What a Mother Knows (27 page)

“So Nikki ran away.”

“When you had trouble pulling out of that last surgery in November, she couldn't take it. Eating Thanksgiving dinner in the hospital cafeteria was depressing enough, but having instant potatoes instead of your garlic mashed…” He hesitated, then turned away to get his coffee cup. “Once the doctor induced the coma a few days later, there was nothing to do but wait.”

Michelle pressed the photo to her heart. “She needed me.”

“I think she felt responsible,” Drew said.

“For the rain? The accident wasn't her fault. Didn't you tell her that?”

“Of course. You don't think I blame myself?”

Drew dumped his cold coffee and poured another cup. He offered it to her, but she wasn't about to put the photo down to take it. Drew took a gulp, thinking back.

“I should have known something was up that day we came to say good-bye to you. Just in case, you know…Nikki was jumpy as hell, kept fiddling with those wooden nesting dolls she brought from her room.”

Michelle looked up. “I thought my mother brought those.”

“You're missing the point, as usual. When Nikki said good-bye, she meant it.”

A truck beep-beep-beeped seven floors down. The echo was so loud in the tiny kitchen that Michelle felt like she was the one backing up. Did she really love this man, or did she love the idea of him? Was this painful longing one of loss, or just plain loneliness? She was too tired to tell the difference.

She started to put the photo back, then decided to keep it. “I'll sign the divorce papers, Drew. But you have to tell me where Nikki is.”

“I swear to you, I don't know!” Drew shouted. “Every night I'm afraid she's eating out of trash cans. When you came back from Florida, Kenny gave me hell. Those fucking lawyers—Dillenger and his henchmen—were sniffing around here like a pack of coyotes. If I knew where she was, of course I'd tell you. And I'd send her money even if it cost us. And it would cost us plenty, because if I sent her so much as a dime, Dillenger would trace it and haul her in to testify. She knew you saw that seat belt recall—she brought the mail in every day, and I should have remembered and not let you drive the damn car. But Nikki was also the last person to see Noah Butler alive before he got in the car with you. Do you really want her to relive that day?”

Michelle shivered. “It must have been horrible.”

He nodded. “It's better for you, too, Michelle. No matter what happened that morning, Nikki's words will be used against you. Do you understand? She's an emotional girl. There are hundreds of millions of dollars at stake for the car company. One of us could go down.”

He took off his apron and tossed it on the counter. “But none of that would matter if I knew she wanted to come home. She went to a lot of trouble to get that Internet voice mail I couldn't trace. And to use prepaid burner phones to leave us messages. And to mail you bogus postcards of Australia. So the only thing I do know—and you know it, too, from the recording on the get well card—is that she doesn't want to see you.”

Michelle's chest clutched. “She's young. She doesn't know what she wants.”

Drew went to the doorway with the pancakes. “Then give her time.”

“Time?” Michelle shouted after him. “It's been forever!” She grabbed the spatula and threw it at him. It clattered to the linoleum floor as he left.

After a moment, Michelle picked up the spatula and tossed it in the sink. She drifted out to the dinner table and pulled the divorce papers from her purse. She signed her name perfectly, then waited for Drew.

“Do you think I'm guilty?”

He met her eyes and hesitated. “Does it matter?”

Michelle realized that it didn't. And that hurt more than any answer. She tore off her Mother's Day corsage and left a trail of white petals all the way to the door. Drew picked up the I ♥ NY pennant and caught up with her.

“That's for Tyler,” Michelle said. She took a long, last look at her husband, who no longer fit that description. “I hate New York.”

***

Floor numbers flashed in the elevator like the bright lights of a migraine. Michelle could barely breathe. She rushed out of the building into the blast of exhaust fumes and humanity, then collapsed on a grimy bench where the world blurred into colors around her. Buses screeched, horns honked, and people shouted until her ears split. For the first time, she understood her mother's craving for white light and the numb promise of peace. Instead, sirens screamed past. They were calling her name.

