Part 5 (1/2)
It always annoyed Steve when Laura used that brazen tone of voice. ”You had them last Sat.u.r.day. Besides, we're going to the beach tomorrow for Dad's birthday.”
”They see plenty of your family. I've made plans. It's only fair. You have them all week.”
”You know our agreement. Alternate Sat.u.r.days and Sundays every other weekend. Right?'
”No, not 'right'. 'Our agreement' was your decision. Who are you to make 'our' decisions?”
”Please, Steve, don't give me a hard time. You know it's fair.”
”Not seeing my kids is fair?” Steve knew his voice was rising, but where did she get off sounding so G.o.dd.a.m.ned sanctimonious. He was standing at the kitchen counter and he felt like slamming his fist, but the place was so cluttered with dirty gla.s.sware he'd have sliced his hand. So he raked one hand through his hair while gripping the phone with his other. ”What I know is that they want to see me more.”
”Of course they want to see you.”
Laura was trying the ”let's everybody be reasonable” move now. She was a pro at that one, trying to make him out to be a fool who couldn't do s.h.i.+t.
”We have to give them some sense of structure, some kind of reliable schedule.”
Steve couldn't help grimace at the thought of being excluded by his in-laws. He'd always had a good time with the Whelens. The old man was a sports fan, and Laura's mom had offered him unconditional love. Something his own mother never had. ”Okay, you want 'structure'? So let's give them structure. Let's all go down to Sarasota together - as a family.”
”That won't work. We all have to adjust to us living separately.”
He didn't have to take this kind of s.h.i.+t. ”If you won't agree to have the kids ready, you give me no choice. I'll just call the boys separately. They'll come with me.” Steve knew they would. They loved to fish off the bridges. Maybe he'd even rent a boat. ”If you want to take the girls to your mother's, I don't care.”
”Just this once.”
Steve thought he was hearing things. Laura? Backing down?
”I'll switch my on-call schedule. And if you take the boys, you take the girls. They'd be heartbroken if they thought you didn't care. Aren't they going through enough already?”
”Aren't we all?” Steve countered, still congratulating himself on his victory. ”You're the one who kicked me out. It's still not too late to do what's right.”
”I am doing what's right. I have an appointment with a lawyer next week.”
”No lawyer, Laura. I mean it.” Steve could feel hot anger implode in his chest. How dare she threaten him? ”We don't need a lawyer.”
”I think we do. At least I do.”
Steve looked around at the clutter, the overflowing trash can, the dirty dishes piled in the sink. h.e.l.l, he'd married Laura when he was only twenty-one. Before that he'd lived at home. How could he be expected to live by himself? Maybe for a few days, but forever? No, a divorce sounded so final. A divorce was out of the question. The best way to handle Laura was through the kids. She'd never give up those kids, even for an overnight. And they wouldn't give up him. That he knew, especially little Patrick. The kid was only eight years old and already he was complaining about Laura's treatment.
”And another thing,” Steve said to move the conversation to territory he could manipulate. ”You gotta stop being so strict with Patrick. He said you wouldn't let him watch Starsky and Hutch last week.”
Laura sighed. ”Let's not start using the kids as p.a.w.ns, okay? It'll only make things worse.”
”Fine for you to say. You're the one making things worse.” Steve slammed down the phone.
Rolling over to turn off Tammy Wynette's ”Stand by Your Man” piping through the clock radio at seven the next morning, Laura was surprised to find herself alone in bed. Since Steve had left, she had usually awakened to find that Natalie or Patrick or both had crept in beside her. Pleased that the kids must be doing better, she lingered under the covers until seven forty-five before heading to Mike and Kevin's room. The kids would need a decent breakfast before Steve picked them up. Once she woke them all, she'd make waffles, a favorite weekend treat. The door to the boys' bedroom was open, the two twin beds empty and unmade. She sighed, knowing as usual that she'd have to send them back up to make their beds. Why even try to make them make their room look neat? She wondered what had gotten them up so early; on weekends those two never got up before nine.
Laura crossed the hall to the girls' frilly pink room. Pus.h.i.+ng aside the pile of stuffed animals they so loved, she found both canopied beds empty. A few pieces of clothing were scattered about and she stopped to pick them up. It was odd; the girls usually made their beds first thing. Patrick's small cubbyhole room, decorated with Miami Dolphins paraphernalia, was also empty. That was strange. Funny, she couldn't hear the television on downstairs.
”Where is everyone?” she called. But there was not a trace of sound. She called out again, louder. No response.
