Chasing Rainbows A Novel

SEVENTEEN


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My insides coiled into a tight knot as I searched for a parking space inside the Cooper Hospital garage, urging my car to climb higher and higher, up ramp after ramp.

I slipped into a restricted space between a minivan and an SUV. So much for compact cars only.

I scrambled out of the driver’s door while Ashley catapulted from the passenger side. When I spun around to face the bank of elevators, I hesitated, flashes of the past hitting me so strongly I could smell them. Taste them.

How many times had Ryan and I taken the same set of elevators after a prenatal ultrasound for Emma? How many times had we hung our heads, weighed down by the growing signs something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

As Ashley and I pushed the Down button and waited, I looked over my shoulder at the cutout in the building’s exterior wall, remembering the time I’d stood in this very spot looking down at the concrete jungle below.

I’d cried for Emma. Cried for Ryan. Cried for me.

I’d cried for the dreams and joys and life events that were never going to happen.

A car had pulled into a nearby parking space, and as Ryan took my hand he’d said, “Would you get a load of those clowns?”

I’d looked up in time to see the car’s occupants. Two adults in full clown regalia--red noses, fuzzy wigs, brightly-colored costumes--obviously on their way to the children’s wing.

I’d smiled even as tears slid down my face, finding their way into the corners of my grin.

Ryan had anchored an arm around my shoulders and tugged me toward the car. But more importantly, he’d made me smile.

He was the one person that could during that terrifying time in our lives.

Ryan and I had understood each other, yet somewhere during the five years since, we’d become two strangers who once shared a life-changing experience. Nothing more.

“Aunt Bernie? Are you all right?”

I shook myself free of the memory and nodded to answer the frightened tone of Ashley’s voice. I reached for her hand and held on tight as the elevator doors slid open.

In the lobby, we signed the visitor’s log before we headed for the security guard at the end of the hall.

I kept hold of Ashley’s hand until the second set of elevator doors slid open, depositing us in a hallway filled with hushed voices, worried families and tension.

MICU. Maternal Intensive Care Unit.

I’d hoped never to have reason to be here again, yet here I was. The smells and sounds and memories threatened to send me screaming.

My own bloody show had happened at the beach with a houseful of company.

“There’s lunchmeat in the fridge,” I’d called out as Ryan and I headed to the hospital. “Don’t forget your suntan lotion. We’ll be right back.”

Now it was Diane’s turn, and as Ashley and I stood side-by-side, fighting to keep our composure, I prayed Diane’s pre-term labor would turn out far different from mine.

Ashley and I walked to the nursing station. I gave our names, asked where we could find Diane and David and when we could see them.

While we waited, a doctor straightened away from one of the telephones, the stiff set of his slender frame sending the past crashing over me.

Dr. Platt.

He glanced in my direction, but not a flicker of recognition crossed his stern expression.

He didn’t so much as bat an eye, and why should he? It had been more than five years since he’d made my life a living hell. Yet, even now, the sight of a bulky binder tucked beneath his arm made my blood run cold.

I could picture him standing in the door to my MICU room as if it were yesterday, cradling his binder, flipping pages, studying test results and case notes.

“We’re building a case.”

I’d often thought about knocking him against a wall and pounding my fists into his chest as if Emma’s diagnosis and death had been his doing. As if he’d believed so fervently she wouldn’t live, that she hadn’t.

I stared at his back as he walked away, wondering if it was too late for me to attack him now.

“Bernie?”

David’s voice captured my attention, shifting my focus out of the past and into the present, where it needed to be.

Where it needed to stay.

o0o

I braced myself before I stepped inside Diane’s treatment room, giving Ashley’s hand one last squeeze before she shifted to her father’s side. David tucked his arm around her protectively and reached up to touch her cheek.

The same fear gnawing at my insides glimmered in Ashley’s eyes as she lifted her gaze to her dad’s. When he pulled her into an embrace and whispered reassuring words in her ear, I realized I’d always expected the worst of David. I’d never given him a moment’s worth of credit, even though he was the man in whom my best friend had put her hope, her faith, her love.

