Читать книгу Family Matters - Joan Kilby - Страница 8

“FIONA’S COMING OVER,” Marc announced as he hung up the phone.

A favor, she’d said. What could he possibly do for her?

Leone smoothed back a curving lock of chin-length auburn hair and glanced up from her book. “Is she a friend of yours? You’ve never mentioned her.”

Marc wheeled into the space created for his wheelchair between Leone’s new ivory-colored sectional sofa and Jim’s worn Naugahyde recliner, angled for a good view of the TV. The yellow cedar of the log home made a dramatic backdrop to the stone fireplace and Jim’s collection of Haida masks.

“She’s a barmaid at the Pemberton Hotel.” He was curious to know if she would seem as captivating when he was sober as she had when he was drunk.

Jim and Leone exchanged glances, a fact not lost on Marc. “Was there any trouble?” Jim asked.

“No.” Embarrassed at the memory of his drunken behavior he spun away, moving his hands too roughly against the wheels. He winced as the hard rubber chafed the broken blisters on his fingers and palms. He’d racked up a lot of miles in the weeks since he’d been getting around in the chair and had yet to develop protective calluses.

Leone saw his grimace and hurried across the room to turn over his hand. “Let me put some dressings on those blisters. You don’t want to get them infected. Goodness knows what muck you go rolling through in those pubs.”

“I’m all right,” Marc said irritably and pulled his hand away. “I’ll put some Band-Aids on later.”

“Now, Marc, I’m a qualified nurse—”

“Don’t fuss over him.” Jim rattled his newspaper open. His dark hair sprinkled with silver could just be seen over the sports section.

Leone withdrew, smoothing down her cardigan and slacks in lieu of her ruffled feelings. “I was only trying to help.”

“I’m fine. Thanks anyway,” Marc told her in a milder tone. Leone and Jim had taken him in at the age of five after his mother died and his father resumed his pursuit of glory on the pro-skiing circuit. Marc was grateful and loved them dearly; it just rankled that after ten years on his own he was living at home, dependent on them.

He picked up the local newspaper and skimmed through the articles. More controversy over parking in Whistler Village, municipal elections coming up, the rising cost of real estate…. Ho hum.

The doorbell rang. Before he could react, Leone went to answer it.

Marc ran a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from the shower. After he’d sobered up, he’d cleaned up, but he knew he looked far from his best. Giving himself a push he rolled across the polished hardwood to the tiled floor of the entrance hall.

“Come in,” his aunt invited Fiona with her customary warmth. “I’m Leone. We spoke on the phone.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Fiona replied, stepping inside. “I apologize for dropping in on you on such short notice.”

“Marc’s friends are always welcome,” Leone assured her. “Especially now that he’s limited in his mobility, it’s nice for him to have people over.”

Gritting his teeth over his aunt’s effusiveness, Marc nodded to Fiona. She had on the same skirt and blouse she’d worn to work, her hair hadn’t been combed for some time and her lipstick had long worn off. But there was a sparkle in her eyes, which suggested that whatever had changed her priorities for tonight held some degree of excitement. Over her shoulder, tucked tightly under her arm, she carried a large woven straw bag.

Jim put down his newspaper and rose, his large callused hand extended in greeting. In his early fifties, he kept trim and fit through physical labor. “I’m Jim, Marc’s uncle. Can I get you a drink?”

“Thank you, no.” She glanced around the living room then said to Marc, “Maybe we should go into the kitchen to talk.”

“They want to be alone,” Leone murmured to Jim, nudging him back to his recliner.

Cringing inwardly Marc led Fiona down the hall to the kitchen/family room. It was his favorite part of the house, informal and comfortable, with colorful rugs scattered over polished floorboards and dried grasses arranged in large earthenware pots.

“Sorry about my aunt,” he said when they were out of earshot of the living room. “She means well but she tends to fuss.”

“Your aunt is lovely. Please don’t apologize for her.” Fiona’s straw bag moved suddenly and a bulge appeared in the side. She gripped the bag more tightly.

Marc gestured to one of several cushioned wicker chairs grouped around a glass coffee table. “Sit down.”

“I really can’t stay long,” Fiona replied, not complying. Her bag had gone still.

Marc rubbed the back of his neck, sore from looking up at people all day. “Please. Sit. Down.”

His tension conveyed itself in his voice. Abruptly she sat. “Sorry. I should know better.”

“You probably think I should apologize for myself,” he went on with the lazy cynicism he fell into so easily these days. “I could tell you I’m not really such a jerk as I acted this afternoon but frankly, I’m not sure that bastard isn’t the new me.”

