Sister Dear (36 page)

Russell pulled at Caroline's elbow and guided her to the small sofa perpendicular to June's wheelchair. “Ah yes, the man from the exercise department—”

“It's Russell, ma'am.” He flushed and adjusted in the seat.

“Oh, and it's the Marshall girl too. How are you, Emma dear?”

“I'm Emma's niece,” Caroline explained. “I'll tell her you said hello.”

A flicker of confusion registered on her face, but June didn't
look away. “How long has it been? How's your sister?” Her eyes softened as she petted the small dog, who was now resting in her lap, paws draped over the side of her legs.

Russell shook his head, indicating she shouldn't argue.

“Fine. She's doing fine,” Caroline answered.

“Is she working at the vet office?” June inquired. Her hand paused above the dog's collar, waiting for an answer. “She's going to be perfect for medical school. I just know it.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Caroline swallowed a lump in her throat.

June resumed stroking her hand over the dog's ears and back. “Now, the person I've been worried about is you, dear. How are you getting along? I know you must be so disappointed.”

“I'm fine,” Caroline said and glanced at Russell.

“There's no need to try to hide anything. Not from me. I'm your doctor, and you can always discuss things openly in my office.” June smiled. “Now, let's talk about your options, shall we?” She settled back in her wheelchair. “When you find someone who really loves and cares for you, you'll be able to figure it out. Both adoption and surrogates are possible.”

Caroline stiffened. “Why?”

“The miscarriage caused all kinds of problems,” June explained. “You can't have children, Emma. I'm so sorry.”

Russell reached for Caroline's hand and squeezed it.

“And I want you to think about pressing charges. Get a restraining order. All those bruises on your right side.”

Caroline began shaking.

Russell interrupted. “Right side, meaning what?”

“That he was left-handed, of course. His dominant hand. I noticed it on Emma right away when she came in.”

“I see,” Russell replied, darting a look at Caroline.

June drew in a breath. “You'll take care of her now? Make sure
she stays away from him? I've never quite trusted him. Something about the man.”

“Who, ma'am?” Russell pressed.

Cocoa perked up and began to growl in June's lap. She stroked his head and tried to soothe him. “Shh, now. What's all the fuss?” Dr. Gaines bent down to whisper. “It's okay.”

A knock sounded at the door. A second later, one of the nurses' aides poked her head in the door. “I hate to break up the party, but Dr. Gaines has an appointment at the beauty parlor downstairs. She'll be back in a while.”

Russell clucked his tongue for Cocoa to come. “I have to start my shift soon anyway.” He touched Caroline's arm. “I'll walk you downstairs. Mom should be back any minute.”

June turned her head. “Thank you so much for stopping by and seeing me. And, Emma dear, come see me in the office on Monday.”

FIFTY-ONE

EMMA

November 2006

“Hello?” Emma called out. The pharmacy looked deserted, aisles empty, no one at the cash register. The florescent lights cast a bright glare in her path.

She'd used the nausea as a made-up excuse, something Allie would buy as a reasonable delay. Emma winced at the scent of candles—vanilla, peach, and apple pie—all that seemed so wonderful before pregnancy. Now her lie was coming back to haunt her. Emma stepped away from the aisle, fanning her face with one hand.

“Anyone here?” Emma raised her voice, stepping up on tiptoes to scan the shelves above her head. Her wide skirt swished around her knees. Any sign of life would have been welcome at that point. She started to worry.

The store was clearly open; the sign in front said so in blinking red-and-blue lights. The door was propped open, as was customary on warm fall evenings.

Emma leaned over the pharmacy desk and glanced both ways, almost expecting to find a dead body laid out behind it. Nothing
but a scrap of paper lay there. She pressed her elbows and belly to the checkout counter, resting for a moment.

She'd asked, then insisted they meet at the pharmacy. His wife was out of town with the kids. It was neutral ground, untainted, and she didn't want the distractions of the place that held so many memories.

He'd agreed, reluctantly, after she'd wheedled and begged, explaining her father was likely to get after-hours call, as the illegal dog tracks were open Thursday evenings.