Workmen removing the Palmer Clinic sign from the building whistled as Michelle emerged from her car. She waved her bottle of champagne, then hurried across the parking lot past Wes's nurse, who carried out a box of pictures and potted plants.

“Am I too late?” Michelle asked.

“Only if you wanted a cupcake,” Bree said. She waved good-bye.

Wes was on the phone when Michelle banged through the swinging doors of the treatment room. The weight machines were gone, but a few examination tables remained between storage boxes, and the aquariums still gurgled against the wall. The doctor's jacket was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and his tie hung loose from his neck. While she waited for the call to end, Michelle walked over to the creatures that inspired his research.

The spiny arms of the coral starfish stuck out at odd angles in the aquarium. Michelle leaned over the top to see it clinging to a large rock. She held her own arm in commiseration, wondering if Wes would notice how her first laser treatment had begun to lighten her scars. She heard him promise someone he'd be home for dinner, then he hung up.

“Congratulations,” she called.

“Thanks. This grant was such a long shot, I can't believe I got it.”

“I can. Shall I put on a smock for my last exam?”

He surveyed the boxes and shrugged. “How about a quickie with your clothes on? So to speak.”

Michelle blushed. “So what's the deal with your starfish?”

Wes turned the music back up and met her at the tank. “First of all, it's a sea star, part of the same echinoderm family as starfish, but in the asteroidean genus.”

“I'm starting to believe the whole geek thing. No wonder you got beat up.”

Wes looked up and grinned.

Michelle realized she was flirting and focused back on the sea star. A hard shell covered the top as well as the soft underbelly. She watched Wes poke at the creature, until it edged out from behind the rock. The hidden arm ended in a stump.

“Is this the one you showed me a few months ago? That lost its arm?”

“Even better,” Wes said. “This is the arm. It regenerated an entire body.”

“Creepy,” Michelle said.

“No, genetic genius. Got to love a survivor.” He turned to face Michelle. “Speaking of which, have you practiced with the manipulatives?”

She nodded, afraid to admit how many days she'd languished in bed doing little else since returning from New York.

“Let's have a look,” he said, opening her file. Michelle spied the postcards she'd sent taped inside: the Maui sunset, the Key West sunrise, and Central Park in New York. “If I knew you were going to save those, I'd have written more than a weather report.”

“No need,” Wes said, pointing his Star Trek pen at her signatures. “Plenty here to track your progress.”

Michelle dug the nesting dolls out of her purse and set them on the closest table. The head of the outer doll was wide enough to hold easily now, so she set it aside. She slowly grasped the second doll, heavy with the smaller dolls inside, and raised it up out of the larger base. Then, finally, she joined the large head to the painted tutu to make one complete doll.

“Nice work,” Wes said, jotting a note in her file.

Michelle tackled the second doll by pretending her hand was the steel claw in the stuffed toy machine at Denny's where Tyler had lost so many quarters over the years. Her arm shook as she lifted the head off and set it down, then pulled out the inner doll and set it aside. Wes nodded. She took a deep breath, rubbed her sore arm, and looked at the third one. She used her left arm to support her weak right arm so she could aim her hand better. After a few tries, she managed to knock it over so that her right hand could at least scoop up the inside doll and set it down beside the others. She turned to him, her arm shaking.

“Keep going.”

Michelle wiped her damp forehead with her arm, then considered the fourth doll. This one was thinner, more proportionate to Elyse, the real-life model. And with its yellow chignon, blue eyes, and blue tutu, it really did resemble her. Michelle shook her head no.

Wes traced the seam that cut across the smaller ballerina's painted corset. “Come on. There's another inside.”

“Not anymore,” she said. “Must have gotten lost at the hospital.”

He looked inside the empty doll. “Okay, then, put them back together.”

“Didn't you say on the phone you were on your way out?”

“That can wait. This is for your insurance company. Your radial dexterity is impressive.” He looked underneath the large doll. “Who makes these?”

“Russian artisans. This one was painted for my mother before I was born.”

