The Lies We Told. Diane Chamberlain
she said.
An African-American woman was walking toward the rear of the restaurant, a little girl in her arms. I suspected she was heading for the restroom, but she was looking straight at me, a broad smile on her face.
“Do you know her?” Rebecca whispered.
She wasn’t the least bit familiar.
“Dr. Ward!” she said, and for a moment, I thought she meant Rebecca, but her eyes were definitely on mine.
“Hi.” I smiled, struggling to place her. Then I noticed the little girl in her arms. “Taniesa!” I said, jumping to my feet. I reached for her, and Taniesa came easily into my arms, as though she’d never connected the pain from her surgery the year before with me. She clutched a small stuffed panda bear in her hand. “You’re getting huge, baby girl.” I planted a kiss on her cheek.
“I seed you and Mama said no, that isn’t you, but it is too,” Taniesa said.
“And you were right. How are you, honey? How’s that arm of yours?”
“Good,” she said, and she lowered her head to my shoulder as if she wanted to go home with me. I could picture the X-ray of Taniesa’s left arm, shattered in a tricycle accident, as clearly as if I’d seen it only minutes before. I’d never had a photographic memory when it came to reading, but show me a juicy X-ray or CAT scan or MRI image, and I’d never forget it.
“You mean the world to us, Dr. Ward,” Taniesa’s mother said. I couldn’t remember her name. Taniesa’s last name was Flanders, but I knew her mother’s surname was different.
“I’m so glad we could fix her up,” I said, reluctantly letting go of the little girl and handing her back to her mother. Taniesa had on a sweater against the air-conditioned chill of the restaurant, but I ran my fingers down her arm, picturing the scar beneath the fabric.
Rebecca gave the girl’s mother a little wave. “I’m Dr. Ward’s sister, Rebecca,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. This is Brent Greer and my husband Adam Pollard, and this is—”
“Lucy Sharp.” Taniesa’s mom saved me the embarrassment.
“I like that panda, Taniesa,” Adam said. “Is it a girl or a boy?”
Taniesa looked at the stuffed toy as if she was just noticing it. “Girl,” she said.
“She have a name?” Adam asked.
“Taniesa.”
We all laughed, and Taniesa grinned.
“That was so smart!” Adam’s eyes were wide with feigned wonder. “You’ll never forget her name, will you?”
God, it was strange watching Adam with other people! I’d forgotten what he was like. How playful he could be. How he used to be playful with me. Our lives had become far too consumed by fertility and pregnancy and worry. We needed to change that, yet I knew he wasn’t ready to give up. I knew he wanted a child more than he wanted the sun to rise in the sky.
“Isn’t this some place?” Lucy Sharp asked. She glanced down at our plateless table. “You haven’t tried anything yet?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“What do you recommend?” Brent asked.
“Oh, Lord, anything you get’s going to fill you up. Try the Churrasco. It’s barbecue, Brazilian style. I never thought I’d like Brazilian food. Who would’ve guessed? But my sister-in-law got me in here a couple weeks ago and now she can’t get me out.”
Our waitress came to the table just then, and Lucy Sharp took a step backward. “I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, “but Taniesa wanted to be sure we said ‘hey.’ ”
“I’m glad you did,” I said. “Bye, Taniesa.”
The little girl reached for me one more time, and her mom leaned over to let her kiss my cheek.
I have the world’s best job, I thought. I watched them walk back to the front of the restaurant, and even before I saw them sit down again, I felt happy and at home and hungry enough to eat alligator meat.
The food was delicious and I was eating coconut flan when I noticed that the crowd was beginning to thin out.
“I’m drunk,” Brent admitted happily. He was. Adam was not far behind him. His eyes were glossy and a little unfocused, and the grin he’d been wearing most of the evening was lopsided in a way that made me smile.
“I’ll drive,” Rebecca said. “Though I’m so stuffed I may not fit behind the wheel.”
Adam said something in response, but I didn’t hear him. My gaze was on a man who had walked into the restaurant. He was Caucasian, dark haired, wearing a white T-shirt and beige pants and he stood in front of the door, shifting his gaze quickly from table to table. Something about him sent a shiver through me.
He started walking toward us—or at least, I thought he was heading toward our table. His stride was deliberate, his nostrils flared. Then I saw that his eyes—his ice-blue eyes—were locked on the two men at the table in front of ours. Adam said something that must have been funny, because Brent and Rebecca laughed, but
I’d set down my spoon and was gripping the corner of the table, my heart thudding beneath my breastbone.
I knew better than anyone how quickly these things could happen. The man reached behind his back with his right hand, then whipped his arm out straight, the gun a gray blur as it cut through the air, and I saw the tattoo of a black star on his index finger as he squeezed the trigger.
9
Maya
BEFORE I COULD SCREAM OR DUCK, THE SHOT RANG OUT and the man at the table in front of ours slumped in his chair. Then I did scream, the same way I’d screamed twenty years earlier in my driveway. This time, though, I had plenty of company. The congenial atmosphere of the little restaurant gave way to utter chaos. I bent over in my chair, making myself as small as possible, and I felt Rebecca cover me with her body like a shell. My hands were pressed to my ears, but I still heard footsteps racing toward the restaurant door.
“Get him!” people shouted. “Stop him!” Chairs scraped against the floor, and I heard the thud of a table falling on its side.
“Call nine-one-one!” I heard Adam yell.
Rebecca sat up and I straightened slowly from my crouched position, my stomach clenched around the meal I’d eaten. Brent and Adam were already on the floor next to the injured man, who had fallen from his chair in a crumpled heap. Rebecca sprang from her seat to the floor next to the men, while I remained frozen in my chair. The table blocked my view, and I caught only snippets of their conversation. “Press harder,” my sister was saying. “Can’t get a pulse,” Adam said. “Dude’s gone,” Brent added.
Should I try to help? Could I? This is why the three of them belonged in DIDA and I didn’t. I loved my work because it put me in control. “Maya knits teeny little bones back together,” Adam always said when introducing me to someone. That’s what I loved doing: fixing the fixable.
My gaze sank to my dessert plate, and I saw the splatter of blood across the remnants of my flan. The room spun, and I sprang out of my chair and raced toward the ladies’ room in the rear of the restaurant. The tiny restroom was crammed with crying, frightened women who let out a collective scream when I pushed open the door. Just looking at the small sea of hot bodies stole my breath away. I let the door close and sank to the dirty tiled floor of the hallway, my back against the wall.
I couldn’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs. Those cold eyes. The steady aim of the gun. Gulping air, I lowered my head to my knees and fought the darkness that seeped into my vision. I’d never once fainted. Not the first time I’d worked on a cadaver. Not during my