Читать книгу Listen to the Child - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 8

“WILL HE LIVE?” Nancy Mayfield asked.

John MacIntyre Thorn tightened the final suture closing the incision along the little brown-and-white corgi’s flank. “No thanks to that idiot who brought him in,” Mac snapped. “Another hour and that kidney would have burst. We’d have had to deal with peritonitis. He can live a full life on one kidney. If we can keep him from getting infected, and if his numskull owner doesn’t kill him before he gets well.”

Mac gently stroked the corgi’s head. The anesthetized dog could feel nothing, but that didn’t matter to Mac. “You’re going to be fine, little guy,” he whispered.

“We’re going to keep him in ICU a day or two, aren’t we?” Nancy asked.

“Yeah. At least a couple days, maybe longer. The longer we keep him, the less chance there is of anyone screwing up what we’ve done.”

“I don’t think she realized—”

“It’s her job to know when her dog’s in pain, blast it! Hydronephritis hurts.”

“But dogs don’t always show they’re in pain. You know that.”

“A decent owner ought to recognize a sick dog the way she’d recognize a sick child—she may not know what’s wrong, but she sure as hell should realize something is.” He stripped off his latex gloves and dropped them in the waste bin in the corner. “I suppose you want me to speak to her.”

“Uh…that might not be the greatest idea right now. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee? Calm down a little.”

“Calm? I’m calm! Who says I’m not calm?”

“Sure you are.”

He ignored her. “She in the waiting room? What’s the fool woman’s name, anyway?” He pushed through the swinging doors of the Creature Comfort Veterinary Clinic’s operating room and marched down the hall without waiting for an answer. Nancy raced to keep up with him as he barged into the waiting room.

There were only two people in the reception area. Alva Jean Huxtable—usually the day receptionist at Creature Comfort, West Tennessee’s largest state-of-the-art veterinary clinic—was working the Saturday-evening shift as a favor to the night receptionist, Mabel Halliburton. When she looked up from the magazine she’d been reading, her eyes widened, and she managed to give the impression she was ducking for cover without moving anything but her shoulders.

The other woman stood looking out over the parking lot. She wore cowboy boots with heels that added a couple of inches to her five-foot-ten or so frame. From her short haircut and broad shoulders, Mac might have taken her for a man until he saw her narrow waist and the way her rear end filled out her jeans. Definitely female.

She moved, and the fluorescent light flashed on her hair. Dark red. Not a color one saw every day.

Nancy grabbed at his sleeve, but he jerked away. “Your dog’s probably going to live, no thanks to you.”

The woman didn’t react. She stared out the window without so much as turning her head. Well, damn! He was already mad as hell over the corgi. He didn’t plan to put up with bad manners from this woman who should be down on her knees thanking him for sticking around after hours on a weekend to save her dog’s life. Few veterinary surgeons could have done the job as neatly and with as little trauma to the animal.

“Hey, Miz… Um.”

“Her name’s Kit Lockhart,” Alva Jean said from behind the reception desk, “but I don’t think—”

“Miz Lockhart, you damn near killed your dog.”

Still no reaction. Okay. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

“I said you damn near killed your dog. Don’t you care?”

The instant he touched her shoulder, she jumped and swung around to face him.

She had green eyes. Not jade green or leaf green, not even gold green, but the clear green of emeralds. He’d seen maybe one or two sets of eyes that color in his entire thirty-seven years.

What the hell was the matter with her? Nancy grabbed his arm again, and again he shook her off. “I saved your dog’s life in there. What kind of blockhead ignores a distended stomach, gums that are damn near white, and a dog that’s almost in a coma from the pain?”

She stared at him for a moment, then raised a hand and cut him off in midsentence. “Please speak slowly and form your words more carefully.”

“What?”

“I said, please speak slowly and form your words carefully. I got ‘blockhead’ and ‘coma’ but that’s about all. Since I can’t imagine you think my dog is a blockhead, you must think I am.”

“Hell, yes, I think you’re a blockhead…”

Again the hand in front of the chest. “Call me anything you like, but please tell me that Kevlar is going to be all right.”

“I already did.”

“Please repeat.”

“I said, he’s…going…to…be…okay. Can you understand that?”

She nodded. She relaxed and closed those miraculous eyes for an instant. “Thank God. I was scared to death I’d waited too long to bring him in for treatment. I’ve only had him a couple of weeks. He really seemed fine this morning, just a little listless. I didn’t realize there was anything wrong until this evening. I came as soon as I figured it out.”

“I removed the distended kidney.”

