Dead Wrong (3 page)

Chapter 4

“Lavinia Esposito,” she called with her half-glasses tipped midway down the bridge of an elongated nose set in the center of her horsey face. Gray streaked hair scraped back in a tortoise shell barrette at the nape of her neck completed her austere appearance. Nurse Crisp glared around the room with the imperious expression I'd come to know and abhor.

After a few visits to this loathsome physical therapy clinic, you'd have thought Crisp would recognize me. Right? After all, how many people have a hanger like Lavinia? Not many, I assure you. Why the attending physician had considered this a four-star rehab facility escaped me.

Long crutches stretched out on the chair beside mine. This added nuisance to my life brought home the fact that I needed to make serious progress. The Christmas season loomed on the horizon and with crutches, how would I shop till I dropped? Grasping the crutches, I slung them under my armpits and hauled my butt from the chair to cross the floor. Progress, that's the reason I kept these appointments and tolerated Crisp's superior attitude.

Arched brows – drawn on with a dark pencil – accentuated Nurse Crisp's snooty glare. My glance wandered over the starched white lab coat covering her ramrod figure. Beneath the lab coat she draped herself in a pristine uniform that didn't dare wrinkle. The crisply starched hat perched atop the graying head said she was from the old school. White stockings and tie shoes confirmed my conclusion.

She edged aside as I hobbled past, moving toward the torture chamber down the corridor. Beads of sweat gathered on my brow at the thought of how I'd be abused by the therapist – again.

God had decided to punish me, that's all. I'd earned this comeuppance from all those white lies and lies by omission I'd told. Yep, I just knew it. All the Hail Marys in Rhode Island wouldn't help me avoid this. I'd have to suffer the consequences of my sins – that's all there was to it.

I also blamed Gina and Cara for the unfortunate predicament I now found myself in. The bicycle race had been their idea, after all.

Wide doors swung open on creaky hinges, and I hitched through into the room beyond. The torturous equipment lay spread around the room forming the letter “C”. I knew by the time I reached the final rack, I'd be toast. My knee throbbed at the mere thought of what I would go through in the next hour.

Stanley Gristle, the physical therapist, stood ready and waiting to inflict as much pain as he could. Usually, I slugged anyone for that. In this case, I had little choice but to put up with the agony. He smiled, maybe because he welcomed me or maybe because he relished the fact he could hurt someone. I didn't know.

While I'm slim and trim – other than my breast size, that is – Stan's girth spread far and wide, above and below his belt. Now that's attractive – ya think? Hung from plump arms he had ham hocks for hands with sausage-like fingers. The man might strive for gentleness, but he didn't quite make it.

His goateed face held the lingering smile. Black, rectangular-framed glasses enlarged his pale eyes. He blushed crimson whenever we made contact – and to be frank here – it grossed me right out. Again, God's wrath flicked through my mind.

“Just step over here, Ms. Esposito, and we'll get started.” He swept the crutches from my hands, and I wavered in an effort to stay upright.

My right knee bore the weight of my body while I favored the left. Bruised cartilage and strained muscles rounded the back of my leg. I glanced at the light-skinned face before me and asked, “We're not dancing with the stars yet, are we? And please call me Vinnie, okay?”

Color flamed his cheeks as he nodded and clasped my arm.

“We're going to stretch that leg and then work out the kinks. You'll feel better. You're making great progress,” he said with a confidence that escaped me.

Whenever the term “we” is used, it's usually because their half of the we is not on the receiving end of things. Don't you just hate that?

“Do you dance, Ms., uh, Vinnie?” He eyed me and pulled the leg forward to stretch muscles that already screamed for help.

“Not often.” I grunted. “I usually run three or four miles a day and kickbox for fun.” A grimace squinched my face. I'd have permanent wrinkles at this rate.

“How did this injury occur?” Gristle asked as he applied pressure to the sensitive area behind my knee.

“Ow! That hurts, ya know,” I bellowed at him.

Gristle nodded, but it made no difference. He just continued to inflict pain where it all ready existed.

