buddy, Richie,” he said coming to stand beside him.

  Richie jumped up and down in excitement. “Dr. Pete,” he called. “Look what I can do.” He watched in amazement as the child climbed on top of the exam table and leaped to the floor. His mother clutched her chest, while Dr. Petoro laughed, scooped the boy up and settled him back on the table.

  Doctor and child exchanged a high-five. “That was totally awesome,” Dr. Petoro said.

  Taja scolded him with her eyes.

  Richie giggled.

  “So, what’s up today?” he asked. “Worms in your belly? Grasshoppers in your ears?”

  Richie laughed so hard he fell over on the table.

  Taja frowned again. “You aren’t helping, really,” she scolded, even though her eyes sparkled. She sighed. “He has a fever.”

  “How high?”

  She blushed. “100.”

  Richie rolled his eyes at the doctor. “I told her it was nothing, but you know her.”

  Dr. Petoro felt the urge to double-check the child’s age. Nearly half Richie’s life, he had been poked, prodded, x-rayed, scoped… He was probably the most advanced four-year-old the doctor had ever seen.

  “I guess we should cut her some slack,” Dr. Petoro said. “Okay, let’s take a look.”

  Richie reached over and grabbed something from an instrument tray. “Otoscope,” he said, handing it to Dr. Petoro.

  Richie first turned his left ear, and then his right ear toward the doctor. Dr. Petoro examined each ear and then set the scope back down on the tray.

  Dr. Petoro stood back, arms folded across his chest, as the boy grabbed a second instrument and handed it to him. “Laryngoscope,” Richie said, opening his mouth wide.

  When Dr. Petoro had finished the exam, he took out his prescription pad and began writing on it.

  “Laryngitis or otitis media?” Richie asked. “No, wait. No scratchy throat, voice is all here.” He nodded his head. “Otitis Media.”

  “Right you are,” Dr. Petoro said. “The kid gets an A+ for the day.”

  Richie frowned. “That’s not worth anything.”

  Dr. Petoro reached into his pocket and withdrew a sucker. “Would you settle for a Tootsie Pop?”

  Richie’s eyes brightened. He started to reach for it, but he stopped short when he saw the expression on his mother’s face. He pulled it back. “I already had one from the nice lady in
the waiting room.”

  Dr. Petoro looked at Taja for confirmation.

  She nodded and said, “Your new volunteer out in the waiting room. She’s reading to all the kids.”

  He looked surprised. “I didn’t know we have a reader in the waiting-room.”

  “Oh, she’s doing much more than reading,” Taja said. “A woman came in a while ago, arms laden with diaper bags, crying babies—they were twins—an unruly toddler… She wasted no time rushing to her aid. She sat there, holding one of the babies until their turn came—nearly an hour. She’s quite the find, I think. What an excellent decision.”

  He nodded. “Well, I hope it works out.”

  “I’m sure it will. She’s a gem.”

  He helped Richie down and gave him the sucker, anyway—casting a daring look at his mother, who just smiled and shrugged. He slapped a high-five, low-five, and another high-five, pulling his hand at the last minute, so Richie hit only air. Richie laughed. Dr. Petoro said, “I get you every time.”

  He walked them out to the nurses’ station, tore off a prescription and handed it to them. “Stay out of trouble, Richie.”

  Richie grinned in response and bounced off down the hallway and out the sliding glass doors.

  “Who’s next?”

  Rachel handed him a chart. “Bethany Mills, curtain five.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yep,” Rachel said in response.

  He shook his head. “Will she ever learn?”

  “I doubt it,” Rachel said. “She’s crazy about that boy, and nothing will talk sense into her.”

  “Give me five minutes with her and then come on in for the exam.”

  She nodded, and he approached the curtain with apprehension. Bethany Mills had a steady boyfriend who was nothing but trouble, and a constant stream of vaginal infections that never seemed to heal. Despite multiple warnings, she wouldn’t stop seeing him.

  He pulled back the curtain and stepped through. Bethany was lying on the exam table, half-dressed, with a thick paper sheet covering her, and an iPod in one hand. Long wires extended from the base of the iPod and into her ears. Her legs swayed back and forth, keeping the tempo while her hips ground the exam table in a comically, seductive way. He tapped her lightly on the leg.

  She jumped. “Jesus—you scared me,” she yelled.

  He reached over and took the wires from her ears. “Don’t shout. I can hear you just fine.”

  “Oh,” she said. She giggled. “Sorry about that.”

  He shrugged it off. “Rachel said you’re having problems again.”

  “Yeah, same old stuff. How come I can’t get rid of it, Dr. P?”

  “Because you won’t stop having sex with that boy,” he said, pointedly.

  At the mere suggestion of him, she melted into a smile. “Because he’s so dreamy, Dr. P.”

  “He’s also deadly,” Dr. Petoro said.

  She snapped up straight, losing her smile. “Those are just rumors.”

  He held up her chart for her to see. “You have an inch of rumors here, kiddo. Your body can’t take much more.”

  She stared, speechless.

  Realizing he was talking to a brick wall, he just shook his head. Right on cue, Rachel entered the room. Bethany, by rote, lay back, while Rachel helped her ease each foot into a stirrup, and Dr. Petoro pulled on examination gloves.

  Dr. Petoro did his customary exam, taking the appropriate smears and swabs. When he finished, he took off his gloves and extended a helping hand to Bethany. “I don’t suppose you brought your mother with you?”

  She shook her head. “She’s in the Caribbean.”

  “Of course, she is,” Dr. Petoro said.

  Rachel gasped, but Bethany laughed.

