Читать книгу Family Matters - Joan Kilby - Страница 7

HE SOARED OFF THE JUMP on his snowboard, looping through the mountain air, the sky a brilliant blue against the diamond-white glacier. Legs braced, he landed with a satisfying crunch on the sparkling ice and, with a rush of adrenaline, whooshed at breakneck speed down Whistler Mountain….

“Another drink, buddy?” the barmaid asked.

Marc opened his eyes to find an empty glass clutched in his fingers and his dead legs draped uselessly over his wheelchair.

The Pemberton Hotel pub in midafternoon swam back into his consciousness—glasses clinking, pool balls clunking and football on the big-screen TV in the corner. Home after a month in a rehabilitation hospital in Israel, Marc spent most of his time either lying in bed staring at the ceiling or here at the pub. This vast room with its clientele of truckers, loggers and laid-off railway workers was preferable to the fancier drinking establishments in Whistler, frequented by skiers and mountain climbers who reminded him of everything he’d lost.

He swirled the ice cubes melting in a pool of diluted bourbon at the bottom of his glass. Fearless Marc Wilde they used to call him. Hah!

“I’ll have ’nother Jack on the rocks. Make it a double.” He could hear himself slurring his words but who gave a damn? Not him. He didn’t care about anything anymore except escaping the tedium of life in a wheelchair. His days of snowboarding and rock climbing were over and his career as a foreign-war correspondent at an end. What was left to live for?

“How about a coffee instead?” the barmaid suggested. “I put a fresh pot on.”

Marc peered up at her through bleary eyes. Her thick curling mass of strawberry-blond hair, tied loosely back, framed an oval face with the type of pale pink skin that blushed easily. She looked fresh and pretty, making him even more aware of his unwashed hair and dirty fingernails. At one time he’d taken pride in good grooming but what was the point when people he passed in the street averted their eyes and even his old friends avoided his company?

The barmaid’s voice might be soft but that steady gaze looked anything but timid. Just to test her, he repeated his order. “Jack on the rocks. Double.”

He lifted his hand to place his empty glass on her tray and missed. The glass fell to the floor with a quiet thud and the remaining liquid soaked into the carpet.

“No more booze for you,” she said firmly.

They bent simultaneously to retrieve his glass. The scent of roses wafted toward him, faint and delicate amid the stale odor of cigarette smoke and beer. His hand fumbled, hers grasped the tumbler securely. Coming up, they bumped heads.

“Sorry.” Rubbing his temple with one hand he stretched shaky fingers toward her smooth forehead.

Before he could touch her, she pulled away, her eyes filled with disgust. “I’ll get you that coffee.”

Swiveling on her low heels she was gone, leaving him with a back view of well-toned legs in a short black skirt. Her fitted white blouse with three-quarter sleeves emphasized a slender waist. Once upon a time he’d had his pick of diplomats’ daughters and foreign beauties. Now not even a small-town barmaid wanted to know him.

Weeks of frustration exploded inside his booze-addled brain. If he wanted to walk badly enough, he ought to be able to do it. He planted his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed with all of his strength. The effort propelled him forward only to send him sprawling facedown on the carpet, his cheek in the wet patch where his drink had spilled. He closed his eyes as a wave of self-loathing engulfed him in blackness.

Dimly he heard the clatter of a coffee cup as the barmaid set a tray on the table. Small hands reddened by hot water crept under his armpits and tugged. She was surprisingly strong but not strong enough to lift his dead weight.

Marc struggled to push himself up, cursing his useless legs. The barmaid gave up trying to lift him and held the wheelchair steady while he dragged his sorry carcass back into a sitting position with the help of a burly logger from the neighboring table. Behind the bar, the sandy-haired bartender polished glasses and kept a wary eye on him.

Too ashamed to look at the barmaid, Marc reached for his coffee with a mumbled thanks, hoping she’d just go away.

No such luck. Sitting down at his table, she said, “Aren’t you Marc Wilde?”

“Used to be.”

“I recognize you from TV,” she went on. “You were reporting from a war zone in the Middle East. Bullets were flying past your ears, buildings blowing up behind you. I thought you were so brave.”

Marc squinted in her direction. Her delicate features, so sweet and lively, made him feel one hundred years old. He recognized her expression, having experienced it a thousand times in the past month. Pity.

“Your point?” he demanded. He hated pity even more than he hated the wheelchair.

She tilted her head forward and a mass of glowing hair spilled over her shoulder. “You’ve got guts. You’re not the type to waste your life in a bar.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” Marc sucked back the coffee, burning his tongue and not caring. Pain felt good. At least some part of his body was alive.

“What happened out there?” she asked.

