Читать книгу Family Matters - Joan Kilby - Страница 9

MILDLY SHOCKED but definitely intrigued, Marc watched Fiona walk away. That sweet nurturing woman had a hidden streak of spit and vinegar. She was completely wrong, of course, but at least she didn’t hesitate to say what she thought.

Remembering his physio appointment, he turned around just in time to see Fiona go into another store with her damn notices. He didn’t care about the dog but for some stupid reason he felt responsible for the animal’s plight. And although he hated to admit it, Fiona’s comments had stung. The sooner he became mobile enough to get out of town, the better.

The automatic doors to the clinic opened and he wheeled in to find his physiotherapist, Val, at the front desk reading through a patient’s file. “Hey, Marc,” she said, glancing up. “What’s up with you today?”

With her butch haircut and muscular forearms, Val could have belonged to an eastern European shot-put team. Marc valued her because she was the only female he knew who didn’t smother him with platitudes and sympathy.

“Nothing,” he muttered, trying to rub away the furrows between his eyebrows. There was no way to explain how rotten he felt, and not just physically. He used to be a decent guy who got along with everyone. Now he seemed to snap a dozen times a day.

“Just your usual generic mad at the whole world, is that it? Never mind, it comes with the territory.” Val put down the file and motioned Marc through the wide doorway into the workout room. “Come into my parlor. I’ll give you something to complain about.”

Val was also the only person he allowed to help him move around. With her assistance he transferred to a narrow, padded massage table and lay on his back, hands gripping the sides against the inevitable pain.

“Are you experiencing much cramping?” she asked, raising his straight leg and stretching out the hamstring.

“Occasionally at night I get muscle spasms right down my legs.” He grunted as she bent his leg at the knee and pushed it into his chest. “How come the nerves work enough to make me feel pain but not to walk?”

“There are a lot of theories but no definitive answers,” she told him. “When the spinal cord is injured, nerve messages get mixed up. Soft muscle tissue is bombarded by stray electrical impulses which can be experienced as pain. Or, you could be feeling referred pain from an injury or sickness somewhere else in your body. You need to do something about those hands, by the way. Leather gloves are essential if you’re going to be active.” She manipulated his ankle and then his knee to keep the joints mobile. “Any burning or tingling sensations in your legs? Pins and needles?”

Marc thought for a moment. “Yeah, once in a while. It’s a pain. No pun intended.”

Val let his leg down and picked up the other one. “That could be good. Pins and needles are often an indication of nerve function returning. Not always, though.”

“When can I expect to recover nerve function?” Marc asked, ignoring her caution.

Val shrugged. “Spinal-cord injuries are individual and unpredictable. It could be weeks, or months, but Marc, you’ve got to be realistic—you may never get function back in your legs.”

Marc didn’t reply. He simply couldn’t accept what she was saying. Only at night, when his defenses were low did he fully acknowledge the reality of his situation.

Val finished stretching and manipulating his other leg and came around the table to position his chair where he could get into it. “Time for the race.”

“Talk about a misnomer,” Marc grumbled as he shed his tracksuit jacket.

Attempting to move his legs while supporting himself inside the “race” or parallel bars was the most frustrating exercise of all, highlighting as it did his inability to control his body in ways he’d always taken for granted.

“Put some weight on those legs,” Val barked as she walked slowly along beside him, monitoring his progress. “The nerves in your lower limbs need feedback about what’s happening. Don’t let your arms do all the work.”

Marc clamped his jaw down hard to bite off a sarcastic retort. If he could get his legs to help out, didn’t she think he would? No matter how hard he concentrated all his will on making his legs move he ended up dragging them along. He felt like a marionette who’d had the strings controlling his feet cut for the amusement of a cruel puppet master. If this was a cosmic practical joke, he didn’t find it very funny.

Despite the pain and frustration he forced himself to think about his goal. Normal life. Work and travel. No one feeling sorry for him. Ever. By the time Val suggested he quit for the day, sweat was pouring off his forehead and trickling down his back, soaking his T-shirt. Marc insisted on doing another four lengths before he collapsed, arms sagging against the bars while he waited for her to bring his chair over.

He got back on the massage table, stomach down. Marc gazed through the face hole in the padded table at the stain on the gray indoor-outdoor carpet immediately below. Sweat? Blood? Tears? Maybe all three.

Val squirted peppermint-scented oil onto her hands and began kneading his calf muscles. At least he assumed that’s what she was doing; he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Do you know a woman here in town called Fiona?” he asked, thinking to do a bit of journalistic probing into her background.

