Pickin Clover (2 page)

Polly had lied to the psych resident when he’d asked the same question, but she didn’t have the energy for lies now, so she told Frannie Sullivan the truth.

“Yeah. I planned it. I was going to do it today. Because I can’t go on. Don’t you understand, I don’t want to go on?”

Frannie’s manner may have been gentle, but she was direct “It’s been eleven days since your daughter’s death. What’s kept you safe until now?”

Michael? Michael was her safety net, or so she’d always believed. She’d waited so patiently through the endless days, waited for him to understand that she needed more than the few hours at night when he was there to hold her close; when, with the help of the medications he provided, she could sleep.

She’d believed he would come to understand that she needed him more than his patients did, needed him to stay with her, that she was in a dangerous and terrible place. But this morning when she’d struggled up out of drugged sleep and he was gone again, when she’d called his office and he wasn’t there, she’d stopped waiting.

She’d finally understood that Michael wasn’t going to be there for her, wasn’t going to help. He was going to walk out the door, leaving her alone to face the empty hours, the empty house, the empty room at the top of the stairs.

“Who do you have as support, Mrs. Forsythe? Who can you call on to help you through this? Is your mother alive, can you call on her? Do you have a sister you’re close to?”

“My mother’s alive, but she’s no help.” Frannie Sullivan obviously had no idea how utterly ridiculous it was to suggest Isabelle lend support to her daughter. Polly’s mother was and always had been so thoroughly self-absorbed she had nothing to offer anyone.

As for Polly’s sister, Norah... anger once again blazed inside her, the familiar anger of betrayal. “My sister’s busy with her own life.” The truth was, Norah didn’t have much of a life, no family, no husband, just her job as a nurse here at St. Joe’s. Which made it so much worse that Norah had deserted Polly.

Right after the funeral, Norah had left. For four days she hadn’t answered her phone or called to find out how Polly was. Then, when she came back from wherever she’d gone, she, too, went back to work.

Oh, she’d phoned during the past few days, asking if Polly needed anything, but she wasn’t available, not really.

Polly knew Norah had adored her niece, that she was grieving also, but Norah couldn’t comfort her. She obviously didn’t have any idea how to even begin.

The fact was, Norah didn’t really know her sister at all, Polly concluded with bitterness. They were and always had been opposites in everything.

“Do you have close friends, Mrs. Forsythe?” Friends? There were women she knew, other doctors’ wives, the mothers of Susannah’s friends, but Polly had never bothered to pursue female friendships. Her life had been busy; she’d had Michael, her daughter, her art, her beautiful home.

She’d been one of the special ones, the blessed ones. She had—used to have—such a perfect life.

“No close friends. Nobody. Just my husband. And he’s...” She couldn’t betray Michael, even now. “He’s very busy, he’s a doctor. You know how that is.”

“I see.” Frannie nodded. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re feeling alone and very disturbed, and you’d feel safer and more supported if you were admitted to hospital. Is that what you’re saying, Mrs. Forsythe?”

“Yeah.” It was a relief to be heard. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I’ve been saying it over and over again. Doesn’t anybody listen around here? I want to be admitted. ”

“Okay, I hear you. And I firmly believe we all know what’s best for ourselves. Under the circumstances, a short stay is probably a really good idea, Mrs. Forsythe. I’ll speak to Dr. Keeler. And there are several grief therapists who are excellent. I’ll make some calls and find out which of them has an opening.”

Polly looked up at the other woman, and her eyes slid helplessly to the woman’s rounded belly.

“When is your baby coming?”

“Six weeks.” Frannie stroked the mound beneath her navy shirtwaist. “I lost my first baby when I was five months pregnant. I’m just now starting to hope that this time we’ll be okay.”

Now it was Polly who nodded, and something shifted a bit inside her. “I miscarried before Susannah was born.” She’d blotted out the memory over the years, but now it came back and she heard herself saying, “I don’t want a grief counselor. If I have to talk to someone, I’d like it to be you.”

Frannie hesitated, looking into Polly’s eyes for a long moment. They were calm and very blue, Polly noted.

“I’m not an expert in this field, you understand, Mrs. Forsythe. Perhaps someone else would be more helpful.”

Polly shook her head. “I won’t talk to anyone else.”

There was silence while Frannie considered.

“Okay, then.” She held out a hand, like a businessperson sealing a word-of-mouth agreement. “If that’s what you want. But I’ll ask you to make me a promise.”

Polly waited.

“I want you to give me a no-harm commitment, a promise that you won’t attempt suicide during the time we work together. Your word of honor.”

Polly thought it over. In the five months that Susannah was sick, Polly had gradually turned against her church, her minister, even her belief in God. She’d tested each and found each lacking. None had made her daughter better or eased the pain of her death. And today, Polly had lost faith in her husband. She certainly had no reason to trust herself. She’d lost hope in every foundation that had held up her world.

“In return,” Frannie said, “I promise you I’ll do my very best to help you through this. You have
my
word of honor.” The woman’s words sounded like a sacred oath, and Polly wanted so very much to believe them. “Okay. I promise. No suicide.” She took Frannie’s extended hand and held it for a moment. It was a long-fingered hand, warm and surprisingly strong.

“Then I’ll set up appointments for us starting tomorrow, Mrs. Forsythe.”

“I guess you’d better call me ‘Polly.’”

Frannie’s smile showed she was pleased. “I’d like that, if you’ll call me ‘Frannie.’ Now, I’ll go and talk to the resident about your admission. Do you want me to send your husband in to be with you?”

The agony had eased somewhat while Frannie was there, but now it came back. Michael couldn’t make it go away. Wearily, Polly shook her head.

“He needs to get back to his office. He’ll have patients waiting.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Frannie confirmed.