“You had to remove his kidney?”

“He can live forever on one healthy kidney.”

“Lord, I hope so.” She’d been watching him carefully and nodding throughout his speech. “Can I see him? Please?”

“He’s still unconscious.”

“I just need to see he’s okay. Touch him.”

So she did care. “Okay, you’re not callous, you’re just stupid. Wouldn’t have mattered to the dog. He’d have been dead either way.” He turned. “Yeah. I guess you can see him now.”

He felt her fingers on his arm. “Say again?”

He looked over his shoulder at her. She stared hard at him.

Then it hit him. He was the idiot. And he called himself a doctor. If he hadn’t been so damn mad at her… “You’re deaf.”

“The politically correct term is hearing impaired, but I prefer deaf. It’s short and ugly.”

“Nobody told me.” He glared at Nancy.

“I tried, Mac, so did Alva Jean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He ran his hand over his hair. Nancy told him again and again that he never listened. In this particular instance, obviously she was right.

“You’re good at lipreading.”

“I’m nearly perfect with people I know well. With strangers, it’s tougher. If you keep looking at me and…”

“Speak slowly and carefully.”

She nodded. “Right.”

“So, is this recent?”

“Not quite a year yet. I used to be a cop.” This last was said with an offhandedness that didn’t conceal the underlying bitterness.

“Total loss? No residual hearing at all?”

“Nearly total. Ninety percent. I can sometimes hear thuds. Kevlar is my hearing ear dog.” She swallowed convulsively. Those emerald eyes filled with tears. “Maybe he whimpered in pain, but I couldn’t hear him. I’d die if I let anything happen to him. I truly didn’t know he was sick. I’m so sorry.”

Now he felt like a toad. “Didn’t they teach you anything about dogs when you got him?”

“Teach me anything?”

He nodded.

“They taught me how to work with Kevlar, all the things he can do for me. But they didn’t teach me about kidney infections. I brought him in when I first got him and let Dr. Hazard check him out and bring his shots up to date. He was fine. What could have caused this? Why didn’t Dr. Hazard catch it then?”

Mac took a deep breath and spoke carefully. “He was born with a narrow ureter that finally kinked. Everything backed up, and his kidney became like a water-filled balloon. Sooner or later it would have simply burst. He also had some built-up scar tissue and some stones. Only an ultrasound and X rays would have caught the disease at the chronic stage. The other kidney is fine. He shouldn’t have another occurrence.”

She kept nodding. Her eyes flickered from his eyes to his mouth. Disconcerting.

“I got most of that. Will he need a special diet?”

“Small meals and dog food formulated to handle kidney problems. Nancy will talk to you about that before you leave with him.”

Now she did look up at him. “How long will he have to stay here? I mean, I’ve only had him two weeks, but I already depend on him.” She dropped her eyes. “And I like him.”

He touched her arm. “Come on. They’ll have moved him to ICU by now. You can see him.”

She eyed him with suspicion. “Are you making some kind of exception for me?”

This time Nancy touched her arm. She said slowly and with a smile, “No special treatment. Dr. Mac is an equal-opportunity offender.”

Back in the ICU, the little dog lay on his good side on an air mattress in the middle of the floor. Cages holding dogs and cats were stacked almost up to the ceiling, and despite the low light, several animals woke and began to bark or whine when Mac opened the door to let Kit in.

She went down to her knees on the mattress and began to stroke the dog and croon to him softly. After a moment Mac recognized the melody—an old Scottish folk song, some kind of lullaby. His Highland-born grandmother had sung him songs like that when he was a child.

“Kev’s such a burly little dog,” she said. “He seems like such a tough little character, and now this.”

He reached down and squeezed her shoulder to reassure her.

She looked up at him. “Will there be somebody here with him tonight?”

“Dr. Liz Carlyle will be here all night. As soon as he starts to wake up, she’ll move him to one of the cages.”

“Doctor something will put him in a cage? Is that what you said?”

“Close enough.” He offered her his hand, but she stood up easily without assistance. She was as lithe as a dancer.

“Thank you for letting me see him. Can your receptionist call me a cab?” She walked out ahead of him, but turned her head to watch his reply.

“You need a cab?”

She stopped in the hall and faced him. “I can drive legally, but I try not to drive at night without Kevlar. During the day I keep a close eye out for ambulances or police cars bearing down on me, but after dark, I rely on Kev to alert me. My mother brought us over tonight.”

“Won’t she come back to get you?” He was beginning to learn the cadence of speaking to her.

