The Secret Between Us (13 page)

Feeling the sting of his reproach, Deborah said, “Absolutely not, certainly not in those words. I talked gently with her, but it wasn’t a discussion we haven’t had before. She refuses to admit how overweight she is and that it does affect her ankles. I suggested she try walking even the littlest bit around the house, which is what the specialist suggests as well. She sits in the kitchen, Dad. Eating. I suggested a part-time job as a way to get her out of the house.”

“Dean considers that an insult to his earning ability.”

“That’s his problem.”

“It’s ours, if they decide to switch doctors.”

Deborah felt a spurt of anger. “Is it? I’m not paid for the time I spend driving to Darcy’s house. If she doesn’t like what I say, let her find a doctor who’ll drive out there and say what she wants. If she thinks arthritis is bad, let her try diabetes or heart disease, because that’s where she’s headed.”

Michael pushed off from her door. “I told Dean I’d get back to him once I knew the facts. What do you want me to tell him?”

Deborah was still smarting. “Why did he call you? Why didn’t he call me directly?” She held up a hand. “Okay. I guess he’s between a rock and a hard place. Darcy needs a scapegoat. I’m the nearest one.” Her phone rang.

“What do I tell him?” her father repeated.

Deborah put a hand on the receiver. The incoming call was on their private line, which meant it was either the kids or Jill or one of a few friends who had the number. “That I spent a long time talking with Darcy, precisely because I
don’t
blow off clients, but that her weight is an ongoing issue, and you and I would both welcome a talk with the two of them if they’d like to come in.” She waited only until her father turned away before picking up the phone.

“Hello,” she said with a lingering edge.

“Uh-oh,” came Karen’s tentative voice. “Want me to call back another time?”

Deborah let out a breath. “No, no, K. This is fine. I was just having an unpleasant discussion about one of our patients.” Dean LeMay’s call still rankled, but she forced herself to relax. “Are you okay?”

“Well, the elbow is better, which means you were right, but that means I have to ease up from tennis, which doesn’t thrill me. Anyway, I’m really calling about two other things. First, how’s Grace? Danielle keeps trying to get her to talk, but she won’t even text message.”

“She’s going through a hard time.”

“Dani may drive over tonight.”

Deborah welcomed that. “She’s an angel. I hope Grace will give in. Tell Dani not to give up.”

Karen made a sputtering sound. “Oh, she won’t. She loves you guys.” Her voice sobered. “The second thing is Hal. Is he there?”

“Here? No. Why?”

“He said he was meeting with you to talk about Cal McKenna.”

Deborah’s pulse raced. “Did he hear something from John?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He didn’t mention the accident report?”

“No. He just kind of said in passing that he’d be seeing you. He didn’t seem worried.”

Deborah relaxed a bit. “Well then, he just hasn’t gotten here yet.”

“His secretary’s trying to reach him. He isn’t answering his cell phone.”

“Maybe he’s playing golf?”

“Not on a Monday afternoon. And not without telling me.”

Deborah knew what she was thinking. It had nothing to do with the possibility of a car accident and everything to do with the phone call Karen had received the week before.

“Has she called again?” Deborah asked softly.

“No.” Karen’s voice lowered. “But something’s up. He snaps at little things I do, like putting the empty recycle bins back in the garage in the wrong order. Or separating junk mail from the rest and throwing it out. I’ve been doing that for years. Last night, he told me that maybe there was something in one of those ads that he wanted, and I shouldn’t take it upon myself to censor his mail.
Censor
his mail?”

“Maybe something’s going on at work,” Deborah tried. The intercom buzzed. “A tough prosecutor? A difficult client?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said. I can only ask so many questions before he gets annoyed. Maybe he’s just going through a midlife crisis. I think that’s it.” She paused. “Don’t you?”

“Could be.”

“Then that’s it,” Karen decided. “Thanks, Deb. You’re always a help.”

Deborah hadn’t done a thing—and was feeling guilty for that, too. “If he shows up here, I’ll have him call you.” The receptionist buzzed her again. “Give him a little more time, sweetie. He may not even realize his cell phone is off.”

