The Secret Between Us. Barbara Delinsky
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While she was driving down West Elm, she was looking for something on the passenger’s seat and sideswiped a parked car.”
Her father made a face. “That’s ridiculous. I would have known.”
“Her car needed a tune-up. It had to be in the shop anyway. Ask Donny Russo.”
“Your mother would never have lied to me.”
“She didn’t lie. She just didn’t tell the whole truth.”
“Why would she do that?”
Deborah sighed. Gently, she said, “Because you want perfection, and we can’t always deliver. Is Mom less lovable because she sideswiped a car? Am I less lovable because my car hit a man? I was upset when we hit Calvin McKenna, and I’m crushed that he died. But it was an accident,” she was suddenly close to tears, “—an innocent accident, but I seem to be the only one saying that. I’m saying it to my daughter, to my son, to Hal, to the police, to my ex-husband, to you. It would be really nice if someone said it to me— because, here’s a flash, Dad, I’m not made of steel. And I’m not without feelings. Right now, I need support.”
Deborah hadn’t planned the outburst. But she didn’t apologize.
Michael eyed her strangely. “Did you tell me that about your mother so that I wouldn’t be angry about you?”
“It’s not about anger. It’s about understanding.”
“Then understand this,” he said and set down his mug. “I loved your mother. I was married to her for forty years, and during that time I never once had cause to doubt her. It sounds to me like you’re trying to find fault with her and with me to get yourself off the hook. You killed a man, Deborah. It might be best if you accept that fact.”
Deborah was startled by the attack and too long formulating her response. What she might have asked, had her father not left, was why he had endless compassion for his patients and none for her. The answer, of course, was that she was family, and that, for family, the expectations were different.
For patients, the expectations were always the same. Family doctors didn’t get sick, didn’t take long vacations, didn’t take Wednesday afternoons off to play golf or, in Deborah’s instance, to sit with Grace. Between ten in-office patients and four house calls, Deborah’s Wednesday was nonstop. Her very last patient, waiting for her when she returned to the office, was Karen Trutter.
“If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad …” her friend said with a small smile. She wore gym clothes stylish enough to blend with the diamond studs that were a gift from her husband and that she never removed.
Deborah closed the door, and, looking at Karen, was warmed by the history of caring that had been given and taken for eighteen years. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, crossing the small space to give her friend a squeeze. “You deserve better.”
“You’re busy.”
Deborah pulled up a chair and sat. “What I am, is running to get as much done as possible before the you-know-what hits the fan.”
“It was an accident.”
“Thank you. But still …” Deborah knew that even aside from whose responsibility the driving had been, there was the issue of deception. The fact that Karen knew nothing of it made it even worse.
“Danielle says Grace wasn’t in school.”
“How could I send her?” Deborah asked. “She’s distraught.”
“Maybe she needs counseling.”
“No. Just time. This is all so fresh. Have you heard about any funeral plans?”
“Friday afternoon. Here in town.”
“Here?” Deborah was disappointed. She was hoping the funeral would be far away. “I’m surprised. He hasn’t lived here very long.”
“They’re suspending classes so students who want to can attend. And there’ll be a memorial service at the school Friday night. Was Hal a help this morning?”
“As much as he could be. There are so many unknowns. My stomach churns when I think about it.”
“John Colby won’t charge you with anything,” Karen said. “He knows what you mean to this town.”
“That could backfire,” Deborah remarked. “He’s already been warned about a whitewash. Precisely because of who I am, he could go after me harder.”
“For what?”
But Deborah didn’t want to list the possible charges again. “I’ll let Hal tell you. He was very good to meet with me.”
“Why wouldn’t he? He loves you.”
For the second time that day with someone named Trutter, Deborah felt like a fraud.
Karen frowned, seeming ready to say something more— and, for an instant, Deborah feared Hal had confessed his feelings to his wife. Then Karen closed her mouth, cleared her throat, and said weakly, “I’m actually here on business. My elbow’s been killing me for two weeks. You said I should tell you if something lasts that long.”
“ ‘Killing you’?” Deborah asked, quickly concerned. “Which elbow?”
When she bobbed the right one, Deborah took it in her hand and began to press. “Hurt?”
“No.”
“This?”
“No.”
She prodded enough, without distress to her friend, to rule out a broken bone. Cradling the elbow, she took Karen’s wrist and moved it through a normal range of motion. This did elicit a cry. When Deborah repeated the offending movement, Karen protested again. Deborah probed the elbow again, this time focusing on the lateral tendon.
“There,” Karen said and sucked in a breath.
Deborah sat back. “How often have you played tennis this week?”
“Every day, but—”
“And not just for fun. Karen, you have tennis elbow.”
“Women on my team don’t get tennis elbow.”
Deborah chuckled with relief. “You have tennis elbow.”
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