“This late—it would be complicated. A cab will be fine. But unfortunately, I can’t call one myself. I can give them the address, but if they ask directions, I won’t be able to hear.”

He’d never have thought of that. “In the rain and this far out, a cab could take a while. Where do you live?”

“I have a town house in Germantown.”

He made a decision that ordinarily he wouldn’t make in a hundred years. He never, ever, got involved with clients. Their animals, yes. But not the clients. “I live in Germantown, too. I’ll drop you. We can go now before another emergency comes in.”

She looked confused. “I got about a quarter of that. But you don’t have to take me home.”

“Come on.”

He picked up one of the telephones on the wall and told Alva Jean he was leaving. “Nancy gone yet?”

“Uh-huh. And Dr. Carlyle is on her way to check the patients. What about Mrs. Lockhart?”

His stomach lurched. Alva Jean had called her Mrs. initially, but then she always called women Mrs. until she knew different. In the last few minutes, he’d grown used to thinking of her as a woman alone, unmarried. It suddenly seemed important to him that there not be a husband lurking somewhere.

If there was, why wasn’t he picking up his wife?

He’d find out somehow on the drive home.

“I am driving Mrs. Lockhart home.”

“You are?” Pause. “You just better be sweet to her, Dr. Mac.” She hung up.

He stared at the telephone in his hand. Alva Jean didn’t exactly cringe when he walked by her desk, but she seldom said anything more to him than to announce his appointments. He’d have been less surprised if Kevlar had stood on his hind legs and roared like a lion. He glanced at Kit Lockhart who waited patiently. Sweet? He’d never been sweet in his life. He certainly wasn’t about to start now.

AT FIRST he found the silence in the car disconcerting. Because she couldn’t see him in the darkness, there was no way to speak to her. He felt frustrated because he wanted to talk. He wanted to ask her how and when she’d gone deaf, and what, if anything, could be done to correct it.

He was amazed to discover he wanted to know everything about her. There was an irony here, he realized. Most of the women he knew talked too much. They seemed uncomfortable with companionable silence. But then, he wasn’t exactly the companionable type. And until now, he was the one who decided when he needed silence.

But this woman could tune him out simply by turning her head. That gave her control of the situation. He loathed loss of control.

His entire life was based on keeping an iron grip on himself and his environment. If things started to get out of hand, he bellowed until somebody fixed them. He tried to use his bellow sparingly so it wouldn’t lose its effectiveness, but he’d found over the years that sometimes a little shouting worked wonders.

Most of his colleagues here in Memphis had learned to ignore his tirades. Nancy Mayfield had worked with him so long she knew he was a marshmallow inside. Rick Hazard, the managing partner of Creature Comfort, laughed at him. Apparently even Alva Jean was losing her fear.

Not good. His reputation as a terror was his only protection from the world. Without his shell, the only defense a snapping turtle had was to bite. Mac didn’t like biting.

He could bellow his head off at this woman. She wouldn’t care any more than if he’d whispered.

“Second driveway from the corner on your right,” she said.

He’d been so deep in his own thoughts that her voice startled him. “Sure,” he said automatically.

The moment he stopped his Suburban, she opened the door and jumped out, then turned to him. “Thank you for helping Kev. I’ll be by to see him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“He’ll still be groggy.”

She pointed at the ceiling of the SUV. “Lean into the dome light, please. Then tell me again.”

He started to growl, but realized that wouldn’t impress her, either, so he did as she asked, then repeated his statement and added, “Come late morning or early afternoon.”

She nodded. “Thanks again.”

“I’ll walk you to your door.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said…”

She shook her head. “I got it. Don’t bother.” She grinned. “I can handle myself.” She strode up her walk with an athlete’s arrogant swing.

He clicked off the overhead light, but didn’t start the car until she’d unlocked her door and gone inside.

INSIDE, Kit leaned against the front door and flung her shoulder bag across the room onto the sofa so hard that her wallet and makeup spilled onto the carpet. She picked everything up, stuffed her bag again and set it on the chest at the side of the room.

She leaned both hands on the top of the chest and took some deep breaths. Some tough cookie she was, breaking down every time she got safely home from one of her encounters with what she was coming to think of as “them.” People who could hear.

At least Dr. Thorn didn’t dole out great gobs of pity. She’d had her fill of that. She looked at the mirror above the chest and grinned at the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. “First purchase tomorrow morning—waterproof mascara,” she said. She wiped her cheeks with the flat of her hands. Better.

Not being able to hear her own voice resonate inside her head was perhaps the oddest thing she’d had to adjust to. That, and the continual whistling sound.