“She's a ballerina?”

“Was,” Michelle said, rubbing her arm.

“The blue dress is from the tragic Giselle, right? I saw the Bolshoi at UCLA a few weeks ago.”

“Hot date?” Michelle asked.

“Smoking,” he chuckled. “Mother's Day.”

“That is tragic,” she teased.

“That was her on the phone tempting me with her famous pot roast.”

Michelle began putting the dolls back together. “My mother doesn't cook, but in the ballet world, she was famous for her Giselle. She was Giselle. Even at home.”

“At home?”

Michelle shrugged. “Except at home, she used pills instead of a sword.”

“I thought Giselle died of a broken heart.”

“Suicide.” Michelle tried to put the third doll back into the bottom, but it slipped. “Giselle would have gotten over it if there hadn't been a sword handy. Didn't you see the male dancers bury her
outside
the church walls?”

“I was watching the maidens,” Wes admitted. “But I met your mother in the hospital. She seemed charming…And very much alive.”

“Purely by accident,” Michelle said.

“Didn't you once tell me you don't believe in accidents?”

“Did I?” Michelle's face clouded at the thought.

“In any case, if I'd known, I'd have invited you, to explain the story. But I gathered from the New York postmark that you were busy.”

“Yes. Signing divorce papers.” Michelle set the doll's head down properly. “It's been a horrible month. But I finally understand what my mother went through.”

Wes stacked the rest of the dolls for her. “How are you feeling now?”

“I could use a drink,” Michelle admitted, nodding at the champagne. He retrieved the bottle she brought and twisted the cork out with a pop. He filled two leftover party cups.

“To your grant,” she toasted.

“To a full recovery,” he said. They both drank.

“That's a good word for it,” Michelle said. “Even with the trial coming up, I have this odd sense of relief about the end of my marriage. Drew traveled so much it was hard to feel connected. I really wanted us to make it, but…maybe only to prove we could.” She took a bigger sip.

“To closure, then,” Wes said. “And a taxi ride home.”

She smiled, noticing the shadow of his beard and the weary droop of his shoulders. His musky smell had burned through his Irish Spring scent like a top note of cologne. She felt awkward for noticing and hotly aware of being alone with him. Now he was looking at her. She pushed her hair behind her shoulder and realized how much it had grown in two months. “What?”

“You look good,” he said.

She blushed. “You, too.”

“Thanks, but I meant—beautiful.” Then he seemed to catch himself and nodded at the white silk blouse tucked into her pencil skirt. “You've gained some weight back.”

Michelle nodded. The room shrunk around them. They looked away from each other, as if surveying the space. Wes fumbled with the stethoscope beneath his loosened tie. “We should finish your exam.”

“Your mother's waiting,” Michelle agreed. She had goose bumps, but it wasn't from the air conditioning.

Wes pressed the stethoscope against her back. The cool disk tickled through the thin silk of her blouse, but warmed quickly. She felt his moist breath and smelled his perspiration as he leaned close to listen. He tilted his head, brows furrowed in concentration as he moved the stethoscope around in circles. She felt her heart pound, but apparently he didn't. He dropped the stethoscope and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

Michelle was nervous. She fought the urge to kiss him. “Mind if I sit down? My legs feel like noodles—probably from the champagne.”

He helped her up to the padded table to sit facing him. Her long legs made it hard for him to reach, so she tugged her skirt up just enough to spread her legs and let him lean between them.

“This is awkward.”

“I'm still a doctor, Michelle.”

“Am I still your patient?”

“For a few minutes, until I finish your file.” He slid two fingers to the side of her neck.

He was so close she could see the tuft of hair erupting from his collar, the bristles on his chin, and the intensity in his eyes as they widened. “What's wrong?”

She followed his gaze to the lace band of her thigh high stockings.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to put on pantyhose with one hand? These are easier.”

“I don't mind; it's just making my pulse sound louder than yours,” he said, chuckling. He looked around. “No idea where we packed the thermometer.”