Was I such a small person I couldn’t accept he might have a human side?

We’d no sooner stepped inside the room than footsteps sounded behind us. Without looking to see who had entered, I crossed to Diane, sharing an unspoken greeting. Her frightened gaze locked with mine. I took her hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead, moist with sweat.

“The heartbeat’s slowing with the contractions.”

I recognized Dr. Platt’s voice instantly without turning around. Apparently, fate had sent the man of my nightmares to care for Diane.

“We need to start the medication. It’s nasty stuff, but we have no choice.” He spoke softly to David, but not so softly fear didn’t splash across Diane’s face.

“But she’ll be all right.” David’s tone had gone grim, worried. “I mean, both of them will be, right?”

“We’ll do our best,” Platt answered. Binder pages rustled as he flipped through his notes. “We’re also going to administer a shot to help mature the baby’s lungs.”

“How long with this take?” David asked. “Are we talking hours?”

“We’re talking days, Mr. Snyder.”

“Days?” David’s tone morphed from worried to incredulous. “We’ve got a family business to run.”

Anger took possession of my body and my mouth at that point, and for two reasons. One, David’s expression made it clear concern for the rink had suddenly taken precedence over concern for Diane. Two, Dr. Platt and David were speaking as if Diane wasn’t in the room.

“Maybe you should include the patient in your conversation.” I spoke loudly enough to interrupt the hushed tone of their exchange.

David’s eyes shimmered with impatience and warning. The doctor merely got right to the point. “And you are?” he asked. But before I could utter a word, recognition flashed in his eyes and he pointed at me. “Trisomy 18, right?”

Beside me, Diane gasped as if she’d felt the knife go through my heart.

I shook my head, forcing myself not to go for the doctor’s throat. “My name is Bernadette Murphy.” I took a step toward the man, even though Diane had fisted her hand into my sleeve and was hanging on for dear life. “My daughter’s name was Emma Murphy and yes, she was born with Trisomy 18.

“She lived for five days. Five days--” I pointed at him sharply “--you said she’d never have.” I jerked a thumb at Diane. “This is Diane Snyder and I’d suggest you not only learn her name, but you also include her in your conversation.”

We stood in silence momentarily and I thought perhaps the man might offer an apology or ask how I’d been since the moment five years earlier when my daughter’s life had slipped away as I held her in my arms.

Instead, Dr. Platt said nothing, dropping his focus back to the chart in his hand.

“The nurse will get you set up,” he said as he headed for the door.

David scowled and turned back toward Diane, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. “I can’t believe this. We’ve got an open house tomorrow at the rink.”

Diane’s eyes closed and the pain that washed across her face was not physical.

I stepped soundly into David’s personal space and jabbed my index finger into his chest. “Do you try to be a total dick, or does it just come naturally?”

His cheeks puffed out, my question leaving him momentarily speechless.

“Bernie.” Diane’s tone rang with intensity. She’d released her grip on my sleeve after Dr. Platt’s departure, obviously not anticipating her husband would become my next target.

“No.” I shook my head, moving in a tight circle around David, who turned with me like a wrestling opponent anticipating my next move. “You want to say the same thing--” I stole a glance at Diane “--don’t you?”

She bit down on her lower lip, shot a quick look at David, then shook her head.

“Yes, you do.” I nodded, hot determination ready to spill out of my every pore. “Don’t you think that if I had backed Ryan against the wall a time or two and told him to go to hell, he might still be around?”

Diane and David’s faces scrunched into matching frowns.

“We’re all too polite.” I gestured wildly above my head. David ducked then moved behind Diane’s IV stand for protection.

“We stuff what we feel until we don’t feel anything at all.” I jabbed a finger in David’s direction. “Tell him what you really want to say.”

Diane’s face grew paler, if that were possible. “Well.” She bit her lip again and winced, as if she thought herself despicable simply for thinking whatever it was she was thinking.