“Why doesn't he just shut them down?” Coach Thomas complained into the phone. “Then he wouldn't have to bother with those hounds.”

“I-I don't know. Daddy's just that way. The same men who run dogs bring their puppies and kittens in for shots. Daddy sees the horses at their stables.” Emma evaluated her answer. “I guess he's not going to bite the hand that feeds him—us.”

Coach murmured something under his breath.

“Daddy reads them the riot act if they harm those dogs. He makes sure to tell them he doesn't want to see them back.”

“Emma, you just come around 8:50 p.m. I'll be waiting.”

The dial tone rang in her ear.

Emma reached over the swinging door separating the front of the store from the back. The latch slid apart easily and fell into place. Without a sound, the divider swung open, allowing Emma to pass through.

She glanced behind her, thought for a moment about locking the glass front doors. No, this wasn't her house or her business. She was here for a reason.

“Hey,” Emma whispered and crept toward the back of the building. High shelves were stocked full of Kleenex and tissue paper. Rows of Lysol and cleaning supplies lined the shelves in different-sized bottles and cans.

He was there then, all of a sudden, in the last room she checked. In the single light above a four-legged table, he sat, legs splayed, cell phone in one hand. His gaze was frozen, lost in some world of ice and mist.

Emma took another step.

“Angel, you came.” He stood, put his phone on the small table, and rushed over, his hand caressing her neck and the small of her back. He held her out at arm's length and looked her over. “You're looking so fine,” he declared and kissed her full on the mouth.

When she came up for air, she started to tell him. About the baby. About her love for him. How she wanted a family and a house and a dog.

“Shh,” he cautioned her.

“What is it?” she whispered. Her legs wobbled underneath her. She was hungry again. The thought was constant now, and she couldn't think of much else.

“You've got to be so excited, sugar.” He slapped his leg and hooted. “I can see it. A few more games and we'll be at the state playoffs, baby.” At the declaration, he spun in place and pretended to spike the ball.

Emma watched as he strutted in front of her, making a muscle sign with his bicep, posing on one knee, then jumping up with both fists extended into a warrior stance. All at once, his actions seemed petty and juvenile, a bit like a clown's at the circus.

“Don't you want to talk about us? The future?”

“There's nothing more important than Wolverine football,” he rallied back and struck a haughty stance. “Come on. Show me some excitement. Give me something. Come on.”

Emma threw up both hands in surrender. She would let him have his moment of celebration. He was like a kid keyed up after chugging a six-pack of Coke and downing a dozen donuts. It
wasn't likely to change as long as they were winning. And there were a few more games to get through till the team made it to the Georgia Dome.

“Did you see them last week? Twenty yard line, ten, then five,” Coach described with vigor, his arms mimicking a running stance. “Over the top, in the end zone. He scores! Wolverines score!”

Emma smiled at his antics, trying to pay rapt attention, but she found herself drifting off, away from the room, as she leaned against the wall. She jerked her head up with a start. Coach was still ranting.

“We're ready for tomorrow night.” He rubbed his hands together and slapped his thighs. “Oh, do we have some trick plays up our sleeve. And yeah, it's gonna get messy. Those boys over yonder want to play dirty?” He pivoted to make sure Emma was listening. “We're going to bring it on. Make them wish they'd stayed home.”

A small, tiny part of her began to fray at the edges, just in places, while she listened to him rant and rave about the next night's game. In that moment, Emma realized she was just part of the crowd, one small bit of his audience. She wondered if it really mattered if she was there or if he just needed someone—a living, breathing female to listen and cheer him on.

Coach was still talking. “Had a little hiccup there, with our friend D'Shawn, but he's back on board. Got him pumped up.”

“And after playoffs, will you stop?” Emma finally asked.

“Ma'am?” The coach stopped mid-sentence, mid-pose, mid-breath. His forehead wrinkled, and he waited for her to repeat the statement.

