Chapter Seven
I took Anson’s advice—or demand—and made an appointment to see a cardiologist. Getting in to see the doctor on short notice wasn’t easy until I mentioned Anson’s name. Five days after I woke up as someone else, I sat in Dr. Patton’s waiting room.
A bedraggled magazine lay in my lap, frayed from much perusal. Bored with the lives of the rich and famous, I stared out a large picture window that overlooked the parking lot. Beyond the fence was a manicured lawn belonging to a well-known tourist attraction, an estate complete with a large antebellum-style mansion. My eyes focused on a gazebo—the same gazebo in the wedding portrait in Jennifer’s office. A fleeting image careened across my psyche without stopping to implant itself in my consciousness—gone before I could grab hold of it.
My memory exerted itself, denying Jennifer’s memories access. I closed my eyes to better recall the scene that played in my mind. I was looking up at Alex and he was looking down at me. He licked the buttercream frosting from his fingertips after smashing cake into my mouth. We laughed with wedding cake smeared on our lips.
A simple setting. Nothing fancy. A small wedding on a small budget. My mother’s house. Reception in the backyard. Family and a few college friends. No gazebo.
The sudden recollection of my wedding to Alex rattled me.
Someone’s voice shook me back to the present. “Mrs. Cristobal? Are you all right?” The nurse examined me with concern-filled eyes.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“The doctor will see you now.” She continued to observe me. My color must have been pale to invoke such an inspection. I followed her to the nether reaches of the office suite. It was a short hike, not long enough for me to slow Jennifer’s accelerated heartbeat.
“Mrs. Cristobal,” the doctor greeted as the nurse ushered me into his private office. “Please, sit down.” He looked at some notes while I adjusted myself into his comfortable consultation chair. “So…you need a second opinion?”
“I need another doctor.”
He cleared his throat. “Suppose we go over your history and then you can decide if you want to change doctors.”
“Did Dr. Whitaker send you my records?”
He nodded, all sorts of questions dancing in his brown eyes. “From what I can see, you had surgery…what…three years ago?”
“Okay.” That agreed with what Sairs said.
“The surgery was performed by Crane in California.” There was a question in his voice. When I didn’t respond, he frowned. “Whitaker has you on a maintenance dose of cyclosporine?”
“Cyclosporine?”
“You might know it as Sandimmune. It prevents your body from rejecting your heart. All transplant patients take cyclosporine. It’s standard practice.”
“Okay.” I hadn’t yet seen the bottles from which Sudha dispensed Jennifer’s medications. They appeared on my breakfast tray in the morning or on the bedside table at night. I had no idea what Sudha was giving me and didn’t trust her, so I’d been flushing the pills.
“Your blood work looks all right,” he commented and looked up from the medical records in front of him. “Before you leave, we’ll draw blood and recheck your levels.” I nodded. “Are you experiencing any difficulty? Chest pain? Trouble breathing? Headaches? Nausea?”
I shook my head. Then I made a correction. “Well, I have had some headaches, but I think those are tension.”
“Hmmm…maybe.” He leaned back in his leather chair. “So…”
“I no longer wish to see Dr. Whitaker. Can you take over for him? You have all my records, right?”
“Well, I see no reason why I can’t,” he said. “But Whitaker is a board-certified cardiologist.”
“I’m planning a trip to California and I want to know if I’m healthy enough to fly. My husband…Anson, has some concerns. I had a spell last week. But I think I fainted because I hadn’t eaten all day.”
“Diet is an important part of maintaining your health—”
“Yes, I know. We had a party that night. I probably didn’t take time to eat. I won’t let it happen again.”
He tented his fingers, elbows propped on his desk. “When do you plan to leave for California?”
“As soon as you clear me for takeoff.” I grinned at him.
His face didn’t crack. Didn’t even twitch. “Unless your blood work says otherwise, I see no reason why you can’t travel.” He rose from his chair and stood before me. “Suppose we take your blood pressure and listen to your heart.”
