скачать книгу бесплатно
“So I tell Carl, ‘It must be a coincidence. There’s no way that woman in the paper is my cousin, because she’d have called me, right off.’”
You didn’t face a force of nature lying down. Hope wriggled as upright as she could get. Only a small whimper got past her clenched teeth.
“Oh, don’t you try to make me all sorry for you, missy. You should have called.” Jesse’s words were tough, but she eased pillows behind her cousin, then straightened the sheets, threw away used tissues, and dropped her nosegay of daisies and delphiniums in the water pitcher on the lap tray.
“Jess, they only took out the morphine drip this morning. I couldn’t remember my own name before that, much less your number.”
“I’m on speed dial, and you know it.” She humphed, but the corners of her lips relaxed a bit. “Thank God our mothers have passed on, because they’d be having fits to see you now.”
Hope winced, imagining those doll-like twin dynamos descending on her. “Thanks for reminding me that things could be worse.”
Hope had always wondered if her father died young to escape his wife’s small, but mighty grip on his life. Hope had wanted to escape, too, after she’d completed commuter college in her Portland suburb. She’d never have made it, if not for Jesse’s help. Hope had loved her mother, but she was...exacting. Anything within Vivian Sanderson’s sphere had to be rearranged to her satisfaction. Lives included.
But growing up with rigorous direction wasn’t the hardest part. Her mother didn’t let go until you not only did things her way, but felt less intelligent if you didn’t believe it was for the best. Her mother whispered in her mind. How can you face company without lipstick on, at least?
For the first time in a long time, Hope ignored her.
Jesse pulled up a plastic guest chair, sat, crossed her legs and leaned in. “Enough small talk. Tell me.”
Hope had been lying listening to hospital sounds for hours, thinking. But she could make no more sense of things now, than she had on morphine. It was as if, in surgery, they’d taken her old life along with her spleen. The more minutes ticked by, the more anxious she’d become. Her life may not have been titillating, but it was hers. She felt torn from her sheltered harbor, adrift in a huge, heaving sea of choices.
And Hope Sanderson wasn’t used to choices.
She reached for the water glass, and knocked it over.
Jesse mopped it up, her eyes reflecting Hope’s own worry. “You’re upset. Talk to me.”
She not only owed Jesse, she trusted her. But how could Hope explain something she couldn’t wrap her own head around? “I think I’m possessed.”
Jesse patted her hand. “No, we exorcised your mother when you moved here, remember?”
Hope snorted a laugh, then grabbed her stomach when it felt as if her guts were going to fall out. “Thanks, I needed that, Jess.”
Jesse took her hand. “Just talk. Don’t worry how it comes out.”
Hope scoured her mind, searching for words to explain her feelings. “It’s like my life has become a dress in the back of my closet from high school. It’s not only out of fashion, I’ve outgrown it. It’s too tight, and too short and—” she shrugged “—not me anymore.”
“How so?”
“Andrew, you know, my boss—”
“The one who clearly has a crush on you?”
“Yes. In the couple of days I was out of it, he changed from a hot dish to a cold fish.”
“Hon, don’t know how to break it to you, but he was always a cold fish.” Jess gave her a canny smile. “You could do so much better than sushi. It sounds to me like you woke up in more ways than one.”
“But I didn’t ask to!” It came out louder and way more desperate than she’d meant. “It’s more than Andrew. I can’t go back to the bank. I can’t go back to my apartment. When I think about it, I break into a cold sweat.”
“Sweetie, you’ve been through a horrible experience. The memories of that night are going to take time to get over.”
“The memories may fade, sure, but when I picture myself going back to life as usual, I get depressed, then panicky.” She squeezed her cousin’s hand. “Am I going crazy?”
“Oh, hon, you know what I think?” Jesse’s eyes went soft. “I think the Hope your mother created died in that shoot-out.” She reached up and petted her cousin’s hair. “You get to decide who this new person is. How many people get that chance?”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9b231d9d-71ed-5718-b578-7caa0bd22548)
BEAR TOOK THE sweepers into Santa Maria slow. His classic Harley-Davidson Fat Boy rode great on the straights, but the raked front end got squirrely through the turns, especially at high speeds. The sun’s heat tattooed his arms, but the salt breeze off the ocean buffeted his beard. The road whispered a siren’s song of freedom. There was a great cliff-hanging burger shack outside Big Sur. Maybe...he shoved the daydream aside.