Hal swore by his cell phone. If it was off, it was by design. Deborah guessed that Karen knew this, too, but neither woman was ready to say it aloud.

“I’m sure that’s it,” Karen said, “and you need to get that call. Want to have coffee later?”

“Can’t. I promised Grace I’d work out at the gym,” the important part being
at the gym.
“Want to meet me there and do side-by-side ellipticals?”

“Name a time.”

“Four-thirty.”

“Perfect. Go get that call.”

Deborah punched in the button. “Yes, Carol?”

“I have Tom McKenna on line three. He isn’t a patient. He says it’s personal.”

Personal
was one word for it. There were others, like
risky,
meaning that she shouldn’t be talking with him. But he had been friendly enough Sunday morning, and if he had news about Cal’s Coumadin use, she wanted to know.

“I’ll take it,” she said and pressed the button.

His voice held a now-familiar resonance. “Bad time?”

“No. It’s fine. I’m just finishing. What’s up?”

“I’m afraid I shocked your daughter yesterday. Is she okay?”

Two shows of concern in as many days? Deborah was wary. She couldn’t forget the scene at the cemetery,
surely
couldn’t forget that it was her car that had led to his brother’s death.

But he did sound sincere. So she said, “You’re kind to ask. She’s okay. She’s still agonizing over the accident, but I think she accepts that you’re not Cal’s ghost. You do look a lot like him.”

There was a pause, then a lighter, “We took after our mother.”

“Were you close?”

“Not to our mother,” he said.

“To each other?”

“On and off.” He hesitated, before adding a resigned, “Mostly off. Our personalities were totally different.”

Naturally curious, Deborah asked, “In what ways?”

There was a short silence. She was thinking that she might have overstepped her bounds, and that he would change the subject, when he offered a reflective, “He liked things in order. He liked knowing what was going to happen. That’s why he liked history. Read a history book, and there are no surprises. You know how it’s going it end. Cal liked neatness. His house was the same, spare and organized, each piece of furniture in its place, books neatly arranged, three nautilus shells evenly spaced across the mantel. He liked precision.”

Encouraged by the sheer length of his response, Deborah asked, “And you?”

“I’m a slob.”

It was so blunt, and unexpected, that she laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“Was that in a reaction to Cal?”

“No. I’m the older brother by four years.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a slob.”

“There is,” he warned, “if it means you can’t see through the clutter. I keep thinking I should have known my brother was taking Coumadin.”

“How could you know, if he chose not to tell you?”

“We hadn’t talked in a while. I shouldn’t have let it go so long.” His tone eased. “I’m still working on why he was taking the drug. What do you know about it?”

“Coumadin? It’s an anticoagulant, most widely used after heart attack or stroke to prevent the formation of blood clots in arteries and veins.”

“Do I assume Cal had a heart attack or stroke?”

“No. He may have had a blood clot, in which case Coumadin would have been prescribed to prevent another. He was actually young to have this kind of problem.”

“There’s a history of it,” Tom said. “My father had a massive stroke at forty-eight.” He paused, then asked cautiously, “Would Cal have taken Coumadin preventatively?”

“I doubt it. The risk of side effects is too great.” She wondered whether he was testing her somehow. But she was a doctor, and, still smarting from Dean LeMay’s call, she told Tom what she knew. “Normally, a person with a family history would simply make sure he was checked regularly. He’d keep his weight down and watch things like blood pressure and cholesterol. Did your brother do those things?”

“He was thin. I don’t know about the rest.”

“Was he worried about taking after his father?”

“We both were.”

“Do you take preventive action?”

“No. But we slobs don’t like regimentation,” he said. “Taking daily pills would drive me nuts. Cal used to pop ’em like candy.”

“Drugs?”

“Vitamins. If he used stronger things, I didn’t know. Could he have taken too much Coumadin?”

“Possibly, but even a standard dose can cause bleeding. That’s why the warnings are so visible.”

“What’s the normal dosage?”

“A tablet a day in a strength that varies with the patient. Some people take it for a limited period, say, three to six months. Others take it for life. The latter are usually patients who’ve had repeated life-threatening episodes. I can’t imagine your brother falling into that category without anyone else knowing.”