“You will have proven yourself.” Emma held up her chin and met his eyes. “Achieved everything you came here to do.” Now she wanted proof of their future, evidence that he loved her more than anyone else.

“What did you say?” His tone was accusing and strident. His lips formed a solid, straight line, his nostrils flared. His pat answers, the glib and fresh attitude, vanished. His personality and charm fizzled out like a candlewick doused in water. “Stop? No, I don't think I heard you right.”

Emma held her ground, keeping her voice low and casual. She blinked up at him, maintaining an innocent face. “You took this team from a bunch of farm kids and molded them into a group of super soldiers. But if you keep winning, people will start to wonder.”

Coach whirled at the jab. “Wonder what?” he barked. “Who do you think you are?” He heaved a breath and regained his composure.

“I'm the person who loves you,” she countered.

“Love,” the coach scoffed. “This goes way beyond you. It's over your head, girl.”

“Girl?” Emma lashed back. “I thought I was going to be your wife. A year, maybe two. Isn't that what you promised me? The house, the yard, a ring . . .”

Coach Thomas stopped, skidding in his tracks. His motion became jerky and robotic.

Emma stared back into his eyes. “Unless that's not what you want. Unless this has all been a big game. And you don't care about me at all.”

“You might want to reconsider where you're going with this,” he cautioned. “You're treading in some dangerous territory.”

It was no answer and she knew it. The gamble was on. No time to stop it, no time to fix it. It was a test of the biggest kind. He needed to decide: trust Emma with everything or not.

“After playoffs, I want to stop,” Emma challenged. “Our supplies are way off.”

Coach simmered, then began to pace, his face darkening as he let her talk.

“I've had to order more and more.” Heart beating double-time, Emma added, “Someone is going to notice.”

“Really?” he muttered.

Emma opened her mouth. Before she could utter a sound, Coach yanked her up from the table and slammed her against the wall, sending an old wooden chair clattering to the ground. In one swift motion, he pinned one arm behind her back while he held the other wrist twisted above her head.

“Spoiled little rich girl wants to run the show, does she?” His breath burned hot and acidic on her cheek. “Tell me what to do, how to coach, run my life—is that it? Am I understanding you correctly, Miss Marshall?” Coach relaxed his grip, allowing Emma a second of relief, a reminder that he was in charge.

“Why? Y-you were supposed to love me. We're getting m-married.” Emma thrashed in disbelief. “Let me go. You're hurting me.”

He tightened his grip on her forearm, fingers digging into the tendons and bone. “Now, where are those lovely manners your mama taught you? I'm not hearing them . . .”

Emma moaned in pain and slunk against the wall. Her arm throbbed. The ache radiated down her arm, through her elbow, and into her shoulder.

“Not so smart, now, are you, princess?” Coach sneered an inch from her lips, unblinking. “Don't you realize what you're doing? Questioning me?” He threw Emma down, casting her off like a used jacket. “You're ruining everything.”

He spit on the floor inches from her head. Emma didn't flinch; her body was cement, heavy and thick, attached to the ground.

When she didn't look up or answer, he continued, “I'm the king here. And if I decide I need something or someone, I'm going to take it. Which includes anything I want from your father's office, anything I want from you, anything to win the game and make it to
the playoffs. That's what this town wants, and that's what this town is going to get. Year after year after year.”

Coach kicked at her shins and aimed for her stomach. Emma shrieked and scrambled to get away from the blow. His boot caught the edge of her abdomen. Searing pain shot through the lower part of her belly, as if the child inside her had cried out in fear.

“If you say a word, I'll hurt you worse than this.” He grunted, reached down, and pulled her hair to force her to look at him. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Do you hear me?”

Emma let out a groan as tears coursed down her cheeks.

“Yes. Yes. Stop, please—” He'd lost his mind. She needed to get away. She needed to save herself. Save the baby. He'd never have to know. She would figure out what to do later.

Coach let go, letting her slump, shaking and quivering, to the floor.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured and curled into a ball. The apology wasn't meant for his ears. It was for her father. For her own bruised body. But most of all, for their baby.