Had Steve said he was picking them up before eight? She remembered last night's conversation, decidedly unpleasant, but Steve had specified eight o'clock. And what would they do so early anyway? Laura was already antic.i.p.ating a tough day at the hospital. She'd called a colleague last night for a last minute switch of schedules and learned she'd be covering for four staff surgeons today on top of other duties. As she wandered downstairs, Laura reviewed her day: rounds on at least thirty post-op patients, admitting any surgical cases that came in through the ER, supervising all emergency operations. And, she recalled, she'd agreed to meet with that attorney, Sam somebody, at Roxanne's insistence, but against her own better judgment.
Laura walked through every room downstairs. No sign of breakfast in the kitchen, no blaring television, no scattered toys. She headed out the front door, scanning up and down the street for any sign of her children or for anything unusual. She did note that the front door was unlocked. Certainly she'd locked it last night, but, of course, Steve had a key.
”Call a locksmith,” she mumbled to herself.
She went back in and checked the back door, which was still locked. Dressed only in her faded blue dressing gown, still wearing her gla.s.ses, she walked across the yard and headed toward Marcy's apartment over the garage.
”Good morning,” Marcy called out over the flower boxes she kept under each window. She was an early riser and had already returned from 7:00 a.m. Ma.s.s. ”Thought you'd be out of here already you've got such a full day.”
”Well, I ...” Laura faltered. ”I was looking for the kids.”
”You're a few hours late. Guess you didn't wake up when Steve came?”
”What time did he pick them up?”
”Around five thirty. In a station wagon. They all left with their little tote bags.”
”They're not staying overnight.” Laura felt a p.r.i.c.k of panic as her heart picked up speed. A station wagon? Could it belong to the guy who's apartment Steve is staying in?
Marcy shrugged. ”Maybe he's taking the kids swimming or something.”
”Maybe. Steve said he had plans, but I didn't ask him what they were. Tell you what, I'll call you if I'm not going to be home by seven. Or you page me if the kids come back before then, and I'll see if I can get home earlier, okay?”
Though Marcy nodded in agreement, Laura worried all day. Something was not right.
By noon, Laura had made post-op rounds with the residents and med students. She felt nauseated and hadn't had a thing to eat - refusing even a Snickers bar, her favorite. Scattered throughout the morning there'd been three surgical admissions from the ER, but only one requiring immediate intervention, an appendectomy in a healthy young man, which she supervised. Counting her own patients and those of her four colleagues, she had five in the ICU to watch over. One - not hers - had gone into kidney failure following the repair of a dissecting aortic aneurysm that had required all day heroics just to keep him alive on a ventilator. The others were in critical condition following major surgery, but when all was said and done, they were doing well.
At four o'clock she headed reluctantly to the small alcove next to the chapel for the meeting with Mr. Sanders. Roxanne was already there sitting next to the tall, gangly attorney. Unexpectedly, Louis Ruiz, in a wheelchair, was seated on her other side. Both legs, still in casts, were elevated and protruding forward. Wearing a teal and black striped silk bathrobe with a gold sash, his jet black hair was combed neatly over his ears, his sad eyes seeming brighter. Laura looked from him to Roxanne as she hesitated at the threshold of the room and noted the tasteful decor in comforting muted patterns of beige and maroon. She made a mental note to use this room on those occasions when she had to deliver painful news. Focusing on the situation at hand, she felt irritated. Roxanne should have told her that Mr. Ruiz would be here too.
”Dr. Nelson,” Roxanne began. ”You remember Louis Ruiz?”
”Of course,” said Laura. ”I hope your recovery is going well.”
”Thank you, doctor, it is. Allow me to apologize for being so rude the last time we met.”
”Please,” Laura said quickly, ”I understand.”
”And this is Mr. Sanders,” Roxanne went on. ”I know you've exchanged a few words, but let me introduce you properly.”
”It's Sam, Dr. Nelson.” The attorney rose and held out his hand to Laura. He held her gaze without a waver. ”Appreciate your meeting with us. We know how busy you are.”
”Of course. I should warn you that I am on call.” She took a seat in the chair nearest the door and placed her beeper on her lap.
”Then I'll save time and be perfectly blunt,” Sam Sanders began. ”Mr. Ruiz was the victim of a horrendous accident. He lost his wife and two daughters. He's left with three sons to bring up on his own and two are still in this hospital. His medical insurance is inadequate. The driver who hit him was legally intoxicated. He's had prior DUIs. He'll go to jail, but that won't help Mr. Ruiz. The guy has no insurance and has no a.s.sets to attach. The only way we can help Mr. Ruiz cope is by suing this hospital for negligence in treating his oldest daughter, Wendy.”