“No,” Tom said, then, “How do you know all this? Do you personally prescribe Coumadin? Or did you look it up after Cal died?”

She smiled. “I don’t personally prescribe it, but I read journals. I talk with colleagues at conferences. I learn from specialists who see my patients. One thing’s for sure. Patients on Coumadin require close monitoring. No doctor would renew a Coumadin prescription without follow-up exams and tests, and those tests wouldn’t be done by a generalist like me. If your brother had a condition that warranted his taking Coumadin, he was seeing a specialist. His insurance company would know.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes. I talked with them this morning. The problem is confidentiality. They won’t give out information unless Selena signs a release.”

Deborah sensed an edge in the way he said her name. It emboldened her. “Why would she not sign a release? This is information she’ll need if she’s planning to sue me.” And if she was, Deborah reminded herself, Tom would be an adversary. “By the way, my friend, the lawyer, would not be pleased with this conversation. He’d be afraid I might say something that you’ll use against me in court. I just want you to know that I’m being as honest as I can. I want answers as much as you do.”

“I sense that. That’s why I called.”

She did hear sincerity. Either he was an amazing actor, or it was there. She figured she had to hear more to decide which it was. “How is Selena doing?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked with her today.”

“Oh,” Deborah said in surprise. “Aren’t you staying with her?”

“God, no. I live in Cambridge.”

“Cambridge.” That was a surprise. She had assumed Tom lived out of state and was simply here for the funeral. Cambridge was an easy drive. But there was also that
God, no,
which indicated that he didn’t adore his sister-in-law. Deborah was more interested in his relationship with his brother. “And you didn’t see Cal often?”

“If I had, I might have known more about his health,” Tom snapped. “If I’d known more about his health, I might have been able to alert the doctors myself. That’s assuming Selena had called me sooner. She might have if Cal and I had been closer. How pathetic is it when two brothers don’t know anything about each other’s lives?”

Deborah sympathized. “It happens more often than you’d expect.”

“Does that make it any less pathetic?”

“No.”

There was a brief silence, then a soft, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Being honest. It’s easier to delude ourselves than to be blunt about the truth. I’ll bet you’re blunt with your family.”

She was bemused. “Why do you say that?”

“You seem like an honest person.”

How ironic was
that
? It occurred to her that, just possibly, she was being baited. “There’s a difference between being blunt and being honest. Blunt can be hurtful. I try to be honest without being hurtful.”

“A straight shooter.”

Another irony. “Usually.”

“When aren’t you?”

She took a breath. “When being honest can betray a confidence.” Deborah was thinking of this morning’s discussion with Grace. “My daughter tells me things about her friends that I have to keep to myself.”

“Serious things?”

“Sometimes. It can be tricky. If Grace told me that one of her friends was cutting herself, I’d have a hard time keeping still. Self-mutilation is a cry for help.”

“Wouldn’t Grace understand that?”

“I’d hope so. She might not want to know the details, like who I called. But she’d probably be relieved to share the responsibility.”

“Because she trusts you. Who do you trust? Who do you share your responsibilities with?”

“My dad, when it comes to work.”

“What about at home?”

“My sister some. Mostly it’s just me.”

“Is your ex-husband involved with the kids?”

Definitely,
she wanted to say.
He calls them all the time.
That would have been less humiliating for her. But talk about lies?

“Not actively,” she said, trying to keep her voice upbeat. “He’s at a different place in his life.”

“He still has two children.”

“He assumes I can handle it.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Absolutely not,” she burst out. “All my
life
the assumption has been that I can handle it, so more and more is piled on. There are times when responsibility sucks!” Just then, she saw Hal at her office door. “Speaking of responsibility, I do have to run. Can I, uh, give you my cell number?” she asked.

“Please,” he said, then seconds later, “Got it.”

“Will you let me know if you learn anything?”

“Definitely.”

Pretending she had been talking to anyone other than the man who could take her to court for killing his brother, she hung up the phone and eyed Hal. He looked somber. She felt a shot of apprehension. “You’ve talked with John?”