****
The walls of Jennifer’s walk-in closet bore down upon me. I dumped some of her clothing into her luggage and slipped out of the shoes I wore to Dr. Patton’s office. I shoved my tired feet into something more suitable for travel.
“Missus?”
I whirled to face Sudha.
She eyed the overnight bag and the toilet case on the bench in the middle of the closet. “I thought we agreed—”
“I didn’t agree.” I waved a shoe at the bedroom beyond her. “The two of you agreed.”
She glowed with pleasure. Did she like my suggestion that Anson had conspired with her? “This is not wise.”
“Bring me my medication,” I commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.
“But—”
“Give them to me,” I said with more force and nudged her toward the bedroom door. “I can’t leave town without them.” Once we were out of the closet, Sudha glanced back at me, perhaps to determine if I intended to push her every step of the way.
I followed her down the hall to her rooms. I’d never thought about where she slept or what she did when she wasn’t taking care of the house. I hadn’t needed—correction—wanted her help, and over the past few days, I sensed her feelings of uselessness as she wandered from room to room, straightening things that didn’t need straightening and then disappearing for hours at a time. Anson worked late every night and I ate out as much as possible. Maybe that’s why Sudha hid in her room most of the day. She was at loose ends with only the laundry and the sweeping to do.
She darted her eyes at me, glaring over her shoulder, her face contorted with displeasure and anger. She retrieved two bottles from her medicine cabinet, clutched them tight in her hands, and pressed them against her ample chest.
I stepped toward her. “Why do you keep my medication in your bathroom?” I looked at the bottles, then at her.
“For your protection.” She stuck out her chin. Unyielding determination hardened her features. I didn’t believe she kept the medication for my protection, but she would no doubt stick to her story no matter what excuse she fabricated.
“My protection?”
“I feared that you would take more than you should.”
She lied. I could tell by the way she averted her eyes. “You thought I’d overdose on my heart medication?” I squinted at her. “Why are there two medications? What else am I taking?”
She clutched the bottles tighter. I wiggled my fingers. She balked, so I nailed her with my fiercest glare. The bottles clacked against each other as she dropped them in my hand. I stared at the labels and then shook one of each of the drugs into my palm. I tucked both pills in my pants pocket. Neither of them were labeled cyclosporine, so I poured the remainder of both bottles into the toilet and flushed.
She backed away from me. “Mrs. Cristobal! You cannot do this—”
“I can and I have.” I swiped my hands, one across the other, as if I was wiping away something distasteful.
“But you must take your medication.”
I snorted. “I have seen a new cardiologist and I have a new prescription.” Horror flickered in her dark eyes so I softened the edges of my mouth and tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I’ll take
my
heart medication while I’m away.”
A sour frown covered her countenance. Turning my back to her, I rushed to Jennifer’s bedroom, my feet padding on the bare floor. The reddish-brown parquet gleamed in the glow of the dim lighting. The slick sheen of the wallpaper captured the luminescence of the sconces on the walls. The hallway seemed a mile long. The far end swayed a little. I was out of breath by the time I entered Jennifer’s huge closet.
With renewed determination, I continued packing her bags. Sudha wrapped ice-cold fingers around my wrist. “Please reconsider your actions. What will Mr. Cristobal think?”
“Do you really care what he thinks?” I attempted to tug my arm free, but she tightened her grip.
“I care very much what he thinks.” She refuted my backhanded assertion, a blazing fire underlying her words—a startling contrast to the cold malice in her eyes. A shudder of fear galloped up my body, from my toes to the top of my head. The room behind her fuzzed around her form. I blinked to clear the picture.
Anson’s sudden appearance in the doorway made us both jump. He flicked his index finger, motioning Sudha toward the bedroom door. “I want to speak to my wife alone.”
She left, but not before slamming a drawer shut. I turned toward him, expecting him to attempt to detain me. He gathered some of Jennifer’s fine under things to add to the suitcase. “I can’t talk you out of this?”
