Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) (20 page)

I awoke to a familiar, white-tiled ceiling and pink curtains around my bed. Even as my eyes opened and took in the room, vivid images remained in my mind, and their resonance shot white-hot panic through me. A slim, short Native American in a clunky headdress and tall buckskin moccasins stood pointing after a bald man running with Valentina under his tattooed arm. Tall evergreen trees loomed behind them.

“Go after her,” the Indian said, the words a little cloud of fog in the air.

I stopped to look at the Indian again. I couldn’t help it. It was just so odd. The Indian’s body was painted white and he wore a mask that looked like it was made of real animal hide, down to the animal ears protruding in front of the headdress.

“Go,” the Indian shouted, and this time I ran, but it was too late. A bull thundered between us and barreled straight at me.

“Valentina!” My voice came out hoarse and thin. I tried to sit up.

A hand pushed my shoulder down. “Emily, you’re in the recovery room, at the hospital. It’s okay.” I knew the voice, but its words made things worse.

“Wallace, the Indian tried to send me after Valentina, but now I can’t see her. Where is she? Where did she go?”

“You’re dreaming. You need to be still so you don’t hurt yourself.”

I rolled my head to face him, pleading. “But it was real. She was here. She was . . .”

My voice trailed off as I tried to explain to Wallace where I’d seen her, but the images had slipped away. I didn’t know where she was anymore. Valentina was gone. I dropped my head to the pillow.

He lifted my hand and squeezed it, then held on. “It was a nightmare,” he said. “It’s okay. You’ve just woken up in the hospital from surgery.”

I didn’t want to be in a hospital. I didn’t want surgery. I nodded and tried not to cry. It had been so real. I wanted it to be real.

A very short man with coarse salt and pepper hair on either side of a smooth cranium and face appeared behind Wallace. He looked Indian, as in from-the-country-of, and he had just the slightest hint of curry on him, like he’d lunched at My Thai. It cleared some of my haze.

“Ms. Bernal, you’re awake,” he said. “Good. I’m Dr. Patel, and I performed your surgery today.”

His cheerful voice and distinctly Indian accent seemed surreal in Southwest Hospital in Amarillo. “Thank you.”

“Well, I am pleased to report the operation was a complete success. Your hemorrhaging was getting much worse, quite dangerous to you, actually, and we were able to stop the bleeding.”

“My tube?”

His head bobbled right to left to right almost imperceptibly. “Yes, well, unfortunately we had to take out most of the tube to secure your recovery. There’s still a bit left, possibly enough that you might be able to become pregnant later, possibly not. I wish I could provide you with a more precise prognosis, but I can’t. There is reason for optimism, however, and I urge you to embrace it.”

Wallace squeezed my hand again. “This is good news, Emily,” he said. “The most important thing is that you will be fine.” He repeated himself, emphasizing the words: “The most important thing.”

I nodded, and I thought I heard myself say “Thank you” to the perky-voiced doctor as I stared at his blue scrubs. But, inside, I saw myself standing with my back to the edge of a swimming pool in a hotel where I’d seen a dead man sinking. I felt my body fall backward and hit the water. It was so soft and warm slipping over my skin. I sank below the surface and realized I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t scared.

As I sank, I whispered, “My baby and Valentina, both lost. And now I can never have another one. Just like my mother. Everything, lost.”

Dr. Patel’s singsong voice pulled me up, up, and out of the water. “Ms. Bernal, I need to verify that you understand what I just told you?”

I wanted to slip back under, and it irritated me that he interrupted. I spoke in a short voice. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

“You’ll need to see your own obstetrician in two weeks. The name was in your file, so we alerted her office about your situation and told them to expect your call.”

“Thank you.”

“You should stay here perhaps another half hour, then our staff will check you out to whoever will be driving you home.”

Wallace raised his hand. “That’s me.”

Heaven,
I thought.
Home is Heaven. Do you hear that, God? I’m going to Heaven.

“Very good. I’ll be sending you with a prescription for pain medication, if you need it. Please rest for twenty-four hours. After that, you may resume your normal activities, but please refrain from strenuous ones, including sexual intercourse, for several days.” He perched a pair of wire spectacles low on his nose and lifted an electronic tablet, his finger poised above it. “Do you have any other questions for me, Ms. Bernal?”

Water lapped against my chin again.