The stairwell lights went on, and a moment later, her mother came down the steps and stopped directly in front of Kit. “Darling, how’s Kev?”

Kit headed for the kitchen. She badly needed a cold beer. “He’s going to be okay, but they had to remove a kidney.”

She got the beer and turned, realizing her mother had probably reacted to the news. Now Catherine Barclay sat at the kitchen table and held out her hand to her daughter. “Emma’s been terribly worried.”

“I’ll tell her the minute she wakes up tomorrow.”

“Tell me he’s okay.” Emma appeared in the doorway, blinking in the light.

Kit nodded. “He’ll be home in a couple of days.”

“What was wrong with him?” The ten-year-old padded into the room and leaned against her grandmother’s shoulder.

“His kidney went bad. They had to remove it.” Kit saw the alarm in Emma’s eyes and held up her hand. “Whoa! I promise he’s fine. Everybody’s got two kidneys and can get along with one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Now, go back to bed. Sunday school tomorrow, remember.”

“Do I have to?”

Kit could almost hear Emma’s patented whine in her head. There were occasional blessings about being deaf. Not having to listen to Emma’s histrionics was a definite plus, but as Emma grew more used to her mother’s deafness, she was becoming more and more adept at pantomiming her emotions.

“Yes, we have to go to church tomorrow. Now, back to bed, please. It’s late. And take Jo-Jo with you.”

Emma reached down and picked up the bobcat-size yellow tabby that was winding himself around her ankles. “I think he misses Kev.”

“One less creature to terrorize.”

Emma waved one hand over her shoulder as she wandered into the shadows while Jo-Jo looked back at them.

Her mother reached out to get Kit’s attention. “She worries about you. I had the devil’s own time getting her into bed tonight.”

“She’s taking advantage of you. Worrying about me is a great excuse to stay up late. She managed to get to bed on time when I was with the T.A.C.T. squad. If she worried then she never showed it.”

“She was too young to realize how dangerous your job was. Small children trust that their parents will always be there—hale and hearty. First she lost her father when you divorced him, then your accident proved you’re breakable. She’s afraid she might lose you to something worse than deafness.”

“She hasn’t lost her father. She sees more of Jimmy now than she ever did before the divorce. At least he’s on scheduled visits, when he deigns to show up.”

“Not the same thing.”

“And as for Emma’s worrying about me, she’ll have to deal with it. I used to worry about you all the time when you were on the job. Every time a cop got killed I’d think, ‘That could be my mother.’ Didn’t stop you being a cop, and it hasn’t stopped you being a P.I., either.”

Catherine took a deep breath. This was hardly a new discussion. “Being a P.I. is not dangerous. I spend most of my time combing through financial records.”

“Any situation can turn dangerous,” Kit said. “That was the first thing you taught me, remember? Always keep your guard up? Anyway, Emma doesn’t have to worry I’ll get caught in a shoot-out or anything. Not anymore.”

“That’s not the point.” Catherine took the half-full bottle of beer out of her daughter’s hand, poured the remainder down the sink and dropped the bottle into the recycle bin. “Until you were hurt, losing a child was something that happened to other parents. Then when your father and I got called to the hospital, I realized I could actually lose you.” Her mother’s voice clouded.

This wasn’t the way Kit and her mother ever spoke to one another. Her mother’s sudden emotion made Kit uncomfortable. She tried to laugh. “I wasn’t at death’s door, Mom.”

Her mother raised her eyes. “You certainly looked as though you were. I’m sure you looked half-dead to Emma. Suddenly the impossible—being abandoned by her mother—became possible. You don’t get over that quickly.”

“So on top of everything else I’m supposed to feel guilty that I got blown up, because I scared my parents and my child? I know this is hard for her, Mom. At first she fell all over herself being helpful—mommy’s little nurse. Treated me as though I was some sort of invalid. Brought me tea in bed. Refused to let me out of her sight. But that gets old fast when you’re ten. Now I embarrass her.”

“Yes, you probably do.” Catherine sounded defeated. “You and I never could communicate. I don’t suppose you and Emma can actually talk all this through, can you?”

“That would just make things worse. She’s adjusting at her own pace. I’m not going to rub her nose in my infirmity. God, Mom, remember when I shot that guy and had to go to the shrink? Now every time I hear anybody say, ‘And how did that make you feel?’ I want to hit something. I’m not going to do that to Emma.”