“Bomb explosion threw me against a brick wall,” he said mechanically, weary of repeating the same information to everyone he met. “I fractured two vertebrae and my spinal cord was compressed from the inflammation.”

Once upon a time he’d believed in the adage “live hard, die young.” No one had told him he’d one day find himself in the devil’s waiting room, trapped in an existence that was neither life nor death.

“I’m so sorry. What’s the prognosis?”

The compassion in her voice was seductive but he did have guts and he was strong enough to resist. He hadn’t forgotten the disgust she’d displayed moments ago. That was real, not the compassion, and at least he knew how to deal with it.

“Another month ’n I’ll be walking,” he blustered. “Hell, I’ll be running. Straight onto the next plane outta here.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, nodding. “You’ll be one of the lucky ones.”

“Right,” he snorted. “Lucky is my middle name.”

The doctors hadn’t guaranteed he’d get his life as he knew it back. They weren’t guaranteeing him anything. If cortisone, physiotherapy and the most maddening treatment of all—time—proved successful, he would eventually be back on his feet. Big if. As much as he tried not to think about it, the possibility he might never walk again constantly occupied his tortured mind.

“If you were going to kill yourself how would you do it?” he mused, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Some perverse core of him wanted to shock her.

She eyed him, an uncertain smile pulling at her lips, then apparently decided he was joking. “You could always drink yourself to death.”

“Nah, it’d take too long. Pills, slit wrists, a bullet to the temple… What do you reckon would be easiest? I’m serious.” He was taunting himself as much as her. In many ways it would have been better if he’d died in that bomb blast.

“Don’t talk like that.” She rose abruptly and wiped the table with jerky movements. “You said the doctors gave you a good prognosis.”

He’d said nothing of the kind but he couldn’t be bothered arguing.

“A man with your talent and experience has so much to contribute to the world,” she went on.

“Another lecture,” he groaned. “I get enough of those from my physiotherapist.”

“Life is too precious to squander,” she persisted. “Think of your friends and family…” She paused, the empty tray balanced on her cocked hip. “There’s a Wilde Construction company in town that makes log homes. Any relation?”

“Jim Wilde is my uncle.” Jim and Leone had raised him and the thought of them suffering over his suicide was enough to make him think twice. His cousins, Nate and Aidan, whom he regarded as brothers, would kill him if he tried to pull such a stunt. He spared a chuckle for his own dark humor. Who knows, even his father might be upset, although Marc wouldn’t know since he hadn’t seen his dad on more than a handful of occasions in the past fifteen years.

“Don’t you have a counselor or psychiatrist on your rehab team you can talk to, help you come to terms with your changed situation?” the barmaid asked.

“Nurses, shrinks, doctors, they all try hard but they don’t understand.” His gaze slid down her smooth legs and the tendency to flirt that used to be second nature to him surfaced, “You’re taking my plight awfully seriously. How about you help me?”

With a little laugh she backed away. “I’m not qualified to do more than get you another coffee.”

“Don’t go. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “Fiona.”

“Fiona.” Her name slipped off his tongue like a breath of spring air. “Have dinner with me, Fiona.”

“No. Thank you. I have other plans.” She started walking toward the bar.

Marc wheeled after her. “Tomorrow?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Won’t, you mean,” he said bitterly. “Because I’m in a wheelchair.” In his heart he couldn’t blame her. What woman wanted to go out with a cripple?

“It’s not because your legs don’t work.” She closed the hinged length of bar, placing a physical barrier between herself and him. “Your real handicap is your attitude.”

Her challenging gaze held his until Fearless Marc Wilde had to look away.

FIONA SHUT THE BACK DOOR of the pub behind her at the end of her shift and breathed in a lungful of crisp September air. Free at last. For a brief interval between work and home she could pretend she had no responsibilities.

Dodging puddles in the gravel parking lot, she wove her way toward her one-and-only extravagance, a near-new Honda Prelude. Her “real” job as a substitute primary teacher took her anywhere from Squamish to Lillooet, both drives of over an hour, often through torrential rain or deep snow. Safe and reliable transport was a necessity not a luxury.

Unfortunately being a substitute teacher didn’t cover all the bills for her and her younger brother, Jason; hence the job at the pub. She’d enrolled in a correspondence course in early-childhood education, hopeful that the extra qualifications would help her get a full-time position; so far that hadn’t happened.

Two blocks took her out of town and onto a straight country road through flat pastureland nestled between fir-clad mountains rising steeply on three sides. The few deciduous trees dotting the lower slopes had taken on a yellow tinge, heralding the change of season.

Fiona turned in to the driveway of the modest white-and-brown timber home on half an acre she shared with Jason. In the field beside the house her three alpacas were crowded atop the mound of dirt she’d christened Machu Picchu. Their long necks swiveled toward the sound of her car.