“I’m quite sure he isn’t.” Her bag started moving again. A tiny whimper came from within and Marc heard the sound of scrabbling claws against the straw. “I think underneath you’re a caring man who hasn’t yet come to terms with his disability.”

Marc winced at the word disability and his hands tightened their painful grip on the wheels of his chair. “You’re being a little naive, don’t you think?”

“I believe people are essentially good at heart,” she insisted over the sounds coming from her bag. “Sometimes though, they’re so unhappy the goodness doesn’t have a chance to shine through.”

“Forget the sermon, Pollyanna. Why don’t you show me what’s in your bag?”

He thought for a moment she might refuse but the matter was taken out of her hands, literally, when the top of the bag pushed open from within and a small wiry dog leaped out and into Marc’s lap.

“What the—!” Marc burst out.

“I’m sorry. He has no manners.” Fiona reached for the dog who squirmed out of her hands and tried to burrow under the hem of Marc’s sweater. He succeeded in hiding only his head, leaving his rump sticking out. She added hopefully, “Isn’t he adorable?”

“I’ve never seen a more miserable scrap of fur in my life.” And yet, when he lifted his sweater, the pooch’s woebegone expression made him smile, the first he’d cracked all day. He put a hand out and the puppy cowered away from him, his thin body trembling.

“He was found in a burlap sack by the river. I think he’s been abused,” Fiona told him. “He’s sweet natured, though. With a little TLC he’ll bounce right back.”

Marc noticed a dark patch begin to spread through the fabric of his blue jeans and his glimmer of good humor vanished. “He peed on me!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Fiona exclaimed. “He’s excited after being cooped up too long.” She snatched the puppy away, shoved him back in her bag then got the wet cloth sitting by the sink. “I’m really sorry,” she apologized again and started to scrub at the stain on Marc’s upper thigh.

“Stop!” He pushed her hands away. “Why did you bring the damn dog here, anyway?”

“I thought you might like to have him as a pet. He was abandoned and I can’t keep him. He doesn’t look like much I know but once he’s gained a bit of weight—”

The sound of the bag falling over cut her off. The puppy escaped, skittering across the floor to hide behind a large potted plant. Fiona picked him up and held him close to her chest to try to calm him.

“You thought I might like a pet,” Marc repeated incredulously. “Do I look like I run a lost dogs’ home?”

“Pets are good therapy for the elderly and disabled. It’s a well-known fact that dogs give patients a sense of well-being.” She cradled the puppy protectively against her chest. “Please consider taking him. If your aunt and uncle don’t mind, that is. I must confess I didn’t stop to consider them. It’s their house, after all.”

She’d lumped him in with the elderly and disabled. That alone was enough to make him refuse. That he hadn’t an ounce of physical or emotional energy to give another living creature, not even a half-dead hound, sealed the dog’s fate as far as Marc was concerned.

“They hate dogs,” he lied. “Especially rambunctious puppies.” He hoped she wouldn’t notice Rufus’s food bowl near the back sliding doors. Leone and Jim’s Irish setter slept outside but evidence of his existence was around. “Besides, once I’m walking again, I’ll be back at work. I travel constantly. I can’t take care of a dog. So if that’s all you came for—” Spinning the chair around, he started back to the front of the house “— I’ll see you out.”

Fiona’s heavy sigh rent the silence. “Poor little guy,” she crooned to the puppy. “I’ll have to take you to the pound.”

Marc glanced back at her. “The pound?”

She lifted her shoulders and let them fall in an exaggerated fashion. “Someone will adopt him. I hope.”

Marc’s eyes narrowed. He resumed his progress down the hall. “You’re just trying to guilt me into taking him.”

“Will it work?” Fiona followed with the puppy cradled in her arms.

“No. Too obvious.”

“It was worth a try. If you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

They passed the living room. Jim glanced up from his newspaper and Leone put down her book to call out, “Leaving so soon?”

“I’m afraid so,” Fiona paused to reply. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Come again, anytime,” Leone said from her seat on the leather sofa. “What a sweet puppy. Look, Jim, isn’t he gorgeous? We just love dogs,” she confided to Fiona.

Groaning, Marc dropped his head into his hand.

“Who wouldn’t love a pup?” Fiona said without a trace of reproach in her soft voice.

Marc escorted her to the door. “So now you know I’m a liar as well as a lush,” he said. “Not a fit parent for an impressionable dog. But then, you lied, too. You said you wanted me to do you a favor when all the time you were trying to do me one.”

“Is that so bad?” she demanded. “Life is a lot easier if people help each other.”

