Pickin Clover (14 page)

“Okay.” Her stomach ached all of a sudden. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you, then.”

“Don’t wait up, love. I’ve got house calls to make when I’m done here.”

Polly pressed the button that disconnected the call and slowly tucked the phone back in her bag. She stared at her mother’s house, resplendent in its new paint. As of tomorrow she’d be out of a job. Because of their finances, there was no way she could return to the pattern of spending her days driving around the city, visiting boutiques and shopping malls. Neither could she stay at home. The very thought of being there alone, hour after hour, day after day, with nothing to attend to, made her tremble. What on earth was she going to do with the rest of her life?

In spite of being physically exhausted, Polly slept badly that night. At three in the morning she awoke from a panicked dream in which she was locked in a windowless room, terrified because some nameless, dreaded danger was almost upon her. Realizing that Michael wasn’t in bed beside her, and feeling lost and desolate, she got up and pulled on a cotton robe and then made her way downstairs.

A light was on in the den. Polly pushed the half opened door wide. Michael was slumped on the leather sofa, wearing a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, staring at the television, where an old black and white movie flickered soundlessly across the screen. He wasn’t paying any attention to it. He seemed lost in thought, his expression unbearably sad.

CHAPTER TEN

“Michael?” Polly stepped into the room. “What’s wrong?”

Startled out of his reverie, he mustered a smile and reached out a hand to his wife, then pulled her down beside him on the sofa and looped an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, I was just thinking about a patient. Can’t sleep, love?”

“Nope. Bad dreams. You, too?”

“I haven’t been to bed yet.”

She frowned at him. “It’s three in the morning and you get up at six. That’s crazy, Michael. You can’t work as hard as you’re doing and not sleep.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you worrying about money?”

“No, Pol, I’m not.” He’d been thinking about Duncan Hendricks. The boy had been in his office that afternoon. Something about Duncan made it impossible for Michael to maintain any objectivity.

The boy was totally open, trusting, absolutely confident he’d soon get better, and that perfect faith was Michael’s undoing, just as it was Sophie’s. The course of radiation was done, and although at the moment Duncan was still experiencing mild seizures and acute nausea, he should soon improve.

Temporarily. Duncan would die. It was only a matter of time. And each minute of his dying would bring memories of Susannah, making Michael feel as though he were trapped in some bizarre time warp, fated to live the worst moments of his life over and over.

“What are you watching?” Polly’s question brought him out of his reverie.

He peered at the screen. “I don’t know. Isn’t that Bette Davis?” He hadn’t consciously realized the television was on.

Polly reached for the remote and clicked it off, then turned so she was looking straight at him. “I want to talk about us, Michael. I’ve been putting if off, waiting for the right moment, but it never comes. Something’s wrong between us and it’s getting worse all the time.”

He began to protest, but she put a finger on his lips, silencing him. “We don’t communicate anymore. I hardly ever see you. You come to bed after I’m asleep and you’re gone when I get up. We don’t make love. I...I actually feel at times as if you’re avoiding me. Are you avoiding me, Michael?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Polly.” He could feel tension flood through his body. He was irritated with her, and his voice reflected it. He didn’t need tins right now. “I told you I’d have to work longer and harder to get us out of this financial mess. And you’ve been busy, as well, painting over at Isabelle’s. We’re both dead tired by nighttime.”

“You’ve always been busy, yet we would talk three or four times during the day, no matter how rushed you were. You always had a second for me. You don’t anymore. And every time I want to talk about Susannah, you change the subject. If we can’t even talk about our daughter, what can we talk about, Michael?”

She paused, and he thought of Duncan. He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t explain that it was his own inadequacy he couldn’t speak of.

When he didn’t say anything, she gave a weary sigh. “I know you’ve always refused, but now I’m asking you again. Won’t you come with me and talk to Frannie? I really feel we need some counseling, and I trust her.”

Exasperation and exhaustion made him short-tempered. “I’m not going to Frannie Sullivan. I know she’s been wonderful for you, and I’m grateful, but just because something’s right for you doesn’t make it right for me. People deal with grief in different ways. I’m sure she’s told you that.”

He was really angry now, and he moved his arm from around her shoulders and shifted his body back from hers so they weren’t touching. An almost overwhelming urge to get away came over him, but at three in the morning, there was nowhere to go, no way to avoid these things he didn’t want to hear or think about. And she was persisting, even when he’d made it plain he wanted the conversation to end.

“I know from Frannie that sometimes people don’t deal with grief at all, Michael,” she went on. “They lock it away somewhere inside and it ruins their lives. I feel as if that’s what you’re doing, and in the process you’re separating yourself from me and refusing to see what’s happening to our marriage.”

He swore under his breath. “Stop psychoanalyzing me. You keep on and on about our marriage, Polly. As far as I’m concerned, we’re doing okay.” He knew it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to Polly. “You’re being more than a little dramatic here, aren’t you?” He was aware the sarcastic accusation would inflame her, and it did.

She bolted to her feet and turned on him, hands on her hips, eyes flashing fire. “Don’t you dare speak to me in that condescending tone. I’m not being dramatic. I’m being honest, which seems to be something you’re incapable of these days.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I can’t reason with you anymore. You won’t agree to counseling. You...you make me so mad I don’t even want to talk to you.” She scrambled to her feet and ran out the door, and he knew she was crying.

He slumped back on the sofa and told himself he didn’t care. He wanted her only to leave him in peace, he assured himself. If her anger was the price, he’d pay it. But he couldn’t sit there any longer, and going to bed was out of the question now.

He got up and rummaged around until he found his track shoes in the back of the hall closet. He pulled them on and slipped quietly out the front door.