Her brother’s wheelchair ramp zigzagging up to the front door reminded her of her encounter with Marc Wilde. Jason, confined to a wheelchair since he was eleven, had had seven years to get used to not being able to move freely and independently. Marc, she’d read in a magazine article, had been into extreme sports; being immobilized would be a lot harder for him.

He was lucky he had family to care for him because as surly as he was, who else would take him on? Before her shift ended, Bill, the bartender, had made a phone call and two men bearing a family resemblance to Marc had arrived to take him home.

Fiona walked through the barn and scooped up a handful of pellets from the barrel before going out to see the alpacas. Ebony, Snowdrop and Papa John walked daintily down the mound single file to greet her at the fence.

“How are my babies today?” she crooned to Ebony while Papa John sniffed at her hair and Snowdrop nudged her for treats. Holding her hand flat she fed them each a handful, smiling as their muzzles tickled her palm.

Some of the pellets fell into the grass and as Snowdrop dipped her head to nibble them, Fiona recalled how Marc had fallen out of his wheelchair. She cringed with embarrassment for him. Had he been joking about killing himself, or not? It didn’t make sense if he was assured of recovery, but he wouldn’t be the first paraplegic to suffer denial, especially shortly after injury. Maybe she should have spent more time with him.

No, she was not going to feel sorry for him.

“I don’t need another lost soul to care for, do I?” she asked Papa John. The cream-and-brown alpaca hummed softly and bobbed his head.

“Fiona!” Jason called from the open back door. From the low deck, another ramp slanted down to a concrete path that branched off to the driveway and the barn. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Coming.” She made sure the alpacas had water, tossed them each a flake of hay, then turned toward the house as the setting sun streaked the western sky with pink and orange above the mountains. As usual, a few minutes with the animals had turned into half an hour without her being aware of the passage of time.

The kitchen was full of light and warmth and the spicy aroma of beef burritos. Travel posters from Greece covered the walls with images of blue sky and whitewashed villas cascading with hot-red geraniums. Bilbo and Baggins, stray dogs of indeterminate parentage she’d rescued from the pound, came to greet her, tails wagging.

Jason was positioned before a section of benchtop specially constructed at a lower height, slicing lettuce and tomatoes. A long lock of fine straight hair the same hue as hers fell over his hazel eyes.

Fiona hugged him in greeting. “How was your day?”

“Pretty good.” Jason smiled up at her. “I linked the electronic circuitry of the sound system in my bedroom to a switch operated by the front door. When the door opens, music comes on. It’s my own invention.”

“Great. What do you call it?”

He looked at her pityingly. “A burglar alarm, of course. Oh, and I taped the noon movie for you. Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn.”

“Thanks, Jase.” She ruffled his hair. “You’re due for a cut. I’ll make you an appointment in the morning.”

Jason pushed the hair off his face. “I’m not totally helpless. I can make my own appointment.”

“Of course you can,” Fiona agreed. Except that it wouldn’t have occurred to him and they both knew it. “Just check with me about a time when I can drive you there.”

At just-turned eighteen, her brother was the same age she’d been when she’d become his carer. He was more than a boy but not yet a man. She, on the other hand, had had no choice but to grow up quickly, going from sister to surrogate mother overnight when their family car had collided with a logging truck, killing their parents outright and paralyzing Jason. Only she had come out of the accident unscathed. On the outside, at least.

Fiona shrugged out of her navy polar-fleece jacket and crossed the room to hang it on the hook beside the back door.

Jason spun his chair to face her. “Dave called today from Vancouver.”

Jason’s best friend from high school. “How does he like the university scene?”

“He loves living on campus and his profs are great.” Jason paused. “He says the wheelchair facilities at UBC are excellent.”

Fiona, leafing through the mail, froze, her back to him. She and Jason had been having an ongoing “discussion” all summer over when he would start university and how. He wanted to study electrical engineering, but she didn’t think he was ready to make the adjustment from living at home to being on his own in a big city. Despite being a whiz at electronics he was young for his age and shy. She hated to think of him struggling with the pressures of university as well as those of a disabled student. And then there were the financial considerations.

“You’ll go someday, Jase,” she assured him. “Have you read those books I got you?” She’d bought secondhand text books for first-year math, chemistry and physics, as well as a third-year lab book titled Methods in Electronics, hoping they would help slake his thirst for knowledge.

“Yeah, they’re good,” he mumbled. “But it’s not the same as working toward a degree.”

“You could do courses by correspondence like I am, and work for a year. University costs money, you know.”

Never having been responsible for paying the bills, Jason was blithely ignorant of the cost of living, aside from the often expensive electronics bits and pieces she bought him. Maybe she shielded him too much but he was still so young and he’d been through a lot, losing his parents and the use of his legs at the same time.