You have to go through this to be free.
His leather gloves tightened over his knuckles. He forced the bike to lean in the turn to the crowded parking lot of Marian Regional Medical. No motorcycle parking here. He finally found an open space, pulled in, shut down the engine and lowered the side stand. He threw his leg over and studied the white Spanish-style facade as he unbuckled his skullcap helmet. He’d rather be rolling asphalt in a Vegas summer than walk into that group. But since that wasn’t an option the parole board would accept, he dropped his helmet into the leather side bag and headed for the door.
The old man at the information desk directed him down a series of rat-maze hallways that echoed his boot-falls. Outside the door, he took a deep breath and forced himself to turn the knob.
The room was small and windowless. The yellow paint was probably chosen to be cheery, but in the fluorescent lights, looked nauseous. Five of the six plastic chairs pulled into a cozy circle were occupied. Four of the attendees looked up at him with various shades of alarm.
He forced his face muscles to relax. He didn’t mean to scare people, but between his size, the ponytail, wild beard and heavy brows hooding his eyes, his natural look came off as crazed. And that was okay; it kept people out of his face. And his life.
Only one didn’t flinch. A small soft coffee-skinned woman with long black hair checked her watch. “You are late.” She had a light, floating, East Indian accent.
“Yeah.” He wasn’t saying he was sorry, when he wasn’t. It wasn’t as if he had to get a passing grade for this thing. He just had to attend. He slouched to the only open chair beside her, slid it a foot back from the circle and sat.
“Well.” She uncrossed her legs. “We were getting started. My name is Bina Rani, and I’m a family psychologist with the hospital. This is a new group, and an unconventional one at that, so let me detail how all this works, so you’re not apprehensive.”
He let the blah-blah flow around him as he checked out his classmates. He glanced to his left. At least he wouldn’t be the only guy in the group... The twentysomething kid was lean to the point of stringy. Legs crossed like a girl, he twirled a lock of limp strawberry blond hair on one finger. When he saw Bear watching, he dropped him a wink.
Lovely.
Bear didn’t have anything against being gay. Live and let live. But he didn’t like having it shoved in his face either.
He moved on to a large mousy woman, squirming in her chair as if trying to make herself smaller. Lifeless hair and baggy clothes, she had the flat, not-too-bright stare of a soap opera addict.
Directly across the circle sat a guy with his nose smashed flat, and a worm of red scar tissue bordering a trench-like depression running from his forehead, across his pancake nose, through his upper lip. The scar distorted one eyelid, making him look constantly surprised. Noticing Bear’s stare, the guy looked away.
Bear looked to the last chair beside the Rani woman. His breath reversed, sucking in so fast he choked. He coughed into his fist, but couldn’t look away. Shoulder length white-blond hair framed ice-blue eyes. His angel’s eyes. He felt his blood throbbing at his throat. He heard it in his ears. The resemblance sucker punched him, then rolled him along in a shock wave.
Watching him, her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs.
No, not your angel.
His artist’s eye compared the differences: her jaw was broader, her face not as heart-shaped. Though small, she was built more sturdy than willowy, and there was no balm of peace in this woman’s eyes. Quite the opposite.
“Douglas... Hello, Douglas.”
Bina Rani’s stare didn’t penetrate his agitation any more than her calling his name.
What does it mean, meeting a woman who resembles— “What?”
“Would you like to begin?”
“Begin what?”
She huffed a breath, not quite a sigh. “Introduce yourself, and tell us what brings you to trauma group.”
Even before his prison stint, the thought of “sharing” made him want to puke. He swallowed acid at the back of his throat and shifted in his chair. Shit. He had to say something. “I’m Bear.” He put his elbows on his knees, laced his fingers and looked to the dude to his left to pass the introduction baton.
Bina jumped in. “So it’s Bear, not Douglas. Bear Steele.”
The boy beside him laughed, but when Bear glared, he stopped, midtitter.
“I think it fits you.” Bina gave the kid a stern look. “Now, Bear, what brings you here?”
“The state correctional system,” he growled.
With a look of horror, the kid scootched his chair away.
Bina did sigh this time. “I mean, what trauma brought you to us?”
He sat back and raised his face to the ceiling, hoping for a way out. “Well, prison is pretty traumatic. But you probably mean my Afghanistan tours.”
“Yes, that’s what I was referring to. You were a soldier. What did you do over there?”
He challenged her with his glare. “Not going there, Oprah.” They could force his attendance, but no one could make him talk.