She couldn't resist. “When my kids were little, I used to kiss their foreheads to check it.”

“My mother did that too,” he said. “But it's not professional.”

“Maybe not.” She looked up at him and held her breath.

He traced the small scar on her forehead, then pressed his lips against it. “You are a little warm,” he said, standing back up and placing the stethoscope against her silk-covered back. “Breathe.”

She tried. But as he leaned forward, his belt buckle dug into her belly. She could feel the hardness beneath it and sat up. Now, she could barely breathe at all. Every light in the room seemed to flicker and die. Her skin prickled with heat. It wasn't until the music came to an abrupt stop that she realized the power had shut off. She looked around. “What was that?”

“The end of our lease,” he said. “Utilities were included.” He turned and looked at the silent aquariums with concern. A loud boom sounded, then bubbles rose against the glass as they hummed back to life. The lights remained off. Wes apologized to Michelle. “I only have the one generator.”

Michelle smiled as the late sun streamed in through the window, basking the room in a warm glow. The music, on the same electrical circuit as the aquariums, created a soothing background. “At least you have your priorities straight.”

“Shall we finish before it gets too dark?” He placed the stethoscope inside her wrist. Then, he placed it just under her pearls, against her breastbone. The top button of her blouse was in the way, so she reached up to unbutton it. She felt the metal slide against her skin as the silky fabric slipped, revealing the red lace edge of her bra. He cleared his throat. “Your scars are fading nicely.”

“Thank you,” Michelle said, looking down at the vivid contrast of her pale skin against her lingerie. She'd worn red to help her feel bold enough to ask him to be her character witness. Whatever else it got her was icing on the cake. Michelle smiled, surprised at her own daring thoughts. When she looked up, he was still staring at the red lace cupping her breast. “I mean, yes, the scars are lighter. Are you going to make a note?”

He did. “Need help buttoning up?”

“No.” She fiddled with a button, then looked up slowly. “You were right, I'm feeling quite warm.”

“Is that so?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

Hallelujah, Michelle thought. She'd never acted so brazenly before, but what did she have to lose? Julie had been wrong, not only about Drew, but about the fact that this man—this handsome, brilliant, total babe of a doctor—cared about her. And not just as a patient.

Michelle unbuttoned the next button, and the next, until his eyes widened at the full bloom of her breast. “Do you want to make another note?”

He put his pen down. “I'm done making notes.”

“So you're not officially my doctor anymore?”

“No,” he said. Then he kissed her. Tentatively at first, then deeply. He pulled back and raised his eyebrows, giving voice to the question hovering between them.

Michelle felt moisture behind her neck, beneath her arms, between her legs. “Go on,” she whispered.

He pushed her blouse from her shoulders and swept his lips across her neck. He slid the red satin strap off her left shoulder, looked down at her breast, then looked up slowly and smiled. “You're absolutely gorgeous.” Then he licked her nipple.

Michelle whimpered. After a moment, she lifted his chin back up and kissed around his lips until she could feel the ridge of whiskers. Then she bit him. He kept kissing her, sucking her tongue into his mouth. She pulled away in surprise. Then she reached out and ripped his shirt open, until she could see his chest muscles etched by the streaming moonlight. She wanted to see more.

She wrapped her legs around him, then traced the buckle of his belt until he yanked it open. He kissed her again. She felt his strong grip around her thighs, his kisses on her neck, and his breath in her ear until she couldn't bear it any longer. She arched back and pulled his hips closer. He looked into her eyes and pulled off her panties achingly slow.

She felt the cold rush of air, then the heat of the moment, the world gone dark, as he pushed her back on the table and pressed himself inside her with one strong plunge. She moaned at the shock of it. His strong hands clamped her hips, and for a moment he held himself still, pressed all the way up inside her. He began moving above her, slowly at first, then faster, until he was driving himself into her like he was out of his mind. She cried out, wanting more, but not wanting it to end. She placed her hand on his hips and locked her eyes with his.