  “It’s okay, Rachel. It’s totally true. If it weren’t for the clinic’s privacy policy, I’d probably die from all these infections. My doctor would never treat me without my mother’s consent.”

  Dr. Petoro nodded affirmation, picked up Bethany’s chart and scribbled some orders on it. “I want you to have some blood work today,” he said.

  “What for?” Bethany asked. “You don’t usually stick me.”

  “Just routine,” he said.

  He handed the chart to Rachel, who looked down at it. She raised her eyes to meet his, an unspoken suspicion hanging between them.

  “The lab’s backed up. It’s going to take a while before they get to her.”

  “Can I wait in the waiting room?” Bethany asked. “There’s a really cool lady out there reading to the kids.” She laughed. “She acts out the story.”

  “Aren’t you a little old for bedtime stories?” Dr. Petoro asked, chuckling.

  “Not when she reads them.”

  He paused, looking at her. “Okay, but don’t wander off. We don’t want to have to go looking for you.”

  “You have my word.”

  Dr. Petoro and Rachel left the room, leaving Bethany to dress.

  “Who’s this lady everyone keeps talking about?”

  Rachel grinned. “See for yourself.”

  “After my charting. Do I have any more patients?”

  Rachel returned to her desk, picked up three charts and read them off. “Finger laceration, curtain one. Hemorrhoids, curtain three, and a fractured right arm, curtain five. None of them are ready, though.”

  “I’ll do my charting while I wait.”

  He started to walk away when Rachel called in a singsong voice. “I wouldn’t wait on checking out the waiting room. She’s likely to slip away.”

  He grinned at her. “Oh, all right. I have to admit my curiosity is piqued.”

  Instead of going to the charting room, he turned the opposite way, making his way to the waiting room.

  He had heard her seconds before she came into sight. The pitch of her voice rose and fell with the poetry of the story. He leaned against a wall, listening, trying to visualize her actions as she acted out the story. He heard Bethany laugh, and he smiled.

  Mustering bravery, he turned the corner, and she came into view. He smiled. His heart melted at the sight of the tenderness in her bruised, swollen face as she leaned over each child, going around the circle, and whispering, “And then Jack stole the golden goose…” She caught sight of him standing there and stopped abruptly. Bethany, sensing the pause in the story, followed her gaze. She saw Dr. Petoro standing there, started to wave, but then, sensing the moment between them, she pulled her hand back and grinned.

  Dr. Petoro watched as Brenda continued the story. His heart melted with both joy and anger at the sight of her surrounded by all those children. She was meant to be something other than a punching bag for her husband.

  He noticed Bethany and blushed crimson. Bethany mouthed, “You dog, you, Dr. P.” She gestured toward Brenda, making kissing faces.

  He grinned, blushing deeper, waved her off, and turned away.

  Chapter Nine

  Angela Martin looked at the folder sitting on her desk. She was at a loss about what to do with the case. Nobody except Dr. Petoro, had asked for her help—until yesterday, that is.

  She picked up a single sheet of paper, reading with relief the words written there. The letter was from one of Lacy’s teachers and, although it wasn’t much, it was one more letter from someone in an official position to put in her file.

  It was true she couldn’t do much for Brenda Waldrip, but at least she could start an investigation regarding Lacy.

  She perused the contents of the letter. In it, the teacher cited numerous incidents where Lacy had presented for class with cuts or bruises—always giving some unbelievable excuse or another for their presence. Next, she examined the doctors’ reports, which contained the same lame excuses.

  What was the problem here? It didn’t take an Einstein to determine these bruises were being inflicted upon her. Judging from the latest condition of her mother, the guilty party had to be the father.

  She remembered the ominous parting scene with Lacy at the hosp
ital a few days ago. Her father’s behavior had been abominable. But Lacy hadn’t seemed to fear him, not really anyway. Oh, she supposed there was the deep-down dread, but on the surface, she had seemed almost complacent.

  Her phone rang. She looked at it a moment as if it might answer itself, and then picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Is this Ms. Martin?” a voice on the other end asked.

  “Yes. Who’s calling, please?” For a moment, there was only silence. “Who is this?” she asked again.

  Brenda froze. It wasn’t too late. She could just hang up, and the woman would be none the wiser. What if she had caller ID? Would she be able to trace back the number and see who had called her? Angela was about to hang up when a hesitant voice said, “This is Brenda Waldrip.”

  Angela took a deep breath. She knew she must tread lightly with Mrs. Waldrip. One wrong word likely would make her hang up. “Hello, Mrs. Waldrip. How may I help you?”

  “Call me Brenda, please. I don’t like being referred to by that other name.”

  “Sure, Brenda.”

  The phone held only silence. Angela knew she must say something or she would lose her caller. She decided to try an informal approach. “Would you like to meet me for coffee, Brenda?”

  “I’d love to,” she replied without hesitation.

  They agreed to meet at the Sugar Spoon, a local café off the old Main Street. They called it old Main Street because a few years back, progress had begun to invade their little town. A highway was built, rerouting Main Street, which put a damper on tourist traffic. The Sugar Spoon, however, was a institution in its own right and hadn’t suffered at all.

  An hour later, Angela sat waiting patiently for Brenda to arrive. She began to grow nervous, fearful that Brenda might have changed her mind. Angela looked at her watch a third time, her impatience growing. Just as she was about to risk phoning her, Brenda appeared—breathless.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Peter showed up unexpectedly. I had to wait for him to leave again.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  “Do you mean does he check up on me?”

  “If that’s what he’s doing.”

  Brenda laughed. “Oh, that’s what he’s doing alright. He checks up on me a few times throughout the day. If not in person,” she held up her cell phone in a mocking display, “then by phone.”