Love's Miracles (2 page)

Instead
of dwelling on the negative, Margo thought about her dream. It always gave her
a lift during those rare moments when she couldn’t drag up another ounce of
energy. A retreat in the country would not only benefit her patients but would
also help her relax.

She
could offer workshops in all of the arts: music, writing, painting, and crafts.
It was her belief that productive creativity reduced stress and revived the
soul. Because many of her patients were victims of stress and traumatic shock,
she figured it would be an asset to offer an alternative environment where they
could experience the peacefulness nature offered.

Margo
began to hum to herself as she cleared up the last-minute paperwork. Yes, it
would be difficult, but dreams were important. Fulfilling them was satisfying.

***

His
breath came in gasping pants that felt like knives were stuck in his lungs.
Sweat poured down his skin.
Keep on running. Don’t stop.

Bullets
whizzed close to his ear, spurring him to run faster. But he couldn’t move.
Jungle slime sucked on his combat boots. Branches and vines clawed at his
flesh. Panic built inside until he thought it would explode in a bloodcurdling
scream. H
e
wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his hair out, but he didn’t. Charlie
would hear him. Charlie would shoot to kill.

Another
bullet sped by with a deadly whine. He tugged hard and freed his boot from the
bog. He ran and ran and ran.

Shouts
echoed around him until suddenly he stopped. Dead ahead stood a soldier, his
slanted eyes staring with chilling intent. The soldier lifted his rifle until
it was aimed at his chest.

Then
suddenly the soldier’s image shifted and the slanted eyes became round. The
man’s face looked like Al. He stared, his glare accusing as he squeezed the
trigger of the rifle.

No!

Zane
bolted upright, his heart pounding like thunder against his ribs, sweat
streaking down his brow and dripping onto his glistening chest. For seconds
panic charged through his system until he realized he was safe in his room.
A
dream. It was only a dream.

He
took deep breaths to calm his system. Slowly he scanned the moonlit room,
taking inventory of the familiar objects – the chair draped with his jeans and
Pendleton shirt, the built-in cabinets along the walls, the massive water bed
in the center of the room. Everything was familiar.

Zane
stood and walked to the triangular-shaped window at the end of the loft. All
was quiet in the meadow below. Nothing moved along the fringes of the
surrounding woods. Zane’s shoulders eased as he finally relaxed. He pressed his
palms to his temples.

It
had been a long time since he’d had that nightmare. He wondered what had
triggered it. Yesterday, after breakfast, he’d split some firewood, then spent
most of the day in his workshop carving on the redwood burl. Later he’d gone to
the stream for a swim. Nothing unusual. Nothing to bring back the horror from
the depths of the past.

Zane
tugged on his jeans and shirt, which he left unbuttoned, and strode barefoot
down the spiral stairs and through the spacious living area of the A-frame. He
stood at the floor-to-ceiling window and paused, searching for any movement out
of the ordinary. His instincts were alert, well-tuned. Only silence greeted
him.

He
pulled his fingers around his jaw and wondered if Vinnie would show up today.
It was getting around that time. A sense of anticipation curled through him,
but he didn’t allow it to develop. He didn’t want to be eager – that would mean
he’d have to admit he was lonely. Zane couldn’t afford to do that. He’d found
peace here. If he acknowledged loneliness he’d be forced to consider change.

His
fingers shook as he lowered them to his bare chest. He would also have to
consider the aching emptiness that throbbed in his heart.

Zane
straightened and shook off the melancholy mood threatening to settle over him.
It was the dream; that was all. It was almost dawn. He’d fix some coffee and
then take a long hike among the redwoods.

***

Margo
dumped a pile of clothing into the suitcase that she had dug out of the closet.

“You’re
taking
those
old clothes?”

Margo
glanced up in time to see the horrified look on her mother’s face. She
chuckled. Served her right for coming to visit while she was trying to pack.
“Not exactly the same apparel I packed last week, is it? But that was for a
workshop at the Hilton Convention Center. This is altogether different.”

“You’ve
never dressed like this to see a patient,” Bettina Devaull said, her fine
features puckered in disgust as she held up a pair of purple jeans.

“He
lives fifteen miles down a dirt road. I imagine it’s going to be primitive.”

Having
lived in the city all of her life, she had no idea what the conditions would
be. All Vinnie Zanelli had said was that Zane, his older brother, had suddenly
declared he couldn’t handle the pressures of being top executive of Zanelli,
Incorporated. The corporation owned a fleet of fishing boats along the coast
from San Francisco to Puget Sound, as well as restaurants in three major
cities. Zane had moved up to a cabin on a large tract of redwood forest once
lumbered by his family. She had no idea if the cabin was primitive or contained
the conveniences of the wealthy. She did know the road was unimproved, so she
was prepared for the worst.

“You’re
sure you want to do this?” Bettina asked as she nudged her daughter out of the
way and began folding the rumpled clothes.

“You
sound like Fred.”

“You
don’t have to go. The profession isn’t going to hold it against you. In fact, I
don’t know of anyone who would even consider this kind of case.”

“Which
is exactly why I’m going. Just because a man doesn’t come to a clinic does not
mean he doesn’t need help.”

Bettina
flinched. The reminder of Margo’s father hit home. “Just remember you can’t
help someone who doesn’t want it.”

Margo
sprawled across the chaise beside the large picture window. From the height of
her hillside apartment she could see the Berkeley city lights below and those
of San Francisco beyond the bay. She always thought that at night the city
looked like a giant jewelry box with the bridges dangling out of it like
necklaces of diamonds and rubies.

“From
Vinnie’s description of his brother, I have no reason to believe this man will
pose any threat. Sounds like he wants help.”