Marc had nothing to say to that. Ever since he’d learned to tie his own shoelaces he’d pushed away all attempts to help him. Why should that change just because he was in a wheelchair?

Fiona dropped into a crouch in front of him and put her hand on his forearm. In a low voice not meant for Jim and Leone’s ears she said, “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t really mean that about killing yourself.”

“I didn’t really mean that about killing myself,” he parroted back, deadpan.

With an exasperated sound, she rose, wincing slightly. Her feet probably hurt after being on them all day, Marc thought. He’d give anything to feel pain in his feet.

From the doorway he watched her walk back to her car and waited until she’d driven off before going back inside. The adrenaline buzz induced by her presence drained away and he wheeled slowly back to his room, brushing off his aunt’s suggestion to join them.

His room, virtually unchanged since he’d left home after high school, was plastered with posters of snowboarders soaring above snowy peaks and rock climbers moving like spiders up sheer rock faces and impossible-looking overhangs. The shelves of his bookcase were lined with sporting trophies instead of books and his closet teemed with specialized equipment and clothing he might never use again.

Going to his dresser he opened the middle drawer. Away at the back, beneath his socks and underwear he found the vials of pills he’d been saving since rehab. Pain pills, sleeping pills and God knows what else. They were his safety hatch for that hypothetical day when the doctors told him there was no hope. Without action, movement, adventure, his life would be unbearable.

He opened one vial and let the tablets flow through his fingers. How many would be enough? Leone would know but he could hardly ask her.

Marc put the pills away and shut the drawer. He was feeling low but not that low. Yet.

Wheeling over to the window he watched the street-lights wink on in the growing dusk. His unlit room became darker and darker compared to the outside illumination, reflecting his thoughts. For weeks now he’d ricocheted between anger, self-pity and despair.

And worst of all, sheer excruciating boredom.

Imagine Fiona bringing him a puppy. It was a silly, impulsive thing to do. Damn cute little dog, though. He almost wished he’d had the guts to say yes.

Free: Jack Russell–cross puppy to a good home.

Call Fiona 555-6283.

Fiona got permission from Jason’s hairdresser to put a notice in the salon’s front window when she dropped Jason off for a haircut. She had a whole sheaf of them which she’d photocopied at the drugstore that morning and was now distributing around town. Her heart wasn’t in it—she was attached to the little dog already—but she didn’t see any other option.

“I’ll meet you back at the drugstore in half an hour,” she called to Jason who was draped in a black gown that hung down the sides of his wheelchair.

“Make it an hour,” he said, twisting to speak to her. “I want to go to the Electronics Shop for some components.”

Fiona paused at the door. “I noticed Jeff put an ad in the local paper for help wanted. Why don’t you ask him for an application form?”

Shaking his head, Jason turned back to the mirror. “See you later.”

Fiona dropped off notices at a half-dozen more stores then picked up a couple of take-out coffees from the café and continued to her friend Liz’s yarn shop. As well as handspun yarn and knitting accessories Liz sold sweaters, shawls and scarves she designed and knit herself. She’d made the brown-and-cream alpaca pullover Fiona wore over jeans.

Liz’s cropped dark curls were bent over her spinning wheel as her nimble fingers spun a fluffy mass of wool into a lengthening thread. At the sound of the door opening her foot stopped pumping and the wheel slowed.

“Coffee!” she exclaimed with a welcoming smile. “You read my mind. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been going crazy this morning trying to come up with a theme for Jilly’s birthday party. She wants to invite her whole kindergarten class. How am I going to entertain twenty six-year-olds?”

Fiona handed her a foam cup and sank onto an arm-less wooden rocker that Liz called her knitting chair. “That’s a tough one. I guess fairies won’t work two years in a row?”

Liz shook her head. “She’s over that and anyway, there’ll be boys at the party.”

“If I come up with any brainwaves I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’ve been pounding the pavement all morning putting up notices.” She handed one to Liz. “Can I tape this inside your front window?”

“Of course.” Liz sipped her coffee and scanned the paper. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a home for a Jack Russell—they’re so smart and cute.”

“This animal’s not a shining example of his breed, unfortunately. In fact, he looks like a drowned rat. I tried to give him away last night but he peed on the guy’s lap and that was that.”

“Bad luck.” Liz paused to pull on the wool in the basket so it fed evenly into the spindle. As she set the foot rocker in motion again, she said, “By the way, I sold the last of Snowdrop’s cria wool to a client in Whistler— Angela Wilde.”

“Angela Wilde?” Fiona repeated. “Is she any relation to Marc Wilde?”

