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Small-Town Girl
C.J. Carmichael
Will a small-town solution work for a big-city girl?After her son is seriously injured in a car accident, Julie Matthew wants two things: for him to regain his health and for her family to return to normal. What a shock when she learns that Russell, her husband, sees normal as a rut. His solution? To move their family from Vancouver back to the tiny rural town in Saskatchewan where he grew up.It's for the sake of their child, he claims, and a guilty conscience leads Julie, who loves big cities, to go along with his plan. But once in Chatsworth, she begins to suspect that Russell has his own interests at heart. Especially after she sees him and his former girlfriend together at the school where they'll both be teaching.And that's not the only surprise her husband has for her!
“I think we need to move.”
Julie froze, certain she hadn’t heard correctly. “Russell?”
“I know how much you love Vancouver, love this house. And you’ve done a beautiful job with it. But we’re in a rut.”
“Russell, this house is perfect—and I’m not talking about the bloody furniture or the color on the walls, for heaven’s sake. We’re close to Ben’s school, and his friends…. And what about the ten thousand we just spent on landscaping?”
She considered Russell’s long commute to work. “Do you want to move closer to the university? Is that it?”
“No. Farther. Much farther.” Russell cleared the plates from the table and rinsed them for the dishwasher.
Julie sat, waiting for him to tell her exactly what he had in mind. Finally he returned to the table. Gripping the back of the chair, he took a fortifying breath.
“I’ve been tossing the idea around for years now. Ben’s accident is only the catalyst.”
Cold dread pinned Julie to her chair. Years, Russell had said. Yet he’d never even hinted he wasn’t happy living here.
Then he added, “I’d like us to move back to the farm town I grew up in….”
Dear Reader,
We’ve all suffered personal tragedies, the sort that can turn your entire world upside down. You see people walking to work, stopping for coffee, mailing a letter, and wonder, Why are they bothering? Don’t they realize how unimportant it all is?
That’s how I felt as a young teenager when my brother was seriously injured in a farming accident. With my other brother and two sisters, I sat in front of the TV at my grandma’s house while my parents waited at the hospital. Disney was playing—it must have been a Sunday night. I remember staring at the set and wondering how Donald Duck could be up to his usual antics when my brother was so desperately hurt. I felt lost and scared. All I wanted was for life to go back to the way it had been that morning at breakfast, before any of the men had gone out to the fields.
In Small-Town Girl, that’s how Julie Matthew feels, too, when her son is gravely injured by a drunk driver. She wishes she could turn back the clock to the moment her phone rang that morning. She wishes she could change the answer she’d given, the decision she’d made so quickly.
But of course she can’t. And so our story begins….
C.J. Carmichael
Small-Town Girl
C.J. Carmichael
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
For around-the-clock advice (mostly pertaining to my stories) I thank my brother-in-law, Dr. Gordon Bird
For my brother David
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
AT THE TIME, THE MEETING had seemed very important to Julie Matthew, senior editor of West Coast Homes. She frowned when the magazine’s administrative assistant opened the boardroom door and beckoned to her.
“I’m rather busy, Gina.” She’d just put up her first overhead on projected advertising revenue. “I don’t suppose this could wait?”
Gina shook her head, her expression grim.
“Well, then.” Julie sighed, then smiled apologetically at the familiar faces, including those of the publisher and managing editor. Her felt marker still in her hand, she strode out of the room, closing the door behind her. “This had better be—”
Without a word, Gina handed her the phone, her eyes huge in what was, Julie noticed, a very pale face. What was wrong? Julie took the receiver in her left hand and clenched the marker in her other.
Russell was due home from Saltspring Island today. He’d taken some papers to mark in the peace of their seaside cottage. Had there been a problem with the shuttle plane as it sprinted across the Strait of Georgia to Vancouver Harbor? Oh, God, please no…
“Julie Matthew speaking.”
A stranger asked, “Are you Ben Matthew’s mother?”
Ben. It was Ben. Julie leaned against the wall, her knees suddenly undependable. “Yes” was all she could say.
“I’m sorry. Your son was in an accident. The ambulance brought him here, to the General Hospital.”
No! She didn’t actually scream—at least, she didn’t think so. She tried to ask what had happened, where to go, how he was. But her brain was stuck in a loop. Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben…
It wasn’t her husband. It was Ben, her nine-year-old son.
JULIE TOOK A TAXI from her office to the hospital. Gina had ordered the cab for her, and had promised to get hold of Russell, too. Julie should have been the one to tell her husband. But when she’d held her cell phone she couldn’t direct her shaking fingers to the familiar numbers.
Julie managed to pay the driver, get out of the car and shut the door. Now that she was here at the hospital, her heart began to slam against her chest. The red letters spelling out Emergency seemed ominous, almost evil. A deep breath didn’t help much but gave her the strength to head for the reception desk.
“Julie.”
She froze, taking in the face of her husband, who had somehow beat her here. He had the shell-shocked expression of a casualty victim on the cover of Life.
