Pickin Clover (22 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Polly, bent over the dishwasher, straightened and turned to him, certain she’d misunderstood. But the somber expression on Michael’s face filled her with anxiety. A plate slipped from her hand and shattered on the tile floor. She ignored it and so did he.

“I’m sorry, Polly.”

He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded formal, distant, as though he wasn’t talking about their home, their life.

“The bank won’t loan us any more money, and I can’t meet the mortgage payments much longer. I’ve been juggling, paying only what’s absolutely essential, doing my level best to get us out of this mess, but I can’t.” His voice remained even. “I’ve known for the past week this was coming. Berina called me this afternoon. He convinced me the only answer is to sell this house, pay off our debts and find somewhere much less expensive to live. Upkeep and taxes here are way more than we can afford now.”

Polly couldn’t speak. She looked around her kitchen, at the gleaming pots and pans dangling from their hooks above the island, at the framed selections of Susannah’s art that hung near the ceiling in a frieze around the room. Into her mind came images of the pool, where she loved to swim; the birdhouse she and Susannah had built; the swing Michael had hung from the maple tree. And, oh, God, her daughter’s room, filled with the only essence of Susannah she had left.

His words slowly penetrated. “You...you’ve known about this for a week? And you...you didn’t say anything to me?” That showed as nothing else could have how far apart they’d grown.

“I should have, I know.” Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve been trying to think of a way out of this, a way to protect you.”

“Protect me?” The words spilled out. “I don’t want to be protected, I want to know what’s going on. Husbands and wives talk to each other. We used to talk. It was you who stopped, not me. You...you have no right to, to...shield me as if I were unfit, to keep such important things from me.

You’ve never grown up, Polly. You don’t act like a responsible adult. Michael took over spoiling you.

Norah’s words rushed to her mind, burning like acid, and with them the awful suspicion that maybe Norah was right. Maybe Michael felt he had to protect her because she hadn’t matured. That thought scared her, and with fear came unreasonable anger and blame.

“How can you calmly tell me that we have to sell this house? This was Susannah’s home. How can I move away from here, from all that’s left of her?” Even as the words poured out, Polly knew they were unfair, but she was past the point of caring. All she could do now was feel, and what she felt was anguish. Her already precarious world was collapsing all around her.

“She’s gone,” Michael’s voice was suddenly hard and cold. “Susannah’s dead, Polly. Nothing either of us can do will bring her back. When are you going to get that through your head? Keeping her room the same, having her pictures up on the wall, talking about her all the goddamn time— none of it, nothing, will bring our daughter back. Why the hell can’t you just accept that and let go?”

She gasped. His heartless words were like arrows in her chest. "How-how-can you say such things, Michael? How can you talk in that tone of voice about our daughter? I thought you loved me. I thought you loved Susannah.”

With that, at last his control snapped. He brought both fists down on the counter with such a crash that Polly jumped, dropping the plate she was about to put in the dishwasher. It shattered on the floor. His dark eyes blazed.

“
Love you?
Goddamn it, I’d die for you if I had to. I’d have died for Susannah if it would have saved her. But I couldn’t do it, Polly. I’m a doctor, but I couldn’t save my own daughter.” His voice reverberated through the room; his face was contorted. “I can’t save this house for you, either. The money’s gone, Polly, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about that.”

She should have recognized the anguish beneath his words, but her own hurt was too deep.

“Money? This isn’t about money, Michael.”

“Then what the hell is it about?” His anger was terrible because it was so unfamiliar to her.

“It’s...it’s about us. It’s about our marriage,” she stammered. “Our marriage is falling apart, but you don’t notice. You go off to work every time I try to talk to you. You won’t discuss Susannah, You won’t remember her with me. And I need you to do that. You’re the only one who knew her the way I did.” She sucked in a sobbing breath. “You’ve deserted me, Michael, in every sense.”

He stared at her, his eyes hard. “I’m a doctor, Polly. I have an office, patients to see.” His voice was quieter, but it held a hard, warning note. “My job is to provide care to them, and that doesn’t stop because eight hours have gone by. You know that. You knew when you married me that I didn’t have a regular nine-to-five job.”

“Sure I knew. And I never complained when Susannah was alive, because I knew you wanted to be home with us even when you couldn’t be.” She realized she should stop, but she no longer cared what she said. “Then after she died it dawned on me that you were using your job as an excuse to avoid coming home, to avoid being with me. It wasn’t until Clover came here that it got really clear.” Her tone was nasty. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How you can find time to get home early now that she’s here?” She heard herself and was appalled, but she still went on. “I’m the only one you’re trying to avoid, Michael. Why don’t you just admit it?”

He was glaring at her. “If we’re being honest, Polly, then you should take a hard look at the way you feel about that little girl. The reason I’ve been racing home every afternoon is that it’s patently obvious you don’t like her, and Clover knows it That resentment doesn’t exactly make the best environment for a child.”

“I’m as kind to her as I can be.” His words filled her with guilt. “I told Jerome I’d take care of her, and I’m doing it as best I can. She’s not an easy kid, you said so yourself.”

“She’s a child, Polly.”

“Doctor?”

Clover stood in the kitchen doorway, her rabbit stuffed under her arm. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and Polly felt sick, wondering how much she’d heard, how much she understood.

“My tummy hurts,” she said in a quivery voice.

“Does it?” Michael picked her up and she burrowed her head into his shoulder. “Let’s get you back in bed and see if a story helps.” His voice was infinitely gentle now, and he headed for the stairs, murmuring comfort to Clover.

Polly felt as if she couldn’t breathe. In a daze, she got the broom and swept up the broken crockery, then loaded the rest of the dishes. Michael didn’t come back downstairs.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Distraught, Polly pulled on a jacket and went into the backyard.

