A Dangerous Affair (20 page)

"The doctor said he'd be right back."

Blanchart rubbed the side of her slender arms, brushing his fingertips against her naked breasts through the paper robe. He kissed the side of her neck and smelled the perfume he'd bought for her. The more he hungered for his wife, the more he longed to feel her naked body against his own.

"Alan..."

"Relax," came the terse reply from a man who would not be denied. "I have another trip coming up. I'll be gone for a few days. I always miss you when I'm gone."

Jamie bristled when he touched her breasts. Confined in an outpatient room, she imagined herself on a quiet beach with powdered sand between her toes and warm surf lapping at her feet. A secluded stretch of uninhabited paradise a million miles away from the man she married. A happy place where life made sense and all her troubles simply followed the tide out to sea. "The doctor will be here soon."

Blanchart moved to the edge of the table and spread Jamie's knees. He stroked her inner thighs with eager hands. "I'll be quick."

"Not in here."

"I'll decide the when and where," Blanchart scolded her.

"What if the nurse comes in?"

Blanchart licked the space behind Jamie's ear. He untied her drawstring with one hand and whispered, "How 'bout you start showing me some fucking affection."

Jamie flinched at the words that repulsed her more than Alan's touch. Despite the relative safety of her doctor's office, she found herself at the mercy of the man she had vowed to love and honor. "The door's unlocked," she said, pulling on the front of her gown to expose her breasts.

Alan unbuckled his duty belt and dropped it beside his hat on the chair. He reached for the door handle and felt it move.

"Excuse me, Sheriff," the doctor interrupted, nudging his way inside the room. "Sorry to intrude."

"You should be more careful," Blanchart warned.

"My apologies," the doctor said. "I didn't realize you were here."

Blanchart gathered his hat and duty belt from the chair. He moved slowly to stifle the erection in his pants without making an obvious attempt to do so. "Take your time, Doc. Better to measure twice and cut once."

"She'll be fine, Sheriff."

Blanchart winked at Jamie who turned sideways on the observation table. "I'll see you at home."

Chapter 28

Sheila held Josh's hand in a crowded hospital waiting room, her emotions channeled through a tenuous connection with her boyfriend of seven months. She cried openly in front of strangers, wiping a tissue at the smeared mascara on her cheek.

"He'll be okay," Josh offered.

Sheila leaned on Josh's arm for support. "We've been here for over an hour. What the hell is taking so long?"

Josh hugged her. "They're doing everything they can," he reassured her, folding lies on top of lies so thick he almost believed them himself. He squeezed her hand and kept the truth squirreled away in a place where no one would ever find it.

He'd spent every second of the agonizing ambulance ride rehearsing the same story in his mind until he convinced himself the less Sheila knew about what happened, the better it was for everyone.

Josh let go of Sheila's hand and stood up to stretch from his cramped position. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, slinking toward the nearest exit. He bummed a cigarette from a custodian on break outside the building and prayed his little secret would stay hidden forever.

There were times in his life where he could smoke three cigarettes at once. This was one where he could stuff the entire pack in his mouth and light every cigarette together in a cloud of smoke so big he could see it from Goggle.

He'd landed in big-time jams before, but nothing compared to the shit he stepped into with Sheila's kid. He had no one to blame for what happened but Sheila. The kid was hers. She could have taken him with her. She could have dropped him at her friend's house. She could have left him in daycare. Instead, she chose the selfish route, never thinking about the consequences.

He blew smoke.
I'm not cut out for kids,
he told himself.
Especially crying babies.

He watched Sheila approach from the automatic doors and said, "I just needed some fresh air."

Sheila wiped her nose with a tissue. "How much longer do we have to wait?" She took a hit from Josh's cigarette.

"They're doing everything they can."

"What if he's—"

Josh put his arm around her. "He'll be fine. This is one of the best hospitals in the county."

Sheila rubbed her nose with her finger. "I still don't understand what happened..." Her eyes darted from side to side.

Josh could tell her brain was in overdrive trying to process the events leading up to the unthinkable. He cupped his palms together and gestured with a scooping motion. "I found him on the floor a little while after you left. He must have fallen out of the crib."

"What were you doing before then?"

"Nothing. I went to make Logan's bottle when I heard him crying. I figured he was hungry when I hurt him—heard him..."

"How did he get out of the crib?" Sheila asked.

"He must have climbed out."

"Logan's only twelve weeks old," said Sheila. "He can't even sit up on his own."

"He's stronger than you think."

Sheila stared at him a moment. "Did you leave the gate down?"

"I never touched it. You put him in there before you left. The gate was down when I found him." He blew smoke away from Sheila's tortured expression. "Maybe you forgot to put it up?"

