Never Wake (2 page)

She imagined Momma as she bragged to her neighbor. “My youngest daughter, Nicole, got me this here from Paris. Nicole travels all over the world for her flight attendant job, you know?”

Flight attendant—more like a glorified waitress, Reba thought. But a glorified waitress could afford to go home for visits in a rent-a-car as Nicole did, according to Momma. A glorified waitress could also afford to send home money as Nicole often did.

Reba furrowed her brow and squinted at the light glowing beneath her door. A nightlight plugged into the dangling electrical socket in the hall had been one of Dwight’s few concessions.

The twins, Bambi and Keri, had one of those daddies who liked to sneak into their kid’s room to “say goodnight” once the house was dark and Mommy was asleep. So Dwight allowed them to leave a small light on in their rooms and the night light in the hall after they went to bed, even though Reba was sure it was a fire hazard. It wasn’t out of kindness. Clients don’t care for girls with bags under their eyes.

But why was it blue? She had lain awake enough nights glaring at that light intruding into her room to know that it should be orange—no, not quite orange—it was more of a gold, but definitely not blue. Reba glared at the space between the floor and door and pushed the blankets down to her waist. The light went off and then reappeared again.

Was someone out there playing with the switch or…there, it happened again. What the hell? Reba pushed her comforter—no, not a comforter, more like a thin blanket and sheet—down and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Too high to be my bed
.

Once again, the blue light was interrupted by darkness before reappearing. It happened two more times before it came to her. Momma had once let her and Nicole take in a stray dog. She had lost interest in having a pet within a week, Nicole even faster. The dog was left chained to an old clothesline pole in the back yard. After about a year, it began pacing back and forth, its head hung low and swaying opposite to the rest of the body. She and Nicole began to fear that dog. Feeding it became Momma’s form of punishment and reward. The child on Momma’s shit list, often Reba, would have to feed the dog most often. The favorite, more times than not Nicole, would watch with a malicious grin as the other got as close as she had to before dropping a tin pie dish in front of the animal and high-tailing it back into the house. At some point the dog had begun to pace at all hours of the night, his shadow casting dark splashes across their bedroom curtains like an accusing spirit. Perhaps it was guilt, but both she and Nicole would wake up screaming, until Momma had one of her male friends take the dog away. This interruption of light reminded her of that dog. Someone was pacing, right outside her door.

No, this was not her door. Where the fuck was she?

Reba stood up, her hands out in front of her. She was wearing some kind of light gown. She always slept in a thick granny gown because the old house was drafty, even in the summer. Reba’s outstretched fingers stumbled across the top of a metal chair that was almost too heavy for her to lift without making a sound, but she did.

She was not in the house, and whoever stood outside that door was doing his damnedest not to make any noise.

Reba couldn’t explain how she knew it, but evil was waiting out there. What was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he come in and killed her in her sleep?

The chair was becoming heavy and Reba had started lowering it to the floor when it came to her. He—and for some odd reason she knew it was a he—was waiting for something. Just like that dog was waiting for his meal. She wanted to believe she was overreacting. Maybe he was just giving her a chance to wake up. Maybe… No, Reba had never been accused of having great luck. Someone or something was out there listening, and at any moment, he was going to come through that door.
If I’m wrong—God, please let me be wrong—I’ll just feel stupid. If I’m wrong, I’ll call Momma and ask her if I can come home. Was Vidor that bad? Hell, maybe Nicole could get me one of those flight attendant jobs.

The pacing stopped and fright made Reba’s breathing short. She held up the chair with renewed strength. She was going home. She was going home to Vidor.

You better be ready,
motherfucker,
she thought,
because I am.
She tightened her grasp on the chair and blood rushed into her forearms and shoulders.

“Bring it on,” she whispered as the smallest amount of hot bile settled in the back of her throat.

The scream was cut off moments after Troy Nanson awakened. She wasn’t frightened. She didn’t even open her eyes. In fact, hearing the scream comforted her. It meant that the silent nightmares—her constant bedmate for the last sixteen months—were over, at least for now. As usual, she couldn’t remember the nightmare, but she didn’t need to. She knew who and what haunted her. She also knew why.

Guilt—familiar, thick, and cloying—always followed her nightmares, but this time there was something else. She was uncomfortable. She often awoke on her back, but her muscles felt stiff and sore, as if she had been lying in one position for too long.

I’m going to be late
. The thought should have galvanized her into action, but it didn’t. She kept her dry, gritty eyes closed. It wasn’t unusual for her to cry during the night and awaken with her lids sealed shut.

What was unusual was how quiet the room was. For the last sixteen months she had slept in her living room because that’s where her TV was. She would fall asleep to the sound of some stupid sitcom and awaken to an even more stupid infomercial. She had learned that awakening in the middle of the night to complete silence could be just as frightening as a sudden noise.

It wasn’t just the lack of noise. She hadn’t tried to move yet, but the bed she was lying on felt narrow, too narrow to be her own and too comfortable to be her living room couch. She forced her tear-crusted eyelids open.

“Where…?” She sat up, and pain cleaved through her head and spread like spilled wine throughout her body. “Shit,” she said. A lightning bolt of pain shot through her temples and pushed her toward unconsciousness. She closed her eyes against it, but not before they confirmed what she already knew. These walls were not shit brown.

*

“Do you know how long I went to school? How much money my parents paid for those schools, so that Joe Harmon, who I bet hasn’t worked a day in his life, could throw shit on me because I wouldn’t give him a prescription for a drug that he doesn’t need?”

Emma considered responding. She did know how long Dr. Edwards had gone to school and she could guess how much that schooling had cost. But the warning glare from her assistant, Dana, was all the confirmation Emma needed to keep quiet. A response, any response at this point, would not be appreciated and could cost her more than she could afford to pay.