I repeated the story one more time. After the first few visits, I'd explained the mishap often enough that he should have had it down pat. It occurred to me that he wanted my lips flapping to keep my mind off his torture routine. Well, think again, buddy.

He dragged me to my feet. I winced when he forced me to apply pressure to the leg. His hammy hand lay upon my arm to avoid my collapse.

I peered through a haze of agony and asked, “What's next?”

Stan motioned me onto the adjacent machine. I settled on the leg press.

“How many visits did you say I'd need?” Desperation laced my voice as I glanced around at the dilapidated and disgusting facility. It needed an overhaul and so did the staff.

Gristle answered my question while he cheered me on. Maybe he thought I needed a personal trainer. It wouldn't be him for sure.

“Several more visits ought to do it. The medical coverage you have is excellent, so you needn't worry about the cost. You'll feel like new within a short time.”

Now, I know he meant to reassure me, but contemplating a few more weeks of this crap almost sent me over the edge.

A wide grin – meant to allay my fears, I guessed – showed a gap between his two front teeth, wide enough to hold a piece of Chiclets gum. It would fit just right. I smiled back and his face turned crimson.

“So, twins run in your family, huh?” he asked, urging me to do another few reps on the machine.

“Yeah, I have a twin brother, Giovanni. He's a doctor.” I glanced up when he stiffened. The smile disappeared and something else took its place. I'm not sure what it was.

“Uh, it must be nice to have a doctor in the family,” Stan mumbled as we moved to the next torture rack.

“You'd think so.” His attitude piqued my curiosity. I can tell you right now, that's a dangerous thing because my curiosity manages to keep me in trouble a lot of the time.

No further questions came forth. Stanley remained subdued while I finished the circuit of therapy equipment. My curious mind rolled along on its own track as I wondered what brought this sudden change over the man.

An ice pack soothed the muscles in my leg, upon completion of the workout. Ten minutes later, the ice pack was replaced with heat. He repeated this twice more before he muttered that I should schedule my next treatment. The change in him couldn't have been more obvious. His usual babbling had changed to a withdrawn, thoughtful demeanor in a matter of seconds. All because I'd spoken of my twin brother. Doesn't that beat all?

Nosiness is inherent in my family. My aunt and several cousins suffer from it. I consider mine a gift from God. My friends, along with Marcus and Aaron, don't quite view it the same way.

With the crutches grasped tight under my armpits, I hitched across the room and down the corridor toward the front desk. At the doorway, I glanced back to find Gristle staring at my retreating figure with an odd expression on his face. I waggled my fingertips toward him but moved on when he failed to respond. I must be losing my touch. Whatever had caused this sudden change? I didn't know, but I decided to find out.

The counter loomed to my left, a horse-shoe shaped affair. Covered as it was with years of grime, I hesitated to set my purse on it. Old, sweaty grime, I thought as my stomach heaved a bit.

Nurse Crisp glared and slid the new appointment card across the surface toward me. Next, I signed a form that she whipped out from under my fingertips before I could read more than the first sentence.

My brow arched in her direction, and I opened my mouth to say something testy. The door to the unit swung open as Marcus stepped inside.

“Are you ready, Vin?” he called across the empty expanse.

“Yeah, wait a sec,” I said and slid the appointment card into my jacket pocket.

With a snooty glare at Crisp, I turned away and left the building in Marcus's care. After Marcus assisted me into the pickup truck, he strode around to the driver's side. The Dodge Ram truck rode smooth as silk as he pulled away from the curb, heading toward my parents' house – and dinner.

He was dressed in street clothes so I assumed Marcus had the evening off. My gaze traveled the superb body, ending with a study of his craggy features. Cropped brown hair snuggled close to his scalp. Blood rushed to my lower parts as he glanced at me and winked, a rakish smile on his lips.

“Why did you come for me, instead of my mother?” I asked with a grin.

“She's preparing a casserole, so I offered to make the trip. It's really no bother.”

“Yeah, right, as long as you get some of the casserole, huh?” I chuckled.