“Tell him,” I repeated.

David glared at me. “Just because you screwed up your own marriage is no reason for you to screw up mine.”

“Oh, shut up.” The uncharacteristic sternness of Diane’s voice silenced David. It silenced me. Hell, a hush fell over the entire unit.

She pushed herself up on one elbow and turned her head to meet David’s shocked stare. “David. Go to hell.”

o0o

For the first time since they opened the ice rink four years earlier, David let the doors remain locked during Diane’s second day in the hospital.

Dr. Platt put Diane on magnesium sulfate, a nasty drug that slows everything in your body. It succeeded as far as her labor went, but poor Diane looked like hell. Her nurse kept a large box fan pointed directly at her and David kept the cold washcloths coming.

I saw a side of him during those two days I’d never seen. Maybe he’d finally come to his senses, or maybe Diane’s outburst had been enough to anchor him to what really mattered.

His family.

We all slept there the first night--David, Ashley and me. A bit before noon the next day, I raced home to take care of Poindexter. I’d been home once during the night, but the poor dog couldn’t be expected to hold it forever.

Number Thirty-Six was out front walking his cat when I pulled into my drive. Did the man never do anything else?

“What do you do for a living?” I blurted out the second I cleared my driver’s door.

“Good morning to you, too.” He grinned, sending my insides tilting sideways. “Rough night?”

“You enjoy asking me that, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Well? Was it?”

I nodded. “A friend of mine went into pre-term labor.”

His grin faded instantly. “Sorry. Damn. Give me a second while I pull my boot out of my mouth.”

“It’s okay.” I rubbed my eyes. “I need to let poor Poindexter out before I head back to the hospital.”

“Tell you what--” he stepped close and his cat rubbed her face against my shin “--let me take Fluffy home and I’ll come back for Poindexter. I’ll take him for a run. He can spend the day with me. Hell, he can spend the night with me too.”

Lucky dog.

I shoved that errant thought out of my mind and focused on the truly important part of what Number Thirty-Six had said.

“You named your cat Fluffy?”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I’m secure in my masculinity.”

Oh, I wasn’t worried. I was merely amused.

“And what is it you do for a living?” I repeated my question.

Amusement glimmered in his dark gaze. “I keep an eye on you.”

Embarrassment burned in my face as I pushed open my house’s front door. Poindexter looked up from his spot at the top of the steps. Apparently he’d been standing guard. Either that, or he’d barely made it off the bed once he heard my key in the lock.

I bustled him toward the kitchen and out the back door. The poor thing made it to the edge of the patio and not an inch farther before he lifted his leg.

The drone of an airplane sounded overhead. Poindexter wrapped things up and took off, sprinting across the yard, barking like a maniac, racing back and forth. Back and forth.

When a hand brushed my shoulder, I shrieked, jumping at least a foot into the air.

“Sorry.” The rich rumble of Number Thirty-Six’s voice assured me I wasn’t under attack by an axe-murderer, but his proximity did nothing to slow the beating of my heart.

“You scared the crap out of me.” I took a sideways step, moving clear of his reach.

“You didn’t answer when I knocked.” He grinned. “I had to make sure you weren’t lying somewhere unconscious in need of resuscitation.”

I tried to swallow but the move became impossible at that particular moment. As I watched, he took in my small kitchen, studying the place as if memorizing every detail.

“Nice.” He nodded toward the coffee maker. “Thought you didn’t drink coffee.”

“I don’t.” I wracked my brain for a believable answer. “I keep it around for...company.” I smiled, nodding my head. “Company,” I repeated. “Want some?”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze locking on mine, the intensity of his stare sending heat climbing up my cheeks. The message in his eyes was clear.

He didn’t believe a word of my story.

His lips quirked before he broke eye contact and refocused on the back door. Poindexter charged back and forth across the yard, barking with abandon.

He tipped his chin. “We could all learn a thing or two from your dog.”

“Like what?” I moved next to him, but stayed far enough away to ensure our arms didn’t touch. “Aiming high?”

