Listen to the Shadows (3 page)

Chapter 4

Monday morning dawned cold and gray, which seemed to Dr. Jonathan Shea fitting as he sat wearily behind his recently cleared desk. Drawn and unshaven, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, he dictated a letter of resignation to Jeannie Craig, his secretary of five years.

He stared past her as he talked. When he finished, he laced his hands behind his head, tilted back in the swivel chair and contemplated the square white ceiling tiles. With a bitter note of satisfaction he sighed heavily, and said, “Well, that’s it.”

The blond young woman peered at him with moist hazel eyes through round granny glasses. When she spoke, her voice shook, sending vibrations to the yellow pencil in her hand.

“Are you really not going to be working here anymore, Dr. Shea?”

“I’m really not, Jeannie.”

“Well—what will I—I mean who will I be working for? Or will I—?”

Hearing the anxiousness in her voice, his hands came from behind his head and he straightened in the chair. Her face was merely questioning, but he saw the tension in her thin shoulders—tension he hadn’t seen for a long time. Of course she would be worried. Why hadn’t that occurred to him? She was a single mother with a five-year-old son to support. Damn! Why was it everything he did (or didn’t do, a small voice taunted) seemed to effect someone else?

He raked his thick, straight black hair and tried for a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about your job, Jeannie. I’ll recommend you. There’ll be no problem.” Surely he was not without a little influence.

Jeannie had come to him as a patient five years ago following the birth of her child. She’d been raised in an unloving foster home by strict, fanatically religious people, and had run away at seventeen. Hardly surprising that she would be easy prey to the first man who offered her a kind word and a little affection. He remembered how she would suddenly burst into tears, wring her hands, often quoting self-damning scripture—fire and brimstone stuff. They’d done a good job on her. Her self-esteem was practically nil. After six months in analysis, he’d known she had basic secretarial skills acquired in high school, and on impulse, since his own secretary was leaving to get married, he’d hired Jeannie. He’d never been sorry.

“What will you do?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. She sounded stronger. The tension had left her shoulders. Jeannie would be okay. She’d come a long way.

He gave her a wry grin. “Maybe I’ll just be typical and write a book.”

“That sounds exciting,” she said, smiling at him. “What will it be about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you can come up with some ideas for me.”

She just looked at him.

“Or maybe I’ll find work as a mechanic. I used to be pretty good with cars when I was a kid.”

Her smile twitched. “Oh, Doctor Shea, you’re joking, aren’t you?”

He managed a laugh, admitted he was. The idea, however, was not without appeal. Cars didn’t feel.

“I’ve loved working for you, Dr. Shea,” Jeannie was saying. “Working for someone else—well, it won’t be the same.”

“No, I guess not. Maybe it’ll be better.”

Hurt leapt into her eyes, and he silently cursed himself for his insensitivity. “I’m sorry, Jeannie. That was sweet of you to say. I’m just—well, I’m not . . . “

“I know. It’s Jodie, isn’t it? You think it’s your fault. It isn’t, you know.”

He was touched at her loyalty, however misplaced. Anyway, Jodie was only part of the reason he was leaving Belleville General Hospital.

He came around from behind his desk and took Jeannie’s hand in his. “I’ve enjoyed working with you, too, Jeannie. You’re a special lady, and don’t you ever forget that. You’re also one hell of a secretary, and whoever gets you will be very, very lucky. I’m going to miss you.”

Her fair skin reddened, and he saw her eyes behind the glasses brim over with tears. “Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking.

Jonathan crossed the room and stood looking out the window at the grayness outside without really seeing it. “Well, if you’ll just type that up, Jeannie, I see no reason you can’t take the rest of the day off. You’ve cancelled all my appointments.”
 
He would likely have to stay on a couple of weeks, clear things up. But not today. He couldn’t see patients today. He would also have to go see Milton Evans, the administrator. He couldn’t avoid that, as much as he would like to. “You have cancelled my appointments, Jeannie?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Good. So get out of here. Go get that great kid of yours and take him to the beach.”

“Dr. Shea, it’s October. Anyway, the sun isn’t shining.”

He turned to see her looking at him oddly. Burying his hands in his pockets, he grinned at her. “You know, you’re absolutely right. Well, how about a shopping spree, then write yourself a check; I’ll sign it. Call it a bonus. You deserve it. Buy yourself a Halloween costume. Go trick or treating.”

She giggled, a nervous giggle. “The hospital pays my salary.”

“Oh. Of course. Then I’ll write you a personal check.”

Her smile wavered as she stared at him. “Dr. Shea, are you all right?”

“Fine, Jeannie. Just fine.”

Clutching the notepad and pencil to her chest, the girl moved toward the door, hesitated. Casting one last worried backward glance at her employer who had turned back to the window, she slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.

“Code ninety-nine, code ninety-nine,” came the female voice over the sound system. “Dr. Miller to emergency. Dr. Miller, please report to emergency at once.”

Poor Dr. Shea, Jeannie thought, wishing there was something she could do to help. Something to repay him for all that he had done for her.

It was during her second month in analysis that she fell madly in love with Dr. Shea. She’d begun dressing with care for their sessions, trying desperately to make him notice her as a woman, to love her back. She’d been totally out of control, buoyed by her fantasies, soaring to exquisite heights one minute, plummeting into black depths of despair and self-hatred the next. It was a bad time for her. The worst.

It couldn’t have been too great for Dr. Shea, either, she thought, flushing a little, remembering. Especially when she began making those middle of the night calls to his house when she couldn’t get to sleep for thinking of him. Not once did he make her feel a fool for her feelings. His voice ever calm and caring, he would explain again and again about transference and dependency, until gradually she was able to put their relationship into perspective. Dr. Shea was a good man. He was moody was all.

Funny, though he’d often told her to call him Jonathan, she could never quite bring herself to. Calling him by his first name—well, that would be showing a lack of respect. She heard herself on the telephone to him, saying, “I love you, Dr. Shea,” and smiled to herself. It was really quite funny when you thought about it.

Chapter 5

The woman’s voice seemed to come from far off, faintly, as though carried on ocean waves.

Once Todd had telephoned her from Vietnam, and his voice over the telephone lines had sounded like that.

“Katherine Summers—Miss Summers? Wake up now. The doctor is here to see you.”

Someone calling out to Aunt Katherine. But Aunt Katherine is dead. The voice grew louder, insistent, grating along Katie’s nerves, making her aware of the throbbing pain in her head. She longed to tell whoever it was to go away, but the effort to speak was too great.

“Miss Summers. Open your eyes. That’s a good girl.”

 
“No, go away,” Katie managed through parched, swollen lips, aggravated at the bright cheerfulness of the woman’s voice. It seemed like mockery when Katie felt so horrible. Why didn’t she just let her alone? Let her sleep.

Katie tried to open her eyes. They felt as if there were weights attached to them. Through slitted eyes, she could make out the blurred white forms bending over her. The figures wavered, like pale ghosts, seeming to have no substance. Gradually, they drew into focus, then more sharply, as did the stark white walls. The smell of anesthetic was so strong in her nostrils she could almost taste it.

“My head hurts,” she whispered.

“I’m not surprised,” the doctor said, bending over her, peering into each of her eyes with a tiny light. His tanned scalp showed through thinning gray hair. “You have a nasty concussion. But we can give you something for the pain.”

Straightening, he smiled at her. He looked pleased with himself for some reason. “I’m Dr. Miller, by the way. This is Nurse Ring.”

“Ring if you need anything,” she sang, and Katie groaned.

Dr. Miller laughed. “You must be on the mend, my dear, if you can recognize a warped sense of humor.”

“Really, Doctor,” the nurse said in mock indignation.

“But even if she doesn’t make it to The Tonight Show, ” he went on, “she’s an excellent nurse. You’re in good hands.”

Looking into the two pairs of eyes that were watching her intently for a response, Katie understood that the lighthearted act was meant to reassure her, to keep her from feeling afraid. She wished she could feel more appreciative. She wished she could feel anything other than this sick, throbbing pain in her head.

“Could you tell us your name, where you live, that sort of thing?” the doctor asked. “Routine, but necessary, I’m afraid.”

Her voice, when she spoke, came out weak and raspy. She felt as if she were trying it out for the first time.

“My name is—Katherine Summers.” Of course. They hadn’t been calling to her aunt at all, but to her. It was just that no one had called her Katherine since she was a child, and even then, only her mother. “Katherine Anne Summers,” she said. “But everyone calls me Katie. I live in a house at Black Lake. It belonged to my aunt when she was alive.” This last was said as much to clear it for herself as for anyone. To make her own existence real.

“Yes,” the doctor said, smiling again. “I’ve heard of her. I knew the name rang a bell. She was a writer, wasn’t she? Well, that’s good, Katie. Do you remember what happened? What brought you here?”

“Yes.” She didn’t want to remember. Remembering made her head hurt worse. She licked dry lips. “May I have some water, please?”

A gentle hand supported the back of her head while the cup was placed to her lips. “Just a little now,” the nurse said. “Sip it.”

Her head again resting on the pillow, Katie closed her eyes. She shivered as the image flashed back to her. “Someone in the rearview mirror. A man.”

Frowning, he bent lower. “I’m sorry, Katie. I didn’t quite hear you. Can you speak up a little, dear?”

“Eyes—dead eyes. In the rearview mirror.”

The effort of speaking took its toll. Her heart raced, her cotton hospital shirt was damp with perspiration. She caught the questioning look that passed between the two.

“Are you telling me,” Dr. Miller said, making his words slow and deliberate, “that there was a—a dead man in the back seat of your car?”

At his look of incredulity, Katie struggled to sit up, but the doctor eased her back down on the bed. “Just lie still, please. You mustn’t upset yourself.”

“But they must have found the body.”
         

“Perhaps they have,” Dr. Miller said too quickly, “and they’re just not making it public yet.”

The nurse’s smile was strained.

“I’m not crazy,” Katie said.

“No one thinks you are, Katie,” the doctor replied kindly. “But perhaps it’s possible that—”

“I didn’t imagine it,” she cut in, fighting to keep her voice controlled and even, knowing that hysteria wouldn’t help her cause. “There was a man in the back seat of my car, and he was dead. I swear it. My God, I saw his eyes. I’ll never forget them. It’s what made me lose control of the car.” She stopped, sighing. “But I can see you don’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you. At least I believe that’s what you think you saw. Certainly something must have happened to make you slam into that telephone pole on the wrong side of the road.”

A telephone pole. The dark wall that had rushed at her. “Yes,” she said wearily, “and I’ve told you what it was.”

After a moment of contemplation, Dr. Miller asked, “Was the man you—saw—someone you knew?” Katie could see through this new approach. He was afraid of upsetting her further, afraid of pushing her over the edge. The thought frightened her as much as anything. She wasn’t used to being handled with kid gloves.

There was no choice but to answer. “No. At—at least I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.” Those eyes staring at her—it had all happened so fast. Katie closed her eyes against the mounting pain in her head, like repeated stabs of a knife inside her skull. She was beginning to feel nauseous.

“Are you experiencing more discomfort?” Dr. Miller asked.

She could only nod, imagining her fingers moving upward to gently massage her throbbing temples, but lacking the strength to raise her arms.

“Try to put the incident out of your mind for now, Katie,” he said. “I’ve kept you talking for much too long. There’ll be time later when you’re feeling up to it. And you will be, I promise. You’re coming along nicely. I expect that’s hard for you to believe just now, feeling as you do. I’ll have the nurse bring you something for the pain.”

The whole session had left her drained, and when Nurse Ring returned with the small white pill in its plastic cup, Katie swallowed it eagerly, only too glad to let it work its miracle. Within minutes, the pain receded to a dull echo of itself.

Through half-closed lids, Katie followed Nurse Ring’s movements about the room. She walked on cat’s feet, busying herself, smoothing this, plumping that, now and then a hand going to the short, dark hair beneath her crisp nurse’s cap. She transferred folded linen from the chair by the door to the closet shelves facing Katie’s bed. This completed, she moved to the window and opened it a couple of inches, adjusted the drapes to let in some air. The nurse turned, a faint expression of wariness in her eyes. “Is there something I can get you?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Katie half-whispered. Then she blurted out the question that had begun to prod at her. “What day is this?”

Outside her window, the day was sunny, the sky a clear, unbroken blue as far as she could see. The last she remembered, it had been dark and raining.

The nurse didn’t answer right away. Then, her bright, practiced smile switched on, she said, “Wednesday. You’ve had a long sleep, Miss Summers.” She pretended to study something on her chart. Katie’s mind did a fast computation. Wednesday. The accident happened on Saturday. An eerie feeling, cool as ice-crystals, swept through her. Four days gone from her life. Just as if they had never been.

“Is—is there anything else I should know?” The question brought a fake-puzzled look from the nurse. “No, I don’t think so. There’ll be further tests, I expect—those that couldn’t be performed while you were comatose—but you heard what Dr. Miller said. He feels you’re out of any immediate danger.” She hesitated, and Katie sensed there was something else, something the nurse was keeping from her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I really should wait for Dr.—”

“No, please. You tell me. It’ll stay between us, I promise.”

“Well—uh—you did give us quite a scare on Monday morning.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You just decided to stop breathing. A little bout of respiratory failure. The shock. It happens sometimes. It got pretty tense there for a while. We had to hook you up to the respirator for a few hours. But you rallied nicely, thank the Lord.”

Yes, thank the Lord. She could simply have died right there on the table, just slipped away, and not been aware of anything that was happening.

In one way, it had nothing at all to do with her. Today, instead of waking, she might have been buried. Katie gave herself a mental shake to expel the morbid thoughts.

The nurse approached the bed and helped by slipping thermometer under her tongue, feeling for a pulse, talking. The nurse’s hand on Katie’s wrist felt cool and light.

“By the way,” she said, “you’ve had friends calling to ask about you. Maybe tomorrow, if you’re a very good girl, you can have visitors. I’ll see what Dr. Miller has to say about it. Oh, and there’s an absolutely spectacular bouquet of red roses out in the corridor with your name on it. Someone special, maybe?” she added with a conspiratorial wink. “Would you like me to bring them in?”

Katie managed a “yes” around the thermometer.

“I didn’t bring them in right away because some patients are allergic.” Removing the thermometer, she shook it, read it, then jotted something down on the chart, which Katie tried to catch, and couldn’t.

“Besides, flowers use up precious oxygen, and you did have that episode.”

Surely there was enough oxygen for herself and one lone bouquet of roses, Katie thought, and said so. She wished the nurse would stop treating her as if she, Katie, were a child. Or mentally deranged, which is probably what she did think, and who could blame her? She was beginning to doubt her own sanity.

Alone now, she puzzled over the fact of the police finding only her at the scene of the accident. Why? Surely there was some logical explanation. There had to be. She was just too exhausted to think of one. Her last thoughts before drifting off were of the flowers out in the corridor. Jason must have sent them. Dear Jason—such a dear, good friend. The nurse had been right about one thing—it was “special” to have someone in your camp who asked nothing of you but your friendship. She smiled drowsily, and by the time the nurse returned with the roses, so many they obscured her face, Katie was fast asleep.

Hours later, she awoke to the clatter of supper trays wheeling down the corridor on noisy carts, and someone across the hall calling out in a voice for the deaf, “Wake up, Mrs. Patterson, your supper’s here.”

The food smells blended with the heady, sweet fragrance of roses, two dozen in all, arranged perfectly in a milky-white vase on Katie’s night table, their crimson velvet petals in full bloom.

She read the card, which had been tucked in among the roses, and a faint smile of surprise crossed her face.

Katie,

I’ll see you soon, my darling. Please get well.

Love forever,

Drake

“Good evening,” Nurse Ring sang, bursting into the room, toting a supper tray. Katie returned the card to the bouquet. “And how are we feeling, Miss Summers?” she asked, setting the tray down on Katie’s bed table, and sliding it toward her. “Hungry?” Why did everything the woman uttered, sound like lines from a bad play?

“No, not really,” Katie said, struggling to sit up, wincing at the raw spot on her elbow, caused, she guessed, by harshly laundered sheets. “But I don’t want to speak for you.”

The instant the sarcastic words were said, Katie wished she could pull them out of the air.

At first Nurse Ring just looked blankly at her, then she colored a little, and laughed. A real laugh—infectious—for which Katie was enormously grateful. “We do get into a rut around here, don’t we? But some of the patients like the ‘we’ thing. Makes them feel pampered.”

Katie said nothing.

“But not you, huh?” She grinned good-naturedly, if a little sheepishly. “Okay, point taken. Now it’s my turn.” Her dark eyes met Katie’s squarely. No sheepishness now. “Hungry or not, you must try to eat. You’ve been on I.V. for four days, and you’re a lot weaker than you might imagine, lying in that bed. Just wait until the first time you put your feet on the floor. You’ll see.”

Gingerly, Katie removed the metal cover from the dinner plate— one half scoop of cottage cheese, two prunes swimming in brown juice. She quickly buried them under the cover, raised a smaller one, revealing a clear, dark soup smelling faintly of beef. She thought she might manage that. Picking up her spoon, she asked the nurse if there was an evening paper, and was told the boy who brought them around had already come and gone while Katie slept.

“I don’t think there’s anything in tonight’s paper about the accident, though,” the nurse said kindly, surprising Katie with her perceptiveness. “There was a short bit in Monday’s. Just that you were rushed in here after your car struck a telephone pole. The weather was mentioned as probable cause.” She lowered her eyes. “It also said you were the lone occupant of the car.”