Bound by Suggestion (28 page)

My guts heaved.

He held me over the basin. Cold water splashed my face, jolting me. Choking, gasping—I couldn’t catch my breath. I struggled from his grasp but, weak as a kitten, tumbled to the floor, still barfing over myself and the cabinet doors.

He grabbed me by the waistband, of my sweatpants and hauled me onto my knees. Vomit soaked my knees, the stench setting off another spasm of retching.

“Why the hell did you do this?” His voice split my skull. “Why?”

Gasping for breath, I sank to the cold tile floor. I heard him talking—on the phone? He must’ve plugged it back in.

“Get over here with the ipecac! Jeff’s ingested half his medicine cabinet. Hurry!”

Richard slammed the phone down in its cradle and was back, pushing me against the cabinet door, forcing me to sit. He grabbed my chin again, making me to look into his wide blue eyes.

“When did you take the stuff?”

Groggy, I struggled to pull away. He slapped me, hard, across the cheek.

“When? When did you take it?”

“Before . . . jus’ before you got here.”

Brenda came crashing through the door. “Did you call 911?”

“I made him vomit. There wasn’t time for much to get in his system. I think he’s drunk.”

“You
think?
For God’s sake, Richard, call an ambulance!”

“No! We’ll handle this. Help me get him into the bathroom. We’ve got to make sure his stomach’s empty.”

They each took one of my arms, hauled me up on wobbly legs—dragged me into the bathroom. I came over all cold, though sweat poured off of me. They let me sit, slumped in front of the shower, then Richard forced some vile-tasting stuff down my throat, holding my mouth shut, making me swallow it.

He held a tumbler of water. “Drink this.”

“Will you lower your voice,” Brenda grated at him. “Come on, Jeffy. Drink it down.” She placed my fingers around the glass, guided it to my mouth.

“Drink it,” Richard ordered. “All of it.”

I did as I was told.

My hands were shaking as Brenda took the glass away. Richard turned on the water, angled the showerhead so it sprayed the corner away from me.

My lungs couldn’t get enough air. I began to hyperventilate.

I twisted away from Brenda as the retching began again. Richard braced himself against the wall, his other arm encircling my waist, holding me over the drain while Brenda held my head, wiped my mouth with a damp washcloth.

“Jeffy, why’d you do this?” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped between heaves. “Sorry . . . .”

But I wasn’t.

Only sorry they’d stopped me.

The water kept running. Spent, I sank against the shower wall, shivering, but Richard wouldn’t let me rest. “Come on. You’re going to walk.”

“Le’me alone.” I tried to pull away, but he was bigger and stronger than me.

He was always better than me.

“Brenda, get him a blanket.”

So tired . . . all I wanted to do was sleep, but he kept marching me up and down the living room. Six steps, turn. Six steps, turn. A blanket was thrown over my shoulders. Richard kept talking—anger gushing from him.

“How could you do this to yourself? Why did you let things go this far? Why didn’t you come to us?”

“Rich, why are you so upset? I should be upset.
You
ruined everything.”

“You go out of your way to be miserable, you know that? You don’t
want
to be happy!”

“That’s a lie.”

“Is it?”

Back and forth—back and forth. My slippered feet shuffled across the hardwood floor.

I lost track of time.

After a while, we paused in our march. Richard sat me on one of the wing chairs, and Brenda wrapped my hands around a warm cup. “Drink it down, Jeffy.”

Our eyes met, Fear had tightened her face. I couldn’t bear to see the pain I’d caused her. I looked away, took a sip and winced at the bitter, black coffee. “I can’t—”

“Yes you can. Drink it,” Richard ordered.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Richard crouched before me, his face contorted with anger. “Don’t you get it? Because I love you! What did you think?”

Tears brimmed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

It was an honest answer. At that moment, I truly did not know.

I took another sip of coffee, my hands shaking. Sweat trickled down my temple. I set the cup on the cocktail table and pushed the blanket from my shoulder, wishing they’d open a window.

“What the hell?” Richard grabbed my hand and extended my arm, exposing the bruises at the crook of my elbow. “Those are needle marks. What the hell are you into?” he demanded, new rage filling his voice.

I yanked my arm back. “Nothing!”

“Then where did you get them?”

“I
don’t
know!”

Brenda knelt before me. “Let me see.”

I surrendered my arm to her gentle touch.

Her thumb brushed the tender skin. “They’re days old.” She looked up at Richard, who towered above us. “They’re on his right arm.”

Richard just blinked.

“He’s right handed,” she stressed. “Jeffy didn’t do this.”

“Then who’s helping you shoot up?”

“No one!”

“When was the first time?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you first notice the bruises?”

Unable to think—unwilling to speculate—my gaze shifted to the floor. The holes in my memory, the feelings that had been haunting me welled up, threatening to engulf me. I blotted them out of my mind, didn’t want to confront them, because if I did—

“What’s Krista been giving you?” Richard demanded.

I shook my head, wouldn’t look at him.

“Jeff, what have you been doing?”

I couldn’t answer.

I didn’t know.

“You’ve only been back five minutes, and that’s the third time you’ve checked his pulse,” Brenda said, leaning against the doorjamb of Jeff’s bedroom. “He’s over the hump, now.”

Taking a step back, Richard replaced the sleeping Jeff’s wrist on the bed. “I know, but he breathes so damned shallowly, it’s hard to tell he’s still alive.”

Brenda moved to stand beside him. “You’ll be a nervous