“Fiona Gordon? Not personally. I moved here only a few months ago. Her friend Liz, who owns the yarn shop, has a daughter in the same kindergarten class as my boy, Andy. Why do you ask—because of her brother, Jason?”

“I didn’t know she had a brother.” Nor did he particularly care. “What’s she like?”

“She’s nice. Had a tough go of it when her parents died and she was left to care for Jason who was still in primary school. From what Liz tells me she’s a sucker for animals and kids.” Val moved to the other side of the table and her voice became teasing. “Why, are you interested in her?”

Marc maintained a neutral tone. “I hang out at the pub where she works as a barmaid. She tried to get me to adopt an abandoned puppy. I told her no, of course.”

Val paused to apply more massage lotion. Marc heard it squirt from the bottle and imagined he could feel the cool liquid splash onto the back of his thigh.

“A puppy would be just the thing for you,” Val said. “Why don’t you go for it?”

“I haven’t got time for a dog. Once you whip me into shape my producer wants me back on the beat.”

“Marc,” Val said, a warning in her voice.

“Val,” Marc warned her right back. The last thing he wanted was another lecture.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t go buying season tickets for the ski lift.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Fiona? Not that I know of.”

Val finished the massage, gave him a shot of cortisone next to his spinal cord and sent him back to the front desk to get Cindy to make him an appointment for hydrotherapy at the Meadow Park Sports Centre.

It was only later, after Jim had taken time out of his lunch break to pick Marc up and drive him back to the house that Marc remembered he hadn’t asked Val to put Fiona’s notice in the window. He pulled the folded sheet from his breast pocket and started to toss it into the recycling bin. He hesitated a moment and for no reason he could think of, tucked it back into his pocket.

Then, ignoring the golden autumn sunshine pouring onto the backyard patio, he wheeled into his room, drew the curtains and shut the door. His energy had drained away and he was left feeling exhausted and depressed. Immobility was easier to handle without the beckoning mountains in sight.

Perversely, he shut his eyes and relived in minute-by-minute detail the last rock climb he’d done on Stawamus Chief with Nate and Aidan two months ago, before he’d left for the Middle East and his date with destiny. With his near-photographic memory he could visualize every detail. He’d just handjammed an exposed corner crack and was heading up a small chimney when Fiona’s trite phrase popped into his mind.

Everything happens for a reason.

Logically, that would include hanging on to her notice about the dog. Had he done that because he was actually considering adopting the pet? Taking on the scrawny mutt seemed somehow like admitting he was as pitiful and needy as the dog.

Or had he kept the notice because he wanted Fiona’s phone number? That, he dismissed immediately. There was no point in even thinking about Fiona; as long as he was in this wheelchair he had nothing to offer a woman.

So why did he have this maddening urge to prove he did? He couldn’t make love. His future was uncertain. He was a miserable son of a bitch to be around. Even he didn’t like himself these days.

He’d mulled this over for a full five minutes before a crow cawing loudly in the pine tree outside his window snapped him out of his melancholic brooding. Fiona was right; he did have too much time to think.

But what else did he have to do? At first he’d watched CNN compulsively until he couldn’t stand it anymore because it reminded him too much of the life he’d lost. The radio was full of sappy love songs. He got bored surfing the Internet. Books weren’t the answer; he’d never been one for reading when he could be out doing something.

Frustrated, he left his bedroom and wheeled through the house. Restless with an energy he couldn’t expend, he rolled down the long hallway to the kitchen, turned around and rolled back again. He wished he could call someone but his cousins were both working; Nate at his bike shop and Aidan in the ski patrol on Whistler Mountain. As for friends, Marc had lost contact with most of his old buddies over the years and wasn’t keen on making new ones in his present state.

He’d told himself he would stay away from the pub, that drinking every day wasn’t good for him. But the empty silence of the house began to close in. Before another ten minutes passed he was summoning the taxi for the disabled.

Fifteen minutes later the taxi with the high cab at the back pulled up to the house and a young driver he hadn’t had before got out.

“I’m Brent,” the driver said with a wide smile as he went around to open the sliding passenger door and lower the motorized lift that always made Marc feel like cargo being loaded onto a truck. “Where are you off to on this glorious fall day?”

Oh, great, someone high on life. Marc could tell right now this was going to be a long trip even though the drive took only half an hour. “Pemberton Hotel.”

Brent slid the door shut, got in and started to back out. “What’s your name?”