“She’s married to his cousin, Nate. Why?”

“Marc is the guy I tried to give the dog to. He— Marc, that is—came into the pub yesterday and got stinking drunk.”

“I heard he’s in a wheelchair now. He was injured during a bomb explosion, I think Angela said.”

“Apparently he’s going to recover but in the meantime he’s not taking his loss of mobility well.” Fiona fingered a soft skein of dark blue wool, remembering the thinly veiled rage and despair in Marc’s eyes when he spoke of his injury.

Liz sipped her coffee. “From what Angela told me, those Wilde men live up to their name. Apparently Marc was the wildest of them all when it came to courting danger.”

So why had he asked her out? Fiona wondered. She was the tamest person she knew, mired in responsibilities she’d willingly taken on but with no life to call her own.

“He invited me to dinner,” she told Liz.

Liz’s eyebrows rose. “And you said…?”

“No, of course.” Fiona put down the skein of wool and rose to pace the narrow aisle between the shelves of yarn. “He was drunk. He probably didn’t even know what he was saying. Anyway he’s got a serious attitude problem. I don’t want that kind of negativity in my life. Plus, he’s not sticking around once he’s recovered.”

“One excuse would have been enough.” Liz smiled to herself as the thread slipped between her fingers. “Not because he’s in a wheelchair?”

It took Fiona a moment to answer. “No…” she said finally. “That would be pretty insensitive of me.”

“He’s got a fabulous voice,” Liz said. “Is he as attractive as he looks on TV?”

“In a cynical, world-weary sort of way.” With his dark gold hair and eyes the color of new denim he could have been very attractive if he hadn’t let himself get so scruffy. Fiona noticed Liz watching her closely and turned away to gaze out the front window. “Speak of the devil.”

On the raised wooden sidewalk Marc had stopped to read her notice. Seeing her, he motioned for her to come out. Fiona cast an uncertain glance at Liz.

“Go on,” Liz urged. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’ll see you later.” Fiona gathered up her notices and walked back outside under the shelter of the wooden awning that ran the length of the block. The morning clouds were breaking up and the afternoon promised more of the fine Indian-summer weather they’d been having lately.

“Hi,” she said to Marc. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to her notice. His eyes looked even bluer in daylight and his hair glinted in the sun like gold threads. He was wearing a dark green track suit that showed off his broad shoulders. Marc was more attractive than he appeared on TV, somehow larger than life.

“I can’t keep the dog so I’ve got to do something,” she explained. “Giving him away is better than sending him to the pound.”

Marc shook his head, frowning. “You have no idea what kind of people he’ll end up with. They may say they’ll give him a good home but how do you know he won’t be mistreated again?”

“Whoever answers this ad will be someone who wants a pet,” she said mildly. “But it’s nice that you care.”

That brought him up short. His mouth clamped shut and he glanced away. “I don’t.”

Fiona wagged a playful finger at him. “I don’t believe you.”

One corner of his mouth twisted down as his hardened gaze swept back to her. “I don’t care what happens to the damn dog.”

A woman and a small boy about four years old approached, interrupting their discussion. Fiona stepped to the side, dodging a hanging flower basket, to let them pass and Marc maneuvered his wheelchair out of the way behind one of the chunky posts that supported the awning.

The little boy’s unblinking gaze fixed on Marc. “Why’s that man in a wheelchair, Mommy?” he said in a loud voice.

“Shh, honey.” The mother flushed as she glanced at Marc and quickly away. “It’s not nice to stare.”

“But, Mommy, what’s wrong with him?” The boy tugged on his mother’s hand to slow her pace, craning his neck to look back at Marc.

Fiona saw Marc’s hands tighten on his wheels and felt herself tense up, too. The man was a time bomb waiting to explode. Definitely not ready to handle this.

“I had an accident,” he snarled. “What’s wrong with you?”

The boy burst into tears. His mother stared in shock for a split second before dragging her son away. “That wasn’t very nice, mister.”

“What a horrible thing to say to that poor kid!” Fiona exclaimed. Just when she was starting to think she’d judged Marc too harshly.

Marc shrugged. “Maybe he’ll think twice next time before making comments about strangers.”

“He’s just a little boy.” She shook her head in dismay. “I can’t believe you could be so mean. And on such a beautiful day, too.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Fiona remembered the notices in her hand and gratefully seized the excuse to leave. “I’ve got to take these around.” She started to walk up the street.

Marc set his wheelchair in motion, following her. She glared at him and he said gruffly, “Can I help it if I’m going in the same direction?”