It was raining, not a true Vancouver downpour but a gray drizzle. The street lamps made an eerie, hissing sound; the other houses on the street were dark and silent. He hadn’t run in months, and his muscles and lungs protested before he’d gone two blocks, but he kept on, long after he was gasping for breath and soaked to the skin.

Common sense told him this was how men had heart attacks. At the very least, he’d be miserably sore for days, exhausted when he had to leave for work in the morning, now only a few hours away. But he went doggedly on, and the physical pain brought a mental oblivion he welcomed.

By the time Polly managed to drag herself from a drugged sleep the following morning, Michael was already gone. He hadn’t slept beside her; she assumed he’d used the spare bedroom. A sense of utter desolation overcame her when she reviewed in her mind what had happened between them. It was painfully obvious Michael wasn’t willing to do any of the things she felt wore necessary to improve their relationship. And she couldn’t go on much longer with things the way they were.

Did that mean their marriage was over? It was the first time Polly had allowed herself even to consider separation.

She stood under a hot shower until the pain in her head eased. She didn’t want to go to her mother’s house; she didn’t feel like celebrating with Jerome. But the hours loomed empty and aimless at home. Going to her mother’s would at least fill part of the day.

A glance out the window confirmed that although it had rained in the night, the sun was out again. The last of the painting could go ahead.

When Polly arrived at Isabelle’s, the extension ladder was up and Jerome was already at work, balanced on the scaffold.

Clover pedaled a battered tricycle back and forth across the backyard. Polly smiled at her and said hi, but as usual, the girl didn’t respond.

“Morning,” Jerome called in a cheery tone. “Thought I’d get this out of the way before we got going on that final wall.”

“I’ll start the second coat there.” Polly pulled on her gloves and found her paint can and brush, then made her way around the corner to the side of the house where the final bit of painting would complete the job. She dipped her brush in the paint and began the long, even strokes that were automatic now. She could hear the radio in her mother’s kitchen blasting out a Western tune, and a dog down the block barked monotonously. She hoped Jerome would finish soon so he’d come and work beside her and they could talk. She desperately needed conversation this morning, something that would occupy her mind so she didn’t think every moment about her husband and her marriage.

Cold fear filled her stomach each time she remembered Michael’s reaction the previous night. He hadn’t acknowledged a single thing she’d said; it was as if he no longer cared enough even to try to find a solution to their problems. Her heart ached in an entirely new way when she considered his indifference. What was wrong with them? Had Susannah’s death signaled the death of their love for each other?

Sick at heart, she paid little attention at first to the sound of Jerome talking to his daughter in the kind, reasonable way he always did.

“Clover, please don’t ride into the alley on your bike. Trucks drive there and they might not see you, okay, honey?”

Polly went on painting, trying to stop worrying about her and Michael, thinking vaguely how much she’d love a cup of coffee. She hadn’t had any appetite for breakfast. She’d just finish this portion, she decided, then go in and have a cup of Isabelle’s strong brew.

“Clover, get back in the yard.” Jerome’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp. “Clover, get back here. There’s a truck coming...”

Real alarm was in his voice. Knowing he was up on the scaffold, Polly hastily put down her brush.

“I’ll get her,” she called, but as she moved around the comer to the backyard, she heard the awful sound of the ladder sliding across the wall.

She heard Jerome cry out, and just as she rounded the comer, the ladder hit the ground with an earsplitting clang.

“Jerome,” Polly hollered, watching him fall, feeling as if she were trapped in a nightmare.

He hit the ground hard, landing on his side, and he screamed, a shrill animal sound that sent shivers of horror through Polly.

“Jerome. Jerome, oh, my God.” Polly knelt beside him.

His face was contorted with pain and he was struggling for breath, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him. He writhed, and Polly gasped. It was obvious his right thigh bone was broken. Blood stained his pant leg.

“Oh, my Lord, I heard the ladder go. Is he hurt bad?” Isabelle came hurrying down the back stairs.

“Go call 911. Hurry, he’s broken his leg. And then bring out a blanket.” Polly whipped off her sweatshirt and tucked it around Jerome’s shoulders and upper body, trying desperately to remember what else she ought to do for shock.

She was a doctor’s wife. How could she know so little first aid? The only thing she was sure of was that Jerome needed to be kept warm and shouldn’t be moved.

Isabelle ran into the house, and Jerome somehow drew in a breath, but the sound that came from him when he released it was one of pure agony.

He gritted his teeth. “Clover?” he managed to groan.

“Stay absolutely still. I’ll get her.” Polly, trembling hard, staggered to her feet, then immediately saw the child, just coming through the back gate on her tricycle. Clover pedaled over to where Jerome lay, going slower and slower the closer she came, eyes riveted on her father.

“Daddy? Get up, Daddy.” Her face contorted. “Daddy? Get up, okay?” She burst into noisy tears.

Jerome’s face showed his torture. He tried to respond to Clover, but the effort was clearly beyond him. Polly could see him making an effort not to moan so as not to frighten his daughter, but the pain must have been overwhelming, because the sounds that escaped him were anguished.

“Clover, honey, don’t be scared,” Polly said, trying to put her arms around the little girl. Clover struck out at her, and Polly had to let her go.

“Don’t cry. Your daddy’s hurt his leg. The ambulance is coining right away and the men on it will help him," she babbled.

Isabelle came hurrying back outside, a plaid blanket over her arm. “They’ll be here in a couple of minutes. They said don’t move him and keep him warm.”

Together, she and Polly cautiously tucked the blanket around Jerome. His face was ashen and his lips had a bluish tinge, and he had black bags under his eyes, like bruises. Although his face was covered in sweat, he was shivering. Again, he struggled to speak, making several attempts before he could get the words out.