“Marc.” He stared out the window and pretended not to hear the driver’s friendly chatter as they sped up the highway. How many trees in these forests? Millions? Billions?

“Here you are,” Brent announced as he pulled up in front of the pub. He jumped out and lowered the ramp for Marc to roll down. “Enjoy your day.”

“Oh, I plan to have a wonderful time.” Marc handed him a couple of big bills, overtipping to compensate for his lack of grace.

Inside he went straight to the table in the far corner where he always sat. The big room seemed even emptier without Fiona but sitting at a table listening to the jukebox gave him the illusion he was doing something.

After a couple of drinks his conscience started to work on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about that damn dog, imagining the undernourished mutt sitting on a cold concrete floor at the pound, cringing and snarling every time someone walked by. That’s no way to find an owner, he wanted to shout at it. Wag your tail, look happy to see folks, muster up a little warmth and puppy charm.

He was on his fifth, or maybe it was his sixth, bourbon, his mind flipping back and forth between the dog and his last day in Damascus, when the two images merged. He heard a whimper and instead of an injured boy, he was carrying the abandoned pup through mortar blasts and crossfire. Up ahead was the brick building. If he hurried, he’d make it—

A hand gripped his shoulder. “Wha’ the—?” he said, startled into flinging his head up and back.

A familiar chestnut-haired figure in a blue corduroy shirt and jeans stood beside him. Aidan. Marc slumped down in his wheelchair. “You mus’ come here ’lot,” he joked feebly. “This’s the sec’nd time this week you been in the pub.”

His cousin took the glass from his hand and set it on the table. “I’m tired of rescuing you from yourself, bud. It’s time you found another form of entertainment.”

“Stay ’n have a drink,” Marc said when Aidan took hold of the hand grips at the back of the chair and pulled him away from the table.

“Can’t. Emily’s waiting in the car.” Aidan waved to the bartender and started for the exit.

“I can push myself,” Marc protested but Aidan was walking too fast for Marc to get hold of the turning wheels. He twisted in his chair and squinted up at his cousin. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“I’ll be mad if you drink yourself to death after surviving that bomb blast.” He started to help Marc into the truck and without the coordination to transfer himself, Marc was forced to accept.

Emily, Aidan’s six-year-old daughter stared at Marc. “What’s wrong with Marc, Daddy?”

“He’s drunk,” Aidan said bluntly.

Marc winced and turned away from the little girl’s expression of pity and distaste. Once upon a time she’d begged for piggyback rides, shrieking with laughter as he galloped her around the yard. Now, God help him, even the child could see he was sinking.

He stayed away from the pub the next day, and every day that week. But although the hangover wore off, he found he was still thinking about the pup. On Friday after his physiotherapy he checked and discovered that Fiona’s notices were still up in store windows. That meant she hadn’t found a home for the pooch. Marc tried to reason with himself—it was just a dog, for goodness’ sake—but by four o’clock the unfairness of the animal’s fate had him agitated.

“You’re going to wear holes in my carpet wheeling back and forth like that,” Leone complained. She’d just walked in the door after making her rounds as a public-health nurse and was still in her navy blue skirt and jacket. “What’s wrong with you?”

Marc stopped suddenly, blocking her way. “Would you object to me getting a puppy?”

“Do you mean that poor creature your friend Fiona brought over? Of course not. He would be a companion for Rufus with Jim and I both working full-time.”

“Great. I’ll go get him right now. Otherwise Fiona’ll take him to the pound.”

“Give me a minute to change and I’ll drive you,” Leone said. “There’s a special on rump steak at the Pemberton market.” Marc’s eyebrows rose and she added, “Not for the dog!”

A short time later Leone was pulling onto the highway to Pemberton. “What’s her address?”

Marc could have kicked himself—metaphorically speaking. He’d never asked her where she lived and of course she’d never volunteered such information. Then he remembered the notice—which he’d left sitting on top of his dresser in his hurry to be off.

“Let me think.” Shutting his eyes, he visualized the sheet of paper. Free to a good home: Jack Russell–cross puppy. Call Fiona 555-6283. With the image of the numbers imprinted on the back of his eyelids, Marc felt in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed.

A young man answered and said Fiona was out in the barn and could he get her to call him back?

“Has she found a home for the puppy?” Marc demanded. “She hasn’t taken it to the pound, has she?”

“No, the little fella’s right here, snoozing on my lap. I think she’s planning on taking him to the pound when she comes in.” The young man added hopefully, “Why? Do you want him?”