“No,” I whispered, before I let myself sink to the bottom.

***

I sat in the front seat of Wallace’s Altima and counted the Vicodin he’d picked up for me at the Target Pharmacy on Soncy Road. Six pills. I had enough to stay zonked for two days if I wanted to. Which I did. I looked at the clock on the dash: Five p.m.

Wallace buckled his seat belt. “It’s too soon for one now.”

“I know.” My phone dinged, so I checked my texts.

Nadine:
Harvey is here. Thought you should know.

Spit! And I was basically an invalid, unable to do anything about it. But not without a friend, one who was completely mobile.

“Wallace,” I said, “remember how I told you that my friend Nadine said Harvey Dulles is a regular at the Polo Club?”

“Vaguely. There’s been a lot going on.”

I watched him watch me out of my peripheral vision. Had I only met this amazing human a few days ago? Here he sat with his best Salvage jeans covered in my blood, driving me to Heaven through a brownout, halfway to New Mexico. And with me about to ask him for another favor.

A knock on the window startled me. I turned and saw the person craning for a clear view into the car.

“Gah,” I yelped. Out of the corner of my mouth, I gave Wallace the scoop. “ADA Melinda Stafford, who’s been a burr under my blanket since we were kids.” My voice dripped pique.

“Oh God, I hate that bitch,” Wallace said.

“Well, put on your happy face, because I know from excruciating experience that she’s not going anywhere.” I pressed the button to lower the window. Nothing happened.

“Let me turn the key.”

He did, and I tried again. The window slipped into the door.

Melinda wrapped her French manicured claws around the doorframe and leaned so far in she was almost in my lap. The wind and dirt followed her.

“Emily, I thought that was you,” she said. “How are you?”

“Fine. How are you Melinda?”

“I’m fantastic. I heard about you on the news just now. You’re famous.”

“I guess.” I conceded.

The Maria Delgado murder would be topping the hour tonight on the local stations. Jack had texted me that a camera crew and reporter had shown up at the offices. He hadn’t asked any questions other than if I was all right, for which I was grateful. And thank God I’d missed the reporters. Wallace and I had heard some coverage on the radio when we’d driven from the hospital to Target. They’d pronounced my name wrong—then again, everyone around here said BUR-nal instead of Bare-NAHL.

“So, that’s interesting that you’re working with Jack Holden.”

My headache was coming back. “Yep.”

She flicked lint I couldn’t see from the sleeve of her charcoal gray suit jacket. “Is he dating anyone? I’ve got this campaign fundraiser for my boss, black tie, and I need a date. I’ll bet Jack looks yummy in a tux.”

I heard a noise like a strangled cat from the driver’s seat. Melinda did, too, and she finally seemed to notice Wallace.

“Oh. Hello, Wallace.” She gestured back and forth between us. “I guess it makes sense that the two of you are friends.”

He put his hand over mine and pinched it, hard. “Hello, Melinda. And why is that?”

“Well, you know, Emily’s ex-husband, and, um, stuff.”

I lightly smacked Wallace’s hand and tried to block out her last words. Before I could think of a way to redirect her, she went on. “My goodness, Wallace, you are just covered in blood.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement, and she turned an eye for crime scenes on the inside of his car. “And you are, too, Emily. “

She reached in and snatched my prescription bottle from my hand. I wrested it back from her, but not quick enough to keep her from grasping the essentials.

“Yes, Dr. Patel, the surgeon, I’ve used him as an expert witness. Are you okay, Emily? Vicodin, that’s heavy stuff. What was it, were you injured at the scene where that woman was murdered? Or was it a car wreck?” She stood back and worked the car over with her eyes, looking for evidence.

I stuffed the pills in my handbag. “Female problems.”

Melinda put her hands back on the door, arms straight, shoulders high, face leaning in. She studied me like a chemistry experiment gone awry.

“You didn’t, Emily, surely you didn’t—I mean, I can hardly bear to say it, but you didn’t abort your baby, did you?”

My lips moved, but nothing came out. My hands flexed and closed into fists.

Wallace grabbed both of my wrists and leaned over me to yell at Melinda. “What in the world would make you think it’s okay to ask that question? Emily had a miscarriage yesterday and emergency surgery today. She could have died, and you march up here like the Morality Police? Who do you think you are?”