She sat relaxed, unintimidated by his death ray. That was odd. “I understand. Hopefully once we all get to know each other, you’ll feel more comfortable opening up. Next?”
The kid beside Bear perked right up. “I’m Bryan. I’m gay,” he chirped in a crisply enunciated voice.
Now there’s a news flash.
“I was the victim of a hate crime. My boyfriend and I went to dinner. A gang of mouth-breathers jumped us in the restroom.” His voice got wobblier as he went. “Curtis tried to fight them off, but...” He sniffed. “It was horrible. I just don’t understand how people can...” He put his fingers to his mouth and shook his head, eyes liquid.
Great. A drama queen.
“Bryan, thank you. Hopefully this group will help you come to terms with your experience.” Bina looked to the soap opera woman. “Next?”
The woman stared at the carpet, her oily hair curtaining her face. She mumbled something unintelligible.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I’m Brenda. I don’t need to be here.”
“And what brought you to us?”
“The court made me come, too.” She slanted a skittish glance in Bear’s direction, then focused again at the floor. “They gave me a choice—this or a battered women’s program. But that’s not me, so I came here.”
Bina allowed the silence to spin out until Brenda looked up. “Thank you, Brenda. I look forward to hearing more about that.” She looked to the scarred dude. “Next?”
“I’m Mark. And no, I’m not wearing a mask.” He looked around, his weak chuckle dangling in the air.
No one laughed.
“I was in a car wreck. Went through the windshield.” He raised his hands. “There goes the shaving cream commercial.”
Silence.
His shoulders slumped. “I can’t sleep. Going out in public is excruciating.” He tucked his hands in his armpits and shrugged. “I’m to have a series of surgeries, but in the meantime, I have to...deal.”
“Good, Mark. Congratulations on getting here today. That in itself is a big step.”
When Bina looked to his angel, Bear leaned in.
“I’m Hope. I’m a...was a bank manager.” She sat straight, hands working in her lap. “I was kidnapped and—”
“I heard about that!” Bryan chirped. “Oh, honey, what you went through!”
Bina’s eyebrow lifted. “Let’s let her tell it, shall we?”
“Sorry.”
“Go ahead, Hope.”
“Three men broke into my apartment and after a long, awful wait until morning, they made me drive to the bank and open the safe. There was a standoff with the police and I was shot. I was released from the hospital ten days ago.” She spoke as if discussing the weather.
Bina said, “That’s a very traumatic thing to go through. Hopefully we can help you put it behind you.”
“I don’t want to put it behind me. That’s not why I’m here.”
Bina lowered the pen she’d been taking notes with. “So why are you here?”
“Because I think I’m going crazy.”
Bear knew a bit about PTSD. He studied the woman for signs. Her hands shook a bit, but he didn’t note a startle reflex or jerky movements. But then, he’d known this woman all of ten minutes, all of them silent.
“What makes you think that?” Bina’s soft voice was calming, but it wasn’t working on this girl.
She threw up her hands. “I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t go back to my job. I can’t go back to my life. Not after everything that’s happened.” She rolled her lips in and down, thinking a moment. “I feel like I’ve got amnesia. Except I remember everything.” She glanced around the circle. “My old life isn’t mine anymore. The future is a blank wall.”
Bina picked up her pen. “Since the past can’t be changed, all anyone can do is move forward. We’ll try to help you explore what you want your new life to be, Hope.” She clipped the pen to the small notebook and uncrossed her legs. “This group brings together people that normally wouldn’t be in the same group. As I said before, this is an experiment. I believe however, your diverse experiences can lend you all insight to help each other, as you seek solutions yourselves.”
Bina gave them her bio, and how she came to the idea of the group. More blah-blah, as far as Bear was concerned. Finally, she smiled at each of them. “I hope you prove me right. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
All but the therapist stood and headed for the door. Bear waited until he could bring up the rear. They shot glances and smiles at each other as they walked down the hall in that awkward, what’s-appropriate-in-this-situation, getting-to-know-you, dance.
He watched his angel—Hope—walk away. She dressed a step above the rest—neat and tidy in slacks, a blouse and loafers. Clearly a “good girl.” What did it mean, meeting someone who so closely resembled a symbol that sustained him? He didn’t believe in fate any more than he believed in the saints, sacraments or shrines of his Catholic upbringing.
But he hadn’t believed in prophetic dreams before, either.