Dr. Edwards waited a split second longer than Emma was comfortable with before continuing her rant. “You name one experienced physician that would be willing to put up with this kind of shit.”

Emma made the mistake of looking at Dana, who was doing her best to look stern. The thin tether she had on her emotions broke, and she began to laugh. Dr. Edwards’ body stiffened, much as it had two weeks before when Emma dreamed she had bent her over her desk and shoved her hand down her pants. Dr. Edwards’ expression had been a lot more pleasant to gaze at in the dream.

The smell emanating from her lab coat pushed all thoughts of the fantasy right out the window along with any hopes Emma had of salvaging their relationship. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said between hiccupping laughs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

She looked over Dr. Edwards’ shoulder in the hopes that Dana would bail her out, but her assistant was already walking away—no doubt to start sketching out an ad to be posted at all the medical schools in the area. Volunteers were plentiful, but as Dr. Edwards had already pointed out, there weren’t many experienced physicians willing to deal with working at a free clinic.

“I’ve had an offer from the Columbia River Clinic,” she said with stiff-necked dignity. “I’ll be taking it.” She turned, her back ramrod straight, and walked toward the front door.

Emma gulped down her last guffaw and jogged after her. “Wait, Dr. Edwards…Sharon, listen. I shouldn’t have laughed, but you have to admit…”

Dr. Edwards whirled around. Her face had darkened and her voice and mouth were tight with anger. “I will not work one minute longer with…with those people.”

Emma’s laughter felt like a brittle memory. She had been attracted to this woman. Her lack of a sense of humor had been a minor detail until now. “What do you mean, ‘those people’?”

“The people who live in this neighborhood,” she bit out, and looked toward the waiting room where, at any given time, poor single mothers, drug dealers, and gang bangers could be sitting inches away from each other. Her grandmother’s dream had been that no one be turned away. That included sometimes violent drug abusers like Joe Harmon.

“My grandmother opened this clinic in this neighborhood because people like Mr. Harmon live here.” Emma tried to soften her tone. “When you came to work here, you said you became a doctor to help people.”

A look of pity crossed Dr. Edwards’ face. “Poor people aren’t the only ones who need good health care, Emma.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. Sharon, please, you know there are already hundreds of physicians with addresses across the river. The people who need your help the most don’t live over there.”

Dr. Edwards started to cross her arms in front of her chest, but stopped because she was still wearing her soiled lab coat. Her hands fell to her sides and Emma sensed that she was wasting time for both of them. Dr. Edwards had already made up her mind. Or rather Joe Harmon had made it up for her.

“You know, you should try living in the real world, because that kind of mindless sentimentality died in the sixties. Do you think these people care that this clinic has to struggle to make ends meet each month? Or that your grandmother—and now you—have to pay out-of-pocket for things they take for granted? NO, all they care about is getting their free Vicodin and the fact that they had to wait two hours to see a doctor, who by the way, is the same doctor who would be making six figures while seeing half the number of patients anywhere else in the city.”

“Are you that doctor?” Emma asked.
Please say no. Please say no.

“I’m the doctor who wants to hear a thank you sometimes. I’m the doctor who doesn’t want to have to worry about my safety every time I’m alone with a patient.”

The answer, though not unexpected, left Emma feeling deflated.

Dr. Edwards’ tone softened. “I’m sorry if I’m leaving you in a lurch.”

Emma shook her head and tried for a smile. A lurch, as Dr. Edwards had put it, didn’t quite cover it. There weren’t many physicians willing to take what she could pay and work as hard as she asked of them. It would be hard, if not impossible, to replace her. But Emma was disappointed for other reasons. There had been chemistry between them. No, it was more than just chemistry—Emma had a sixth sense about feelings. And she could sense that Dr. Edwards shared her physical attraction.

Dana liked to tease Emma about her narcissistic infatuation with Dr. Edwards, but it was more than that. Even though they shared similar features, curly dark brown hair, olive skin, and blue eyes—the resemblance ended there, as far as Emma was concerned. Dr. Edwards had a power and confidence that Emma could only dream of having, and she had been—dreaming of having her, that is, several times and in many different erotic positions.

“Look,” Dr. Edwards said, “maybe we could get together for drinks one night. I’d hate to think we couldn’t still be friends.” She leaned closer and Emma caught a whiff of something foul and moved back without thinking.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll give you a call,” Emma said, but they both knew she wouldn’t.

Dr. Edwards nodded, turned, and stalked toward the front door. She stopped, and Emma waited, hoping that she had read her wrong and that her heartfelt words had made a delayed impact. Dr. Edwards took off the soiled lab coat and pushed it through the door of the metal trash bin, identification badge and all.

Emma closed her eyes, and by the time she had opened them, Dr. Sharon Edwards was gone and she had a huge problem.

“Ida, why in the hell did you leave this place to me?” she said, and trudged toward Dana’s office.

Dana was sitting behind her desk, reading from a yellow legal pad, a pencil clenched between her teeth. She did not look up as Emma slumped into the rickety visitor’s chair across from her.

“She gone?” Dana asked around the pencil in her mouth.

Emma nodded and then because Dana wasn’t looking at her, said, “Yeah, she’s gone.”

“She ask you out, at least?”

Emma shrugged. “I said I’d call her.”

“And will you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Dana looked calm, but the splintering sound coming from the pencil gripped between her teeth would have given away her frustration to even someone less intuitive than Emma.

“She said some pretty mean things out there, Dana.” Emma felt like she was fifteen and being reprimanded for something over which she had no control.

“Give the woman some slack; she had a shitty day.”