Melinda didn’t appear to realize she was getting her rear chewed, or at least she didn’t care if she did. She put a hand over her chest.

“Oh, I am so glad to hear you didn’t do that, Emily.” She patted my shoulder. “A miscarriage, huh? It’s for the best, I’m sure.”

I jerked my wrists away from Wallace, and with a quick twist to my right, I made room to draw my arm back. Then, in one diving lunge, I punched Melinda in the jaw, landing halfway out the window, with my sore gut across the door. It hurt my hand, my head, and my abdomen, but it made the rest of me feel so much better. I pulled myself back in, wincing.

Melinda squealed like a stuck pig and covered the side of her face.

Wallace banged the steering wheel with both hands. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

Over her histrionics and Wallace’s hysteria, I said, “It’s my legal right to choose, but I wanted this baby, and I’m heartbroken to have lost it.”

Melinda’s words came out muffled by her hand. “I think you broke my jaw!”

“Impossible. I had a terrible angle.”

She pointed at me. “I’m going to call the cops and have you charged for assault.”

I gave her my mother’s address. “Be sure you tell them how much Vicodin I’m on. I’ve only been in criminal law for a week, but from what I’ve learned, I’m pretty sure they’ll find I lacked the capacity to know right from wrong at the time my fist met your face.” I rolled up the window.

Wallace put the car in gear. “Holy shit,” he said again. “You just punched an ADA in the face.”

I smiled weakly. “I’ve wanted to do that since fourth grade.”

***

Dr. Patel hadn’t said a word about abstaining from alcohol, so I’d raided Mother’s box of white zinfandel again that night. Really, I hated the stuff and could barely get the first glass down without gagging, but the second was easier. I heard the door open, close, and lock when Mother got home. Wednesday nights are big church nights, but she was home early.

“Emily?” She whispered from outside my door. “Pastor Robb said he ran into you today, with the wrong kind of person. And then I heard about you on the news.” She increased her volume. “Emily? Are you okay, honey?”

Pastor Robb was one to talk. My light was out, so I stayed very still and didn’t answer. I didn’t have to tell her my news. If I did, she’d have it in the inbox of every member of Believers Church in seconds. I’d be mostly normal by tomorrow, anyway, so it wasn’t something she needed to worry about. Or worry
me
over.

I made my voice sound half asleep, which wasn’t hard. “Fine. Sleeping. Love you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Silence. She stood outside my door for a long time, then said. “Well, goodnight, then. I love you, too.”

I listened to her footsteps down the hall. I waited through the sounds of water in her bathroom and the click of her bedroom door closing. Then I tiptoed to the kitchen for a wine refill. When I was safely back in bed, I turned on the lamp and got out my phone.

A text message had come in while I was in the kitchen.

Wallace:
I can’t believe I skipped church tonight to come to The Polo Club.

Wallace:
I bought a drink for Harvey, using my gaydar-blocking super powers. Got him to talk about Spike’s death. Tried to bait him about Sofia. He didn’t bite.

Pfffffft. I typed fast:
Keep me posted. Hate feeling helpless.

Wallace:
Helpless? WTF, when I’m on the case? Go to sleep.

Fat chance I’d sleep, not with Western décor assaulting me from the outside and the ravages of my messed up life assaulting me from the inside. I took a slug of white zin. Another text came in, but it wasn’t Wallace. I swiped over to my Messages homepage.

It was Jack:
Worried about you.

It was crazy, because I’d swung up and down and through every emotion in my repertoire in the last day and a half, but this was the moment that made me sob like a child. My shoulders heaved, but I muffled my cries, scared of attracting Mother. Tears overflowed my eyes. Why did Jack have to go and turn out to be so damn kind? As many people as I had run into here that reminded me of the things I didn’t like about this place, I’d met that many more that gave me hope, like Jack, Wallace, and Nadine. The problem with hope, though, is that it sometimes reminds you of the reality that keeps you from feeling hopeful in the first place.

So here was my reality: I couldn’t have a baby. I tilted my wine glass up and drained the last drops from it.

Sure, the doctor had said I had a slim chance. What that really meant was that I had barely any chance at all, almost none, which always ended up meaning none. No hope of a father coming back. No hope of my husband wanting me. No hope of babies. Tears pooled below my nose. I was thirty years old, alone, broke, and barren, a cautionary tale to every rodeo queen who’d ever worn the sash.