“Yes. I’m on my way now. What’s your address?”

Marc found pen and paper in the glove compartment and wrote down the address, repeating it aloud as he did so. Half an hour later they were pulling into the gravel driveway of an older-style home set on a large property outside town. Alpacas grazed in the field next to a red barn. Late roses bloomed along the footpath and red-and-gold dahlias were staked up in a garden bed under the windows.

But what drew Marc’s attention was the wheelchair ramp that zigzagged from the path to the front door.

The absurd thought struck him that she’d been expecting him. Ridiculous. The ramp was weathered and worn, obviously in use for many years.

“At least you won’t have a problem getting inside,” Leone commented pragmatically. “Did you want me to come in? Because if not, I’ll run down to the grocery store and pick up a few things for dinner.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Leone got his wheelchair out of the car and tried to help him into it but Marc waved her off. The feeling of helplessness, of having to rely on others, was the part he hated the most. If he was forced to spend more than a few months in this contraption he’d be looking into a car with hand controls. But of course, it wouldn’t come to that.

Leone stood back while he got himself settled and wheeled over to the footpath. “Shall I push you?”

“I’m fine.” He softened his curt tone. “Thanks for the ride.”

Leone got back into the car with a promise to return in twenty minutes. Marc started up the long ramp.

IN THE BARN, FIONA RAN the brush over Snowdrop’s soft white wool and wondered what Angela Wilde was knitting with the animal’s cria fleece. Something special, she hoped. She could ask Liz to find out…

What was her interest here, she asked herself sharply— Angela and the fleece, or Angela’s connection to the Wilde family? Bill had told her he’d had to call Marc’s cousin again to pick Marc up the afternoon she’d gone to UBC Marc hadn’t been in the pub since. Had he finally found more worthwhile pursuits? For his sake, she hoped so.

She glanced at her watch and reluctantly put the brush away. No one had called about the dog. It was time to take him to the pound. With a heavy heart she walked back to the house, trailed by Bilbo and Baggins who’d waited faithfully at the barn door for her.

Jason greeted her at the door, cradling the dog. “A man called who wants to adopt the puppy. He should be here any minute.”

“Wonderful!” The relief made her smile. “Who is he?”

“He didn’t give his name but he sounded vaguely familiar,” Jason said.

Just then, the puppy in his lap lifted his head, ears pricked. A second later they heard the sound of a car drive up.

Fiona handed Jason the dog brush so he could quickly groom the puppy. The animal didn’t look quite so scrawny as when they’d first got him, but he still cowered whenever anyone put out a hand to pat him. She hoped whoever was at the door wouldn’t be put off by that but instead treated the dog with compassion and kindness.

There was a knock and she went through the living room to answer it. Opening the door set off a burst of heavy-metal rock music pitched at deafening volume. Fiona, who ordinarily used the back door, remembered too late Jason’s latest “invention.” Marc looked as startled at the sound as she was to see him.

“You!” Fiona exclaimed but the sound of her voice was drowned out by the ear-piercing twang of electronic guitar. “Come in,” she yelled, motioning him over the threshold. She shut the door and blessed silence reigned. “Sorry about that. My brother is an electronics nut.”

Marc’s hands gripped his wheels. “I’ve decided to take the dog, after all.”

Fiona crossed her arms over her chest. Secretly she was delighted but after the things he’d said she was going to make him work for this. “Are you sure you can take care of him?”

Marc glowered at her. “I can do a lot more in this chair than most people can on two legs.”

“What will you do with the dog when you take off into the wild blue yonder?” she demanded, flinging an arm skyward.

“Not a problem,” Marc assured her. “My aunt and uncle will be happy to keep him. If they fall through, I’ve got two cousins. Between us we’ll make sure he has a home.”

Fiona tapped her foot, pretending to be debating the issue. “Why did you change your mind?”

“What difference does it make as long as the mutt has a home?”

“Admit it, you fell in love with him at first sight.”

He glanced at his watch. “My aunt will be back in twenty minutes at which time I’m leaving, with or without the dog.”

With a sigh, Fiona stepped aside and let him pass. “Go straight ahead. He’s in the kitchen at the back with my brother.”

Jason, his wheelchair parked beside the table, was still brushing the puppy. “Hi.”

Marc came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the kitchen and threw her an odd look.

“This is my brother, Jason,” she said. “Jason, this is Marc Wilde.”