“She’s your child.” Catherine walked to the kitchen door. “Time for me to go home.” She turned to face Kit. “I almost forgot to tell you. Vince Calandruccio called. Said to call him at the Dog Squad tomorrow morning to tell him about Kevlar.”

“Vince is a good guy. A lot of the guys I worked with on the job have stopped calling to check up on me, but Vince keeps coming over and bringing Adam, of course. He never goes anywhere without his dog.”

Catherine nodded. “You look wiped out. Go to bed. And if you don’t make it to Sunday school, don’t sweat it. I’m sure God will understand.”

“Thanks for watching Emma, Mother.”

“You’re welcome.” Catherine picked up her purse and walked through the door.

Suddenly Kit felt so exhausted she wasn’t certain she could drag herself up the stairs to her bedroom. The doctors had warned her about that. After any kind of stress and particularly after a long session of reading lips, her energy could suddenly bottom out. And sometimes she lost her balance. The doctors said that was the physical trauma of the blast and the psychological trauma of nearly winding up both deaf and blind.

She didn’t like to remember what a close call that had been. The scar that bisected her right eyebrow and touched the corner of her eye was barely noticeable thanks to a great plastic surgeon. And her vision in that eye was almost normal, thanks to an ophthalmologist in the trauma center who’d removed splinters from her eye without damaging it.

The doctors told her she’d never remember the blast itself, but she’d heard the story of her accident so many times she almost felt as though she could.

She’d come through plenty of hostage situations and drug takedowns without a scratch. It was embarrassing to lose her hearing and her job with the police department in what amounted to a comedy of errors.

Keystone Kops, Vince Calandruccio called it.

Start with one rookie who kicked in the back door of a crack house a second too early so that Kit had to cover him to keep him from getting his ass blown off. Add another cop at the front door with a flash-bang grenade who didn’t know Kit was already in the vestibule. Toss in a commander who waited a couple of seconds too long to rescind his order to lob in the flash-bang.

What do you have? Kit Lockhart standing practically on top of the damn grenade when it went off.

She still had to watch herself on the stairs. Her depth perception wasn’t perfect, but it was improving.

Unfortunately, Emma had eyes like a hawk, ready to spot the least sign of weakness in Kit.

Life was better with Kevlar. Emma seemed willing to hand over some of the responsibility she felt to him. Thank God he was going to be all right.

Kit leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs for a moment, panting.

“Oh, this is not a good thing,” she said as she bent to catch her breath. “It is high time we went back to working out, Kit, my girl. You’ve been lazy too long. You’re getting soft.” She walked into her bedroom, shucked off her sweater, then pulled off her boots and dropped them beside her.

Lord, she hoped the noise they made wouldn’t wake Emma! She slipped down the hall and peered into her daughter’s bedroom. Emma lay curled up asleep. From the crook of the little girl’s knees, Jo-Jo raised his flat head and looked at Kit for a moment before subsiding into sleep again. Kit crossed to the bed and bent to kiss Emma’s forehead, damp with nighttime perspiration.

On her way back to her own bathroom, she jabbed hard at the heavy punching bag in the corner of her bedroom. “Ow! Wimp. Next time wear gloves.” She kicked at it. “Wonder how Dr. John MacIntyre Thorn keeps up those muscles. He certainly wouldn’t risk injuring his hands on a punching bag.”

In the bathroom, she began to cream her makeup off. Then stopped and leaned both hands on the sink. Thank God for those hands of his. Please, let him really have saved Kevlar.

ACROSS THE HALL, Emma opened her eyes. It was much easier to feign sleep now when her mother couldn’t hear her breathing.

She heard the sound of her mother’s fist as she thwacked the heavy bag, then her exclamation. She couldn’t understand the rest of the words.

Her mother never used to talk to herself—not out loud. Emma wasn’t certain she even knew she was doing it since she couldn’t hear her own voice.

Weird.

Even weirder to think that she could play her stereo all night. Her mother wouldn’t know about it unless Emma woke the neighbors, and they called to complain.

At first she’d thought being able to get away with stuff behind her mother’s back was cool—her friend Jessica definitely thought so. But it wasn’t. She’d always relied on her mother to set boundaries. Before, when she played her music too loud, her mother told her to turn it down.

Before, her mother knew when she was playing a video game in her room when she was supposed to be doing homework just by the pinging sound the game made. All the way from the kitchen, too.

Emma hated feeling guilty when she took advantage of her mother’s deafness. She hated having to find her mother and look at her to tell her something instead of just yelling from upstairs or the back yard. It made every word they said to each other too important. Why couldn’t they just go back the way they were before the stupid accident?