The door sighed shut, and once again Polly was alone. She looked at her watch. She’d been at the hospital almost two hours now. Time was passing.

Time. Half the well-meaning people at the funeral had muttered platitudes to her about time healing all wounds, and it had been all she could do not to scream and strike out at them. How could they talk about a future? All that mattered was the moment, and getting through it somehow to the next without Susannah.

CHAPTER ONE

Fourteen months later, Seattle, Washington

“Michael. It’s Michael Forsythe, isn’t it?”

Michael paused in the hallway outside the meeting room and waited until the short, robust man with the graying hair caught up to him.

“Good to see you again, Michael.” The man smiled and stuck out a hand, which Michael shook as he combed his memory for the other doctor’s name and came up empty.

“Ralph Stern, from Pasadena. Internal medicine. We met three years ago at that conference in Vancouver. How’ve you been?”

“Fine, thank you.” Michael summoned a smile, still trying to place Stern. Fortunately, the other man was a talker.

“I spotted you at the presentation yesterday afternoon. Wanted to say hello then and there, but I promised my wife I’d take her out for dinner and then shopping right after the seminar. It went lots longer than I figured, so I had to leave before it ended.” He winked. “Mary was put out with me as it was. You know how women are about things like that. Your wife with you?”

“Not this time.” Michael vaguely remembered meeting Stern, but again no details sprang to mind.

Stern didn’t have the same problem. “You still living in Vancouver? G.P., I seem to recall, with your own practice. Am I right?”

Michael nodded. “You have a good memory, Ralph. Better than mine, I’m ashamed to admit.”

Stern leaned close and whispered, “Ginkgo biloba.” His breath smelled of garlic. “Swear by the stuff. Couldn’t remember my own phone number before I started taking it. Not approved by the American Medical Association, but hey, whatever works, is my policy.”

“And mine. I’ve heard of ginkgo. I’ll try it, if I can remember to get some.” Michael smiled at his own weak joke, and Stern grinned appreciatively.

“You’re still too young to need it. Speaking of memory loss, I see Griffon’s giving a presentation on Alzheimer’s this afternoon. Should be interesting. You staying for the dinner tonight?”

Michael shook his head. “I want to get home early. I have a meeting to attend tonight. I’m leaving right after lunch.”

"Smart idea.. .beat the traffic. What is it, about a three-hour drive from Seattle to Vancouver?”

“If you avoid rush hour and get lucky at the border. Did you drive up from Pasadena?”

“Yeah, and we’re not going back until Sunday. We don’t get to Seattle often. Might as well take advantage while we’re here. Mary’s mother’s supervising the kids. It’s a chance for us to kick back and relax, enjoy some time alone together. You have a family, Michael?"

Michael’s stomach clenched the way it always did when he was forced to speak of Susannah, but his voice remained calm and matter-of-fact. “One daughter. We lost her fourteen months ago. She was nine years old. Astrocytoma.”

Shock played across Stern’s face, and Michael felt the immediate emotional distancing that occurred with a lot of people whenever he spoke of Susannah’s death from brain cancer. They didn’t know how to respond, and it made them pull away.

“God, I’m really sorry.” Stern’s face turned magenta, as if he’d committed a social blunder of the very worst type. It was a reaction that had become familiar to Michael over the past months. He’d learned that doctors, who dealt with death all the time, were just as awkward as anyone else when death became personal.

“What a helluva thing to have happen.”

Michael had never managed to formulate the right reply to that. He nodded and remained silent.

Stern reached out and gripped Michael’s forearm in a wordless attempt at condolence. “Well, guess we’d better get in there if we’re going,” he said in a hearty tone. “Good to have met you again.”

Michael let the other man precede him through the doors to the conference room, sensing that Stern was relieved to get away. For a moment he stood with his hand on the knob, considering, then he turned and strode down the hall to the elevators.

Up in his room he went straight to the phone and punched in his calling-card information. Then he dialed his home number, knowing even as the phone rang that Polly wouldn’t be there. If he’d really wanted to talk to her, he would have used the number of the cell phone she always carried in her handbag.

He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to listen. Calling his home number was a ritual he’d performed for months now, and he’d stopped feeling foolish about it.

After the third ring the answering machine picked up. His wife’s husky voice, with its undertones of energy and animation, said, “I’ve gone shopping, big surprise. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.”

Just the sound of her voice was enough. The ache in his gut, the tension in his body, eased somewhat, and he hung up before the beep. He gathered up his shaving kit, stuffed several soiled shirts into the side compartment of his sports bag and bent over the bed as he packed his grey suit and tweed sport coat in the suitcase.

Straightening, he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. He noticed the strain on his face, the grimness of his expression.

“Smile, Forsythe, smile,” Polly used to tease, pushing up the comers of his mouth with her fingers. “You gotta learn to smile more, you’re gonna scare your patients. Practice, now. One, two, you can do it. That’s the ticket, feel the burn.”

She hadn’t done that in a very long time. He gave the room a last careful check, then shouldered his bags and made his way down to the desk, a tall, powerful man with perpetually tousled, curly black hair, tanned skin and an intense manner. He was entirely unaware of the appreciative glances of several well-dressed women in the lobby.

Ten minutes later he was in his car, winding his way through Seattle’s noon-hour traffic toward the freeway. It was a sunny, warm April day, but he rolled the windows up and turned on the air-conditioning. Then he slid a tape of classical music into the player and turned up the volume until he could feel the sound permeating every cell in his body.

This, too, had become a ritual. He’d learned that if the music was loud enough, he could lose himself in it. He thought for a wistful moment of Polly, wondering where she was and what she was doing, and then he let the music overwhelm him.

Polly was thinking about buying the skirt and vest she’d just tried on in Brambles, one of her favorite small boutiques on Vancouver’s trendy Robson Street.