“What about applying for a job at the Electronics Shop here in Pemberton?” she suggested. “You know Jeff, the owner, and I could drive you to work.”

“It’s a dead-end position and Pemberton is small potatoes compared to Vancouver.” Jason scooped the chopped lettuce into a bowl and sprinkled on the other salad ingredients. “I don’t want to get old before I start living.”

Like her, in other words, although she knew he hadn’t consciously meant it that way.

The pot of spiced beef bubbled on the stove, creating condensation which fogged the darkened windows and gave a homey atmosphere to the small cluttered kitchen. If only their parents hadn’t died. If only Jason hadn’t been paralyzed. If only she hadn’t had to give up her dreams of career and travel— Guilt abruptly put an end to these unproductive thoughts. She was alive and whole and she could never allow herself to forget that.

“I saw a funny thing on the way home from work,” Fiona said to change the subject. “You know that garden gnome at the corner house? Someone propped it behind the steering wheel of that old car in the driveway. It looks as though it’s trying to escape.”

Jason laughed and the tension was broken. As their chuckles faded, Fiona became aware of another noise—a whining from behind the closed door of the laundry room.

“What is that?” Fiona said, rising to her feet.

“I forgot to tell you.” Jason’s face became animated as he wheeled across to the laundry room. “Mrs. McTavish from across the road was walking by the river and she found a burlap sack. It was moving so she investigated. Inside she found—” Jason opened the door “—a puppy.”

A skinny white pup with brown markings cowered in the doorway, his ears flattened against his head and his fearful gaze darting from Jason to Fiona. Fiona dropped to the linoleum and held out a hand. The dog approached slowly, shivering and trembling all the way from his pointed muzzle to his docked tail.

“Poor thing,” Fiona murmured as the dog cautiously sniffed her fingers before retreating a few paces. “He’s so scared. I wonder if he was abused.”

“He’s half-starved, too,” Jason added. “You can see every one of his ribs.”

Fiona stayed in a crouch, waiting patiently while the dog gathered his courage to creep forward again. “He looks like a Jack Russell cross. How could anyone get rid of such a cute dog, especially in such a cruel way?”

“Can we keep him?” Jason asked eagerly, looking exactly like the kid he claimed he wasn’t. “He could be my dog. I’d take good care of him.”

“Oh, Jason, you know we can’t. We’ve already got more animals than we can afford to feed.” The dog came close and she picked him up, tucking him securely in the crook of her elbow. “We’ll just have to try to find him a good home. I don’t suppose Mrs. McTavish would take him?”

Jason shook his head. “She said she’s a cat person.”

Fiona scratched the puppy behind the ears. A small pink tongue emerged and began lapping at the base of her thumb. “Surely we know someone who would enjoy having this little rascal—” She broke off as a thought struck her, which she immediately dismissed. “Nah, forget it.”

“Who?”

“Do you remember that war correspondent who reported the latest conflict in the Middle East— Marc Wilde?”

“He grew up in Whistler. Mrs. McTavish told me last week she’d heard he’d been injured and flown home. I mentioned it at the time but you were working on an essay and weren’t listening. What about him?”

“He came into the pub today. He had a spinal-cord injury that left him in a wheelchair.”

Jason let out a low whistle and sat back. “I didn’t know that. Do you think he’d like a puppy?”

“He’d snarl at the mere suggestion, but I think it would be good for him.” Whether he would be good for the dog was another question but Fiona had a hunch Marc wasn’t quite as cynical as he made out.

Fiona put the dog in Jason’s lap then thumbed through the local phone book for the number of the Wilde residence. Chances were better than even Marc would be staying with his aunt and uncle. If he wasn’t, they would know where he was.

She dialed and as the phone began to ring she realized she had another motive for calling—to make sure Marc hadn’t done anything to harm himself.

The phone picked up. A woman answered and Fiona said, “Hello— Mrs. Wilde? I’m Fiona Gordon. May I talk to Marc if he’s available?”

A moment later, Marc’s distinctive, deep voice made raspy by alcohol spoke into her ear. A sudden attack of nerves set her to pacing the floor. “This is Fiona. From the pub. Can I come and see you tonight?”

“I thought you were busy.”

Shoot! The essay that was due tomorrow. “I— I am. I meant just for a few minutes.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a hell of a headache—”

“The thing is, I need to ask you a favor.”

“What is it?”

He would undoubtedly say no to giving a home to a stray dog over the phone but if he saw the puppy, surely his heart would melt just as hers had. “I have to ask you in person.”

There was a long silence. At last, he said, “All right. When?”

She needed time for a quick bite to eat and to bathe the dog. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”