“No wonder your voice sounded familiar on the telephone!” Jason exclaimed. “Wow! I can’t believe you’re actually in our kitchen. The last time I saw you on TV you were in Damascus with bombs going off….” Jason’s voice trailed away as he realized what he was saying. “Gosh, Mr. Wilde, I’m sorry. About what happened, I mean.”

“Forget it. Call me Marc.” Marc wheeled closer to peer at the dog. “How’s the pup?”

“He’s coming along,” Fiona said. “I took him to the vet for his shots and a microchip in his ear for identification.” She paused. “The vet estimated he’s about eight weeks old. He’ll be the right age to be neutered in four months. You will do the right thing, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry— I’m not in the habit of leaving progeny scattered in my wake and neither will my dog.”

He’d spoken absently and without even looking her way, yet Fiona felt heat creep into her cheeks. Good grief, anyone would think she was someone’s maiden aunt. She moved to the other side of the island benchtop to get out the bag of dry puppy food. He’s here for the dog, she reminded herself.

“You can take this to get you started,” she said, setting the bag by the door. “Be sure to give him plenty of water.”

“I’ve owned a dog before.” Marc reached out for the puppy and Jason handed him over. Immediately the dog began trembling.

“He’ll get used to you before long,” Fiona assured him, worried Marc might change his mind even now.

Marc held the puppy and stroked it for a few minutes. The trembling increased. He put the dog on the floor where it huddled instead of running around and exploring. “Is he sick?”

“Just scared,” Fiona said. “The vet checked him out thoroughly.”

“Does he ever bark?” Marc asked.

Fiona glanced at Jason. “We’ve never heard him.”

“Has he got a name?”

“I’ve held off calling him anything because I thought his new owner should name him.”

Fiona stood between Marc and Jason and the three of them stared at the cowering pup. He really wasn’t the most prepossessing animal.

“I’ll call him Rowdy,” Marc said at last. “Give him something to live up to.”

Fiona couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure he will in time.”

“Can you stay for dinner?” Jason blurted out. “I made minestrone soup. It’ll give Rowdy time to get to know you before you take him away. And,” he added shyly, “I’d love to hear about your experiences in the Middle East.”

Marc looked surprised at the unexpected invitation. “Thanks, Jason—”

Fearing he was about to add a “but…” Fiona jumped in. “It’s awfully short notice, Jase. I’m sure Marc has other things to do. Plus his aunt is coming back for him.”

Marc glanced at her. “I could always call Leone on her cell phone and ask her to come later.”

“Great!” Jason said. “I’ll heat up some garlic bread.”

“Fine,” Fiona said wondering why she was reluctant for Marc to stay. Jason needed more male company, especially now that high school was over and his friends had gone off to college and new jobs. But not Marc. Instinctively she felt he would be a disturbing influence, infecting Jason with his discontent.

Marc’s presence made the kitchen seem crowded and it wasn’t just because his wheelchair took up extra space. Fiona moved nervously around the room, pulling out the table, setting an extra place, aware of Marc’s gaze on her as he petted the dog.

“I gather you like Greece,” he said, nodding at the posters.

“I’ve never been,” Fiona admitted. “But I’d like to.” She paused to gaze at one of the posters. “Something about the light and the blueness of the water and sky attracts me.”

“You’ll go someday.”

She uttered a short laugh. “In my dreams.”

Fiona carried the food to the table and they seated themselves. She bowed her head to say a few words of thanksgiving and then handed around bowls of Jason’s steaming savory soup and hunks of buttery garlic bread sprinkled with fresh herbs from the pots she grew outside the back door.

In response to Jason’s prodding, Marc told them tales of his travels through war-torn countries. She noticed he didn’t embellish his own role or glorify war, concentrating instead on the bravery and fortitude of the local people who survived in near-impossible conditions. A different side to him shone through, one she admired.

“You’ve got a knack for bringing their stories to life,” Fiona said. “Yasmina, the schoolteacher, seems as real as, well, me.”

“People aren’t that different the world over, not where it counts,” Marc said with a shrug. “Jason, this soup is delicious.”

Jason blushed to the roots of his hair. “Thanks.”

“How old are you, seventeen, eighteen?”

“I turned eighteen last month.”

“Then you’ve finished high school,” Marc said. Jason nodded. “What are your plans for the future?”

“I want to go to university—” Jason began.

“Good plan,” Marc said. “Education opens doors.”

“—but Fiona won’t let me,” Jason finished.

Shocked her brother would say that in front of a stranger, Fiona froze as Marc turned to look in her direction.