“No,” I snapped, my tone revealing how quarrelsome I felt.
“Where will you stay?” He returned my belligerence.
“I’ve made reservations.” I clipped my words, daring him to question my actions.
He sighed, pushed the suitcase aside, and sat on the bench. “How will I reach you?”
“I’m taking…my cell phone.” I cringed every time I stumbled over calling Jennifer’s things mine.
“You don’t know where to start. The hospital told you nothing. That doctor told you nothing. All you know is that she may have come from the west coast somewhere. That’s a lot of ground to cover. Without a place to start, how do you know where to go?”
“I know where I’m going.” I tossed another pair of shoes into the suitcase.
“Sudha could go with you.”
“No.” I turned and glared at him. “When I return…” I stopped and mentally corrected myself.
Not when, but if I return. I’ll only return if I can resolve nothing out west.
“When I come back, we need to talk. Something is not right about her.”
“We’ve had this out already.”
“And we’ll have it out again. I don’t trust her.”
I wanted to tell him I didn’t trust him either. Or anyone else in Jennifer’s misbegotten life. But I wasn’t ready to tell him that yet. Something was going to happen that would explain everything. I sensed it coming and, whatever it was, it was unstoppable.
****
My sudden appearance at his office seemed to surprise Dr. Price Whitaker. His face reddened and set into an angry scowl. He rushed me away from the front lobby and the prying eyes of his less well-established patients, who studied me with weary curiosity. None of them looked well. All of them pale and thin and sagging in their seats. Of course, they were all heart patients. Some of them were awaiting a transplant. A sudden wave of sympathy overcame me.
He pushed past me and waited for me to enter before slamming the door to his private office. The door brushed my behind and I stepped quickly into the room to keep from receiving a sharp smack on my backside.
“What are you doing here?” The hurt in his eyes revealed a vast reserve of injured male pride. “I’m not your doctor any longer, remember?”
I blinked at him and sighed. A hint of mockery invaded my tone. “I know.”
I took my time, sauntering across his richly appointed office and depositing myself into his leather consultation chair. The work space looked similar to Dr. Patton’s, whose office I had left only hours ago. Whitaker’s desk was devoid of everything except a prescription pad and an expensive-looking pen. Patton’s desk was a jumble of clutter and chaos.
“So why are you here?”
I dug in Jennifer’s purse—one of many—and produced the prescription bottles. “Neither of these are cyclosporine. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be taking?”
He reached for the bottles, but I closed my hand around them.
“Why am I taking a barbiturate?”
“A barb…what are you talking about, Jennifer? You’re not taking a barbiturate. Don’t be silly.”
“Don’t call me silly.” I turned the bottle labels toward him.
He read them and then fell back into his chair with such force that it slid askew. “I didn’t prescribe either of those for you.”
“Your name’s on the label. Dr. Price Whitaker. Right there,” I said and pointed to the incriminating evidence. “I’ve looked these medications up online. Should I be taking either of these with my condition?”
“Absolutely not. Where did you get them?”
I cocked my head, hurling blistering sparks of unspoken accusation across the desk toward him.
“Oh, come on now. That is such a potent barbiturate it’s dangerous, and there are others more effective. I wouldn’t prescribe that to anyone under any circumstance.”
“Sudha has been giving me two of these every day.”
“Sudha?” His anger bent his features into a deep scowl. “Two of them? Every day? Didn’t I tell
you
to handle your medication? I told you to keep her away from—”
“Why did you tell me to handle my own medication?”
He rose from his desk and stood before me, his irritation so hot it threatened to singe my skin. I pushed my chair back in self-defense. With one hand on his desk, he shook a finger in my face. “
You
told me you didn’t trust her.” His words tumbled over each other in their haste to exit his mouth. “
I
told you to go with your gut instinct. I
told
you I would talk to Anson for you about her. But
you
wouldn’t let me.”