Number Thirty-Six shook his head then met my questioning look. “I was thinking more like not worrying about what anyone else thinks.”

Was it my imagination or was he visually measuring the length of my nonexistent hair?

“He’s true to himself,” he added.

“He’s a dog.”

A quick shrug. “Doesn’t matter. He’s got a better grip on life than most of us do.”

“What is it you do?” I asked again.

“Take care of your dog.” He opened the door and whistled. Poindexter came running, screeching to a stop and sitting on Number Thirty-Six’s command.

When he lifted his paw to shake, I rolled my eyes and headed for the dog’s bowl. “I’ll pack his things. Thanks again for your help.”

“It’s what neighbors do.”

“Well--” I shook my head “--I owe you one.” I frowned, thinking for a second. “Actually, I owe you two. Or three.”

He gathered Poindexter’s paraphernalia into his arms, stopping to speak softly next to my ear as he passed. “I’ll make a note of it, Number Thirty-Two.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have an agenda?” I called out. My heart beat at a ridiculous rate as I watched the two of them head down the sidewalk toward Number Thirty-Six’s house.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” Number Thirty-Six said.

And even though he didn’t break stride or turn around to deliver the line, I could picture the grin on his face just as clearly as if he had.

o0o

Late that night, I drove Ashley home. Diane and David had decided she needed to be in her own bed, and since Number Thirty-Six had things with Poindexter under control, I figured I could keep Ashley company.

David wanted to stay with Diane, even though they’d discontinued the mag sulfate and were ready to start a second drug that would allow her to come home if her contractions remained under control.

“Aunt Bernie?”

I smiled at the tone of Ashley’s voice. The kid had used the same pre-favor pitch since she’d spoken her first words.

“What do you want?” I glanced at her in time to catch her frown. I patted her knee. “I’m teasing. What?”

“Can we stop off at the convenience store?”

“Peas?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Mm hm.” She sat quietly for a moment trailing one finger along the edge of the door. “I’m pretty sure we’re out of them.”

Well, I had to admit the last two days merited peas if ever they’d been merited.

“Peas, it is,” I said as I clicked on the car’s turn signal and changed lanes.

“Thanks, Aunt Bernie.”

But her words were dulled by the sound of a blaring horn. Another driver had moved into the same lane, at the same time, without use of a turn signal.

My middle finger flipped into the air of its own volition. “Nice driving, a*shole.”

Beside me, Ashley giggled.

Shit.

“Uh, sorry about that, honey.”

She shrugged. “No biggie.”

But I realized suddenly there was a lesson to be learned here.

“Listen,” I started in on my rationalization. “I’m not saying it’s right to swear or give other drivers the finger, but what just happened is a good example of expressing yourself.”

I sneaked a peek at her and was rewarded by her smirk of disbelief. She gave me the adults-are-so-stupid face. “You cut him off.”

“Minor detail.” I shook my head, not wanting to lose my train of thought. After all, I was about to make a major point. “Take you and the peas. If you expressed yourself more, you’d need less peas.”

“But peas are good for me,” she answered.

“In theory.” I turned my head to check for rogue drivers before I turned into the all-night convenience store lot. “But stuffing your feelings is never good.”

“Like Mom never telling Dad to go to hell?”

I winced. Perhaps I wasn’t teaching this kid using the best examples, but I held my ground, nodding. “Just like that. Only you don’t have to swear to express yourself.”

I slid the car into an open space, shifted into Park and cut the ignition.

Ashley wrapped her fingers around the passenger door handle. “I just need to stop stuffing my feelings?”

“That’s it.” I shrugged. “Basic concept. Got it?”

“Got it.” She tipped her chin toward the storefront. “Peas?”

“Peas,” I answered, following her into the store, remaining close on her heels until she turned down the canned food aisle and I headed for the candy racks.

Peas.

The kid might grasp the concept of self-expression, but one thing was perfectly clear.

She had zero appreciation for true comfort food.

o0o

“Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.”

-Michel de Montaigne