The pool was still empty; she’d decided not to fill it until after Clover left. It was hard enough to keep an eye on her without worrying about the danger of the swimming pool.

Polly walked around it and made her way to the iron table and chairs on the cement patio. She and her family had had such fun here. Vancouver had enjoyed unprecedented good weather the summer the pool was installed, and she and Susannah had spent most of every day out here, joined by Michael in the evenings. Her family had seemed so secure back then.

She looked up at the gracious lines of the house, and her entire body hurt at the thought of leaving it.

Where would she be living six months from now?

Her family, her husband, her home. She’d lost her daughter. She was losing her home. That left only Michael. She thought of the devastating quarrel they’d just had, the terrible things they’d both said that were hurtful and that would be difficult to forget.

Six months from now, would she still be Michael’s wife?

The horrendous quarrel sapped Michael’s energy. It took a long time to settle Clover down, and when at last she was sleeping, he couldn’t face another confrontation. He made his way to his study and fell into an exhausted sleep on the sofa there, only to awaken abruptly at four-thirty in the morning with a sense of overwhelming urgency.

He had to make things right with Polly. Somehow, he had to make her understand it wasn’t her he was angry with. It was his own inadequacy.

He made his way up to their bedroom with some hazy thought of taking her in his arms and making love to her until the remnants of the quarrel were burned away in the fire of physical passion. In the dim light of dawn, he climbed into bed beside her and gathered her in his arms, but she was deeply asleep.

The vials of medication that she’d stopped using in the past weeks were once again open on her bedside table, and he knew he was the reason she’d had to resort to them again. If he awakened her, what could he say that would make everything better? He released her gently and lay beside her, watching her sleep. Her face was flushed and relaxed, innocent and intensely beautiful to him. He stroked a finger across her cheek and then got up.

After showering, he looked in on Clover, who was curled up like a kitten, then he drove through the gray dawn and the deserted streets to his office. He was immersed in paperwork when Valerie arrived at eight, bringing him a coffee and muffin.

Michael’s heart sank when he learned his first patient was Duncan Hendricks. The boy came in with his mother, Sophie, and Michael had to struggle hard to summon up his professional mask of cheerfulness and assurance.

Fortunately, Duncan didn’t notice anything amiss. With his usual wide smile and a cheery, “Hi, Doctor,” he walked over and stuck out his hand for the special secret handshake Michael had taught him on one of his early visits. It had become a ritual between them, and it allowed Michael to gauge reflexes, strength and coordination without the boy suspecting he was being tested.

All three showed no improvement.

“How are you feeling, Duncan? How are the headaches?”

“They hurt. But I’m gettin’ better soon.”

Duncan’s attitude was amazing. Michael had never heard the little boy complain, and his response was always the same when he was asked how he felt, a stalwart assurance that he was getting better, even though his symptoms hadn’t improved in the slightest. In feet, they had worsened somewhat.

Michael smiled at the child, and in some unexplainable way his own heartache eased a bit, just looking into Duncan’s sweet, open face.

“How’s Oscar?” Dunan didn’t realize it, but the goldfish had become a focal figure in the stories he told Clover each night. As had Susannah. Clover insisted every story had to include her.

“Oscar’s good. How long do goldfish live, Dr. Mike?”

“I’m not sure, Duncan, but I think they live quite a long time.”

“I hope so. I wanna keep Oscar till I grow up.”

If only this child could grow up. At one time Michael had believed that anything was possible, but he didn’t anymore. Now he knew the unthinkable happened, that the deepest and most terrible of fears were often the ones that were realized. He suspected the goldfish would outlive Duncan.

He chatted with the boy about his fish and his favorite television shows for a moment before turning to Sophie and quizzing her closely about Duncan’s appetite, his sleep patterns, his bowel movements.

Keeping up a running dialogue, Michael did a further neurological workup, checking motor skills, looking at Duncan’s eyes. The tests revealed what Michael already knew: the radiation to the head had had no influence on the symptoms, and it should have by now.

“I’m gonna go to kindergarten after summertime, Doctor,” Duncan announced. “Mommy and I went to the school to register, and we met the teacher, Mrs. Poke...Mrs. Poka...”

“Mrs. Pokara,” Sophie supplied.

“Yeah. And there’s this really neat turtle named Alphonse that gets to come home with you sometimes, right, Mommy?”

“Right, Duncan.” Sophie smiled at her son, but when she turned to Michael, her eyes were shining with unshed tears. The chances of Duncan being around to start kindergarten in September were extremely slim.

Sophie and Duncan left, and as usual, it took Michael several moments to compose himself enough to carry on with the rest of the day’s appointments.

Valerie tapped on his door and stuck her head in. She eyed the untouched muffin and the cold coffee. “Polly’s on line two. You better start eating something, Doctor. You’re losing weight. And whenever you’re ready, Mr. Benedict’s waiting in examining room three.”

Michael almost groaned aloud. The morning couldn’t get much worse. Malcolm Benedict was a new patient with severe headaches. He’d had a very minor motorcycle accident six months before, and extensive tests at the time had ruled out any organic damage. Several doctors had arrived at the diagnosis of severe personality disorder, and Michael heartily concurred.

Benedict was brilliant and totally obnoxious, and he’d challenged Michael on every aspect of his treatment for the headaches, which of course were stress related. Benedict had been so vehemently certain of an organic cause that he had finally worn Michael down and Michael had ordered a CAT scan.

“Mr. Benedict’s lab reports are here. The delivery service just dropped diem off.” Valerie handed over a manila envelope and closed the door.

Michael tossed the envelope on his desk, on top of Duncan’s file. He picked up the phone.