Fiona continued in silence, leaving as much space between her and Marc as possible on the wooden sidewalk.

“Are you working today?” Marc asked.

“No,” she replied, wishing she was rude enough to ignore him. “I’m off to Vancouver after I finish putting up the notices.”

“What for?” he wanted to know.

She threw him an exasperated look. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested in talking to him? Maybe if she explained he would go away. “I take a class by correspondence and once in a while I go to the university for a tutorial or to use the library.”

“What are you studying?”

“Early-childhood education.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, “you want to brainwash the little brats before they lose their innocence.”

“I’m a primary-school teacher upgrading my qualifications. I only work at the pub because I can’t get a full-time teaching job.” Speaking of the pub, he was heading in the opposite direction. She hesitated, not wanting him to think she was interested in him but curiosity got the better of her. “Where are you off to?”

“An hour of torture, misery and pain.” When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “My physiotherapy appointment.”

“Why come to Pemberton when Whistler has so many highly trained physios?”

“Val was recommended by my physiatrist in Vancouver. Plus she’s conveniently located close to my favorite drinking establishment.”

“Why am I not surprised that would figure in your motivation?” she said. Fiona paused to pin one of her advertisements to a public notice board outside the grocery store. Marc waited while she accomplished her task.

“Maybe you could ask your therapist to put a notice in her clinic window,” she said, handing him one.

He scanned the contents then let the flyer drop onto his lap. “What happens if no one wants the mutt?”

“Someone will.”

“And if they don’t?”

The wooden sidewalk slanted down to the pavement as they crossed a side street. Fiona walked a little ahead. “I’ll wait till the end of the week then if no one comes forward I’ll have to take him to the pound—”

“Damn!”

At first she thought his expletive was a reaction to her plan to take the dog to the pound, but when he gave vent to more muttered curses she turned around. His back wheel had hit a crack in the pavement and swiveled, sending him shooting toward the road. He managed to stop before falling into the path of an on-coming pickup truck but at a cost to the raw, red skin on his hands.

Fiona hurried over. “Are you all right?”

Marc waved her away with a sharp gesture, swearing again under his breath in his efforts to get his wheelchair back on level ground. “Why me?” he muttered fiercely to himself. “Why the hell did this have to happen to me? I’ve got a life to live, dammit!”

She knew he wasn’t referring to hitting a bit of uneven pavement. There was no satisfactory response to his demand, as he would learn eventually. Why anybody? Why not him? She’d been through the whole litany of questions-with-no-answers, the outbursts of rage, with Jason.

“Everything happens for a reason,” she told him.

He uttered a scornful grunt. “Bull.”

“The reason might not be obvious right away but if you search for meaning in life something good will come from even the worst events.”

“Thanks a lot for your comforting words,” he drawled derisively. “Probably I’m the butt of some huge cosmic joke and the gods are having a good laugh as we speak.”

He must think her impossibly ingenuous and unsophisticated. He couldn’t know she had her own demons to face and that her determined hopefulness was how she’d learned to cope with the events of her life. “Give yourself time. Things will get better—”

“Oh, please. Spare me your wide-eyed optimism. I need a drink.” Laboriously he turned his chair around.

“Wait, Marc—”

“Go back to your swings and dolls, Pollyanna.” He cut her off with the back of a sharply upraised hand as he headed in the opposite direction.

Pushed too far, Fiona ran after him and yanked his chair to a halt. His startled glare didn’t stop her anger from pouring out. “Don’t be a jerk! Instead of drinking yourself into oblivion you should be glad you’re alive. There are a lot of people worse off than you. You know that better than anyone, the places you’ve been. When someone tries to help you could at least be gracious if you can’t be grateful.”

“How dare you?” he growled when she paused for breath. “You have no idea what I’m going through.”

“Yes, I do. Not firsthand but—”

“Then you don’t know. You, who can run and walk, dance and jog, don’t have any idea what it’s like to be conquering mountains one day and having someone wipe your ass the next.”

“Oh, you…” she sputtered, fists clenched at her sides. “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something to help someone else?”

“Yeah, right. How can I help anyone in my condition?”

“Use your imagination. You’ve got plenty of time to think. Or is your brain disabled, too?”

At Marc’s stunned expression Fiona’s anger subsided. Oh, dear, that was so mean. “I’m sorry,” she said, aghast at herself. “That was totally unlike me. You made me so mad I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“The truth according to Pollyanna, apparently,” he said. His rage seemed to have vanished, replaced by sudden interest. “Anything else you want to say to me?”

She started to back away. The intense curiosity in his gaze was unnerving. “Er… Have a nice day?”