He grinned, and I laughed out loud. I eased my left leg out in front of me. The ache subsided now that my session had ended. Anxious to be mobile again, I considered the treatments as a bridge to cross. Not a great analogy, but all I could manage at the moment.

“Marcus, do you know anything about this clinic? Has anyone you know gone there?” Subtlety is not my forte.

Hazel green eyes slanted toward me and then back to the road. “Vinnie, I know you ask this question not out of innocent curiosity, but with a purpose in mind. What are you up to now?”

“Nothing. I just wonder why the doc sent me to this rattrap to be treated by people with personality disorders. That's all.” I hedged, leery of venting my real purpose for the question.

A snort of disbelief issued from Marcus as he held back laughter.

With round, wide eyes, I stared at him. “What? Don't you believe me?”

“Uh, no.” He smirked.

Silent, I sat back for a few seconds.

“You didn't answer the question,” I said.

“No, Vin, I don't know anyone who has gone there. Nor do I know anything about that clinic other than what I saw just now. Kind of a crummy place, isn't it?” he asked with a sidelong glance. “What's the name of the doctor that sent you there?”

“After I collided with the bikers, the twins put me into the car and took me to one of those free-standing clinics in the neighborhood where Gina works. The guy who checked my knee was named, um, uh, ya know…. I'm not sure. Kawackne or something like that, I think. Anyway, he recommended I go to this place for rehab.”

His head wagged back and forth and a sigh came from him. “Didn't you go to your own physician?”

“I only have a gynecologist, and getting an appointment with her is a three-month wait. Besides, she only deals with women's innards. She's not a sports doctor.”

The truck slowed and Marcus parked at the end of the driveway. My father's car sat in the open garage, while my mother's Subaru wagon and my Nissan Altima took up the other two spaces. The very small yard was full to capacity, and the Dodge Ram truck hung out on the edge of the street a bit.

With his hands on my waist, I slid from the truck to the ground into Marcus's arms. Although I was capable of standing, it felt good to have his firm hands on me. Warm hazel green eyes held mine, and a tiny grin twisted the corners of his lips. My temperature hiked when he touched me. I smiled at him – warmly.

“Are you grinning over the casserole or at me?” I asked.

“Both, actually. Dinner and dessert, you know?” He handed the crutches to me and waited while I maneuvered the walkway.

I gimped into the house and slid onto a kitchen chair. The smell of apple pie mingled with that of shepherd's pie. My mouth watered, and I waited with anticipation to begin the feast. Marcus chuckled, but he said nothing until my father ambled into the room.

“Vinnie is considering an investigation into the rehab center she's attending,” Marcus said. “What do you think, Mr. Esposito?”

I glared at Marcus and then took in my father's grimace. Dang, here it comes.

“Why would you do that, Lavinia?” my father asked in a calm voice.

Hmm, when he was calm, I got nervous. When he yelled, I was fine. It was a pattern, no doubt about it.

Leery of answering, I kicked Marcus under the table and watched him chuckle. Shit-head.

I turned toward my father who sat across from me and said, “I simply asked if Marcus knew of anyone else who had attended the place for therapy, that's all. He's just being a twit.”

“Huh.” Dad grunted. “Don't go pokin' your nose where it doesn't belong. You always manage to end up the worse for wear.”

I nodded and then held my plate up for a serving of dinner.

The meal was divine, of course, since my parents could cook shoe leather and make it appealing. I ate two slices of pie for dessert and sat back, loosening my pants' button. I hadn't reached into the dish for crumbs, but my father waited, the knife handle at the ready. I smiled and sipped my coffee.

“I still think there's something fishy about the clinic. You know, there's hardly anyone there when I go, and the staff is limited, very limited. There's the dragon nurse and the therapist, that's it.”

Mom glanced around the table as she rose to clear the dishes. Marcus assisted with the job and left me to my father.

“If you have some issues with the place, ask to be transferred to another center. Don't stick your nose into anyone's affairs. I'm telling you this for your own good, Lavinia.”

“Yes, Dad. I hear you.”

“Mmm. But are you listening?” he asked.

“I am. I really am.” My fingers were crossed under the table, so any promise I might make wouldn't count.