"He was sleeping when I put him in his crib," Sheila recalled. "I know I put the gate up. I always do." She read the face of a man she'd trusted with her baby's life. A man with a history of drug abuse. "Were you high?"

"Do I look high to you?"

"No, but you've been there before."

"Not since you've known me. I don't touch that stuff anymore. I go to work. I go to meetings. I come home. That's it."

"Then tell me what happened."

"I told you what happened." Josh flicked ash on the ground. "It was an accident."

Sheila eyed him as she processed the information.

Josh could see her connecting the dots in her mind and saw her face change when it hit her.

"I was gone for two hours before the hospital called me! You said you found Logan on the floor by his crib a few minutes after I left. That doesn't make any sense."

"That's not what I said."

"Yes it is. You just told me."

"I said an hour or so after you left."

"You said a little while after I left."

Josh threw his hands in the air. "What's the fucking difference? This isn't easy for me either. A little while, a few minutes, an hour or so—I don't remember exactly how long. Everything happened so fast."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. I found Logan on the floor crying."

"When?"

"I told you I needed cigarettes. You dumped him on me and you left for class. I could have snuck out and bought a pack, but I didn't. You're lucky I was there to help him in the first place."

Sheila saw the red light flashing on her bullshit meter. Josh's story didn't mesh. Her mother's intuition gnawed at her, prodding her to question everything. She wanted answers. And she wanted the truth. "Why didn't you check on him when he started crying?"

"I did."

"You told me you made his bottle while he was crying."

"I checked on him first. Then I made his bottle. He was hungry. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You should have changed his diaper first."

"I wanted to warm up the bottle first."

"And that's when you found him on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Was he crying?"

"A little."

"The nurse told me he was unresponsive. She said he was unconscious when the paramedics found him."

Josh blew smoke. "Maybe they gave him something to calm him down."

"They don't give drugs to babies. He was sleeping when I left. All you had to do was watch him for a couple hours."

Josh flicked his cigarette at the street and went back to the waiting room inside.

Sheila followed. She sat in the corner and stared up at a wall-mounted television showing
The Price is Right
reruns. She grabbed a magazine and flipped the pages without reading until a somber-faced doctor with hunched shoulders and a five o'clock shadow approached her, a stethoscope around his neck.

"Ms. Jarvis?"

"Yes."

"Could you come with me, please?"

"Is my son okay?"

"This way, please."

The doctor closed the trauma room curtain around Sheila and Josh who stood opposite a portable x-ray monitor. "Ms. Jarvis—"

"Where's my son?" Sheila asked.

"Your son's safe," the doctor explained. "He stands a good chance of making a successful recovery." The doctor checked his pager and read the incoming message.

"I want to see him," said Sheila.

"Your son's been admitted for observation. I'd like to run some more tests."

"For what?"

"When a baby is vigorously shaken, the head rocks back and forth in a whiplash motion. This motion can cause internal bleeding inside the skull, which in turn increases pressure on the brain, causing it to pull apart."

"I don't understand."

"A baby's brain tissue is very fragile. At six months of age and younger, infants are highly susceptible to head trauma from the lack of neck muscle development."

Sheila pointed her finger at Josh. "You told me he fell out of the crib."

"He did," Josh insisted.

"Don't lie to me!"

"I never touched him."

"Ms. Jarvis," the doctor interjected, "I've diagnosed a hundred cases of shaken baby syndrome and I can tell you with a high degree of confidence your son's injuries are not consistent with a fall."

"Are you sure?" said Sheila.

"The forces applied to his brain were several times stronger than a low range fall could produce."

"I want to see my son!"

"I'm afraid that's not possible right now."

"Let me see him!" Sheila screamed. "I'm not leaving this hospital without my baby!"

"Ms. Jarvis—"

"I'm his mother goddammit! You can't keep him from me. I'll sue you and this hospital!"

"I understand your concern. This is standard procedure in all child abuse cases." The doctor parted the privacy curtain to reveal there was a sheriff's deputy in the room. "I've notified child protective services. This officer will assist you until they arrive."

Chapter 29

Brenda started her morning the same way she started every morning with her ailing liver, enduring frequent bouts of vomiting and diarrhea that left her cramped and dehydrated. No miracle of modern medicine would save her—a reality she came to terms with before her health insurance lapsed. Absent her prescription medication, she swallowed whiskey to ease the gut-wrenching pain that started in the pit of her stomach and progressed like a baseball inching through her digestive tract. Her solitary days had turned to weeks, which turned to months, alone in the house she'd built with her husband of thirty years.