“I can’t believe this….” He offered his open arms and for a moment she gave in to the relief of his strong embrace.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“Gina called me on my way home from the harbor.”
It didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered.
“Where is he?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. They tell me it’s—it’s a head injury. He was unconscious when they brought him in. I think he still is.”
COMA. MANY TIMES JULIE had read books, watched movies, where characters were described in this state. Now she discovered she didn’t really know what the term meant. Dr. Assad, Ben’s neurologist, tried to explain.
“When you see him, he’ll appear as if he’s asleep. But Ben isn’t responding to outside stimuli the way a sleeping person would.”
“But…he will wake up…he’ll be okay?” Russell asked the question Julie didn’t dare voice.
“The CAT scan showed small amounts of bleeding. We won’t know the extent of his injury for a couple of days.”
Julie still couldn’t frame a question or even a comment. This couldn’t be happening to them. Yet there was no doubting the reality of the clean-cut, earnest physician in front of her.
“I wish I had definitive answers for you,” Dr. Assad said. “I know the uncertainty is difficult. Where brain injuries are concerned, long-term predictions are difficult. I’m afraid we’ll have to take this one day at a time.”
“Can we see him, Doctor? Can we see Ben?” Russell asked.
The physician nodded. “We have him in our Fast Track area. Be prepared for a lot of activity. Also, don’t be alarmed by the tube down his throat and the monitor leads. We’re taking good care of your son.”
Julie followed the doctor, Russell’s guiding hand on her back. People, corridors, walls blended in a kaleidoscope of whites and grays and greens as she thought of Ben. All she wanted was the relief of seeing him. Of holding his hand.
At the entrance to the trauma area, Julie stopped dead. She barely noticed the half-dozen medical personnel or the equipment Dr. Assad had warned them about. For her, all the light in the room focused on one person only—her child, motionless on an operating table.
The neurologist had been wrong. Ben didn’t look as though he was sleeping. At home Ben slept with his arms flung out and his covers tangled, hair curled engagingly over his forehead.
Here he was arranged neatly, with his arms at his side, his legs straight and together. His beautiful russet curls had been partially shaved.
Julie couldn’t move. She’d been clinging to an irrational hope that Ben would open his eyes when he heard her voice, when he felt her hand touch his. Now she knew, without even trying, that he wouldn’t.
“Oh, Ben.” Russell hurried to their son. He gathered one of the small, limp hands and pressed his cheek to it. Julie saw Russell’s tears escaping from behind his closed eyes.
Several tentative steps brought Julie to her husband’s side. She laid the back of her fingers against Ben’s cheek. His pale skin felt warm. Illogically, the numerous electrodes attached to his scalp made her think of the shock treatments notoriously used for mental illnesses.
Dr. Assad had assured them the EEG was painless. It was merely a tool for measuring brain-wave activity. Besides, Ben was beyond pain at the moment. Ben was beyond anything, judging from his face, which was blank, utterly devoid of his unique personality.
Where had he gone? If he wasn’t in this body anymore, where was he? Did he know they were here? Did he know she loved him, that she’d give anything…
“Ben.” She bent low to whisper his name inches from his ear. His perfect, beautiful ear. “Ben, it’s Mommy. You’re going to be all right, baby. I promise you’re going to be all right.”
She ran a finger down the side of his face, feeling the sharp edge of bone beneath soft boy skin. When he was an infant, sleeping in her arms, she’d often touched him this way. She’d dreamed about his future, imagining jars of insects, crayon-scrawled pictures, scraped knees and brave smiles. She’d pictured him sailing through high school, going to college, finding a girl….
Never this.
“I love you, Ben.”
She felt a cool hand on her arm and gazed up blankly.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Matthew. We’ll be moving Ben to ICU soon. You and your husband are welcome to stay while we make the preparations.” The nurse guided Julie toward a chair. Russell took her other hand.
Julie swayed as her field of vision narrowed. She blinked, putting a hand to her forehead.
“Julie?” Alarm coated Russell’s voice. “Are you all right?”
“Washroom—” She almost choked on the word as the nausea hit, upturning her stomach, bringing bile to her throat.
“This way.” The sympathetic nurse opened the exit and pointed her down the corridor.
“Let me come,” Russell said.
She shook her head at him, then rushed off. In the washroom she headed for the first available cubicle, then almost blacked out as she knelt on the floor. Facing the toilet, she retched, then flushed, then retched again. The former contents of her stomach swirled with the in-rushing water, before disappearing down the pipes.
Now she noticed a pale-yellow stain on the white toilet seat. A couple of black hairs stood out against the plain tile floor. She retched once more, wiped her mouth with a wad of toilet paper, then flushed the toilet again.
Oh, God, she was weak. Pathetic and useless. She leaned her head against the metal wall and closed her eyes. Something burned behind her lids. Tears? But she couldn’t cry; she wouldn’t.
