Home To You. Cheryl Wolverton
had his answer.
“I see.”
“I’m sure you do,” his mother said wisely.
“I’ll be glad to make sure someone is there to pick you up at the airport, Mom. However, I have company, so I won’t be able to make it myself.”
He waited for a response. A question. Something. When it came, it was simple. “That’s fine. See you around five-thirty. Bye, son.”
“Goodbye, Mom.”
He hung up the phone.
“Who was that?”
Dakota turned to Mary and gave her one of his you’ve-been-meddling-again looks. Then he turned to Josh. “That was Mom. She’s on her way home.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Uh-huh.” He shot a look at Mary, who would have been whistling if she knew how. In all the years he’d known her, he knew that whistling had been a bone of contention between the two sisters. Margaret could whistle. Mary could not.
“What about our patient?” he asked, changing the subject. It wouldn’t do any good to get onto Mary for calling his mom. She watched out for him whether he wanted it or not. And if she felt his mom would be a help here—which, he had to admit, she would since he couldn’t very well throw an unconscious woman out on the street—then Mary and Margaret would call his mom.
Thirty-two years old and they still treated him as if he were twelve.
“Blood pressure is okay. So are her heart and lungs, pupils. I’d say she’s going to be fine. She just needs to sleep it off. You won’t get any answers out of her today, I’m afraid.”
Dakota nodded. “I guess that’s that then.”
“Want me to put her in the spare room?”
Dakota hesitated.
Mary piped up, “It wouldn’t be right for you to be alone here. I’ll be glad to stay with you. Besides, you promised me over a month ago to help me with that puzzle I’m working. I’ll call Margaret and have her bring it over and we can finish it together.”
Great. An afternoon with Margaret and Mary.
But at least the woman would feel safe when she woke and found herself in his house—and he’d feel safe, too, when he faced his congregation.
It seemed the best choice. “That sounds great, Mary.”
Josh shifted the woman on the sofa and lifted her. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Three
Dark shadows surrounded her and she knew the dream was starting again. No amount of liquor could keep the demons at bay. And as the deep dark recesses parted and the fog swirled away from around her, she knew what was coming. As a spectator in a theater seat, she watched the past play out before her once again.
It started out the same every time. She was falling down the set of stairs, falling, grasping for the handrail. She’d been fine, laughing with her friend, and then had simply missed a step. Or she’d thought that was it.
Shouts sounded and people came running. One of her co-workers helped her up. But she couldn’t stand. She must have hurt her leg.
Her boss gave her the rest of the day off.
She went home and took a hot bath.
She’d thought a hot bath would help her pain, ease the aches of the fall, but it hadn’t.
Instead of getting better, she found she couldn’t get out of the tub.
Panic ensued. But in the dream the water was drowning her, pulling her down below the rim, in the tub, alone, with no help.
The water had eventually chilled and slowly her leg had started working; gradually the water released its death hold on her.
Trembling, she’d pulled herself out of the tub and managed to get to her bed.
Falling onto the soft white sheets, she thought to sleep off the scare. Of course, the dream didn’t end. Instead, she saw herself decide to get up and go to work. It was unexplainably day again. Birds were singing. A soft breeze blew in the curtained window.
Mists swirled in around her, trying to block her vision of the deceptively beautiful day. As she was back at work, jokes floated off the tongues of her friends, silly jokes about her being a klutz. Her leg had gotten better and she was back, but this day, not even a month later according to the calendar on her desk, her hand was going numb.
Her boss, Rob, was standing there, waiting on a report, saying it was about time she got some rest, when he noticed she’d stopped typing.
Her arm burned, burned from shoulder to elbow, and her fingers didn’t want to work. Flames were leaping from her arm.
Cold crept up her spine, extinguishing the flames, but not before her boss saw them.
He insisted she take the day off and go to the doctor. That was it. He didn’t try to put the flames out or comment on them, just told her to go see a physician.
He forced her toward the door, grabbing her arm, shoving at her. She stepped toward his office and right into the ER.
The three days of testing played like a video on fast-forward. And they were very true to what had really happened.
There was the doctor. Then radiology.
A spinal tap.
There were machines hooked up to her that made her muscles jump and dance. Her arms and legs looked like a caricature of Pinocchio when he danced.
And then she was sitting in the doctor’s office, those strings still on her, moving her arms and legs…until he told her the diagnosis.
The verdict.
The strings fell off.
Shock stunned her speechless.
Her grandmother appeared, in her wheelchair next to her, her voice like the teacher’s on Charlie Brown, there but indistinguishable. The only sound she could make out was that of her grandmother’s anger as she swung a stick at her and then cackled with glee.
It wasn’t thought to be hereditary, the doctor had told her—but then he didn’t know about her grandmother. He couldn’t see her grandmother laughing at her.
Why couldn’t he?
She looked from him to her grandmother and back.
They didn’t know what caused it.
She felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in her.
He asked her if she was okay then told her they needed to talk about the next steps.
But she knew there was no treatment. Just look at her horrible grandmother!
Her hateful, wheelchair-bound grandmother who loved to hit her with a stick and who taunted and tormented her mother and father until Daddy had left and Mother had finally moved to the city to try to make enough money for them to survive.
What was she going to do?
The scene changed and pictures started moving faster and faster through her mind.
She was at work, but only for a month.
She was trying to type, but crying instead.
She heard the whispers, saw the looks. It wasn’t good for business for her to be seen like that.
Just a drink to help get her through the stares, to help her forget what the doctor had told her.
She saw herself hitting the answering machine over and over, erasing messages from the doctor’s office.
Why wouldn’t they leave her alone?
She couldn’t