“Vinnie
did tell him he was bringing you?’’

“I
made it a stipulation. I’m not completely daft. It would be foolish to drive
two hundred miles and have the guy kick me off his property.”

Bettina
shook her head as she packed the pile of clothes into the suitcase. “I doubt
that would happen. You’re too clever at getting people to talk to you.”

“Stubborn
is more like it. Anyway, this case intrigues me.”

“I
have to admit I’m curious to know more about him myself,” Bettina said as she
folded a pink sweater. “He sounds interesting.”

Margo
turned from the window and watched her mother pack her case. It always amazed
her how young the sixty-five-year-old woman managed to look. Margo shared her
youthful glow as well as her dark hair and brown eyes. But that was where the
similarities in appearance between mother and daughter ended.

Bettina
dressed in the latest fashion, had coiffed hair and manicured nails. Margo
supposed that sense of style was due to her mother’s Paris upbringing and her
continual efforts to Americanize herself after coming as a newlywed to the
United States in the 1950s.

Margo
never dressed poorly. In fact the price tags of her wardrobe rivaled her
mother’s. But she frequented the boutiques that featured the unconventional.
She liked unique designs and splashy colors. The natural fabrics ranged from
silks to cottons to llama wool. Margo wore no polyesters or nylons.

Mother
and daughter, often a study in opposites, were tied by close bonds. They were
partners. They’d gone to university together. Trained at different facilities
and starting out in different areas, they finally had a practice of their own –
Devaull-Devaull. Margo knew Bettina shared her need to help people, and for the
same reason. Neither woman wanted to see another person suffer like Margo’s
father had.

Margo
stretched, pointing her toes and reaching above her head. The action released
some of the stress of the long day. She should get up and help her mother, but
she didn’t. Bettina enjoyed the task and Margo hated to pack. They’d come to an
agreement years ago about letting one do things for the other. Bettina provided
a semblance of organization to Margo’s bohemian life-style. Margo provided an
outlet for her mother’s troubled soul.

It
had always been that way. Ever since she could remember, Margo had been the one
who’d had the strength to face her father’s disfigurement, his depression, and
ultimately his suicide. Bettina had been too riddled with fear and guilt.
Bettina’s confidence developed after Margo had convinced her to attend school
and join her in working as a psychologist.

Bettina’s
soft voice filtered into Margo’s contemplation. She still had a slight French
accent, but in the evening, when she was tired, Margo could hear the traces of
it.

“Pardon,
maman
. I didn’t hear you.”

Bettina
smiled and repeated her question. “Did you find out any more information from
the V.A.?”

“Not
much. His record’s clean and straightforward. His debriefing was standard. No
unusual behavior noted. Won a bronze star for bravery and a silver star for
saving lives. Nothing to indicate a problem.”

“He’s
never been treated by the psychiatric ward at the V.A.?”

“No.
Not in private practice either. He came out of the service and went to Stanford
to finish his degree in biology. After that, straight into the family business,
where he headed the operation after his father died.” Margo tapped her knee as
she mentally ticked off the preliminary facts. “He was fine until last fall when
he went on vacation and never came back.”

“He’s
in his early forties and unmarried. Could be a mid-life crisis.”

Thirty-five
and sensitive about the term mid-life crisis herself, Margo considered the
possibility. “I’ll keep it in mind. Vinnie suspects his retreat into isolation
has something to do with his years in Vietnam. He was shot down in enemy
territory.”

“Was
he captured – a prisoner?”

Margo
saw the flicker of pain flash through her mother’s eyes. It always came when
the word prisoner was mentioned. Her husband, a young captain in the Air Force,
had been shot down in North Korea, and for two years Bettina hadn’t known if he
was alive or dead.

“No.
But he was a gunner on a transport helicopter.”

“High-risk
position. He saw a lot of combat.”

“Which
puts him on the top of the list for posttraumatic stress disorder. Could be
he’s having a delayed reaction.”

“You’ll
know if he does. You’ve had enough experience in that field.”

“Vinnie
Zanelli heard about my work on the CBS News Special last month on the V.A. Fred
evidently mentioned my name.”

“I’m
not surprised. You know he wants you back at the center.”

Margo
nodded.

Bettina
folded the last item of clothing and sat on the edge of the water bed. “It’s
strange that he won’t allow his mother or friends near. Any ideas about what
that could mean?”

“No.
Do you?” Margo watched her mother pause to think for a moment. The woman had
remarkable intuition.

“I’ll
need more input. But I’m sure you’ll be able to help him.”

“Thanks
for the vote of confidence.” Margo smiled to herself. Her mother thought every
accomplishment of Margo’s was outstanding, even if it was only minor. Mothers
like that were great for the morale. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep
now? I’m leaving early in the morning.”

“Drive
carefully and take care.” Bettina stood and walked over to her daughter to
place a kiss on her forehead.

“You
relax while I’m gone. I don’t want to see that you’ve been to the office.”

Bettina
smiled.

Margo
shook her head. Her mother was the stabilizing force in their partnership. Both
women had the nurturing warmth that encouraged many of their patients to open
up and respond. Margo had the determined drive. They made a good team. But
Bettina worked too hard. Maybe someday, she hoped, her mother would be able to
let go of the past and find additional purpose in her life.

***

It
was mid-morning by the time Margo reached Fort Bragg. The drive had been
uneventful and the scenery beautiful. The last time Margo had been up in
redwood country was when she’d been a student at the University of California
at Berkeley ten years earlier, going for picnics on the coast. Nothing had
changed.

The
giant redwoods stood like sentinels guarding the forest. Moss hung from trees,
and ferns covered the forest floor. On the coast, the fog drifted in and out of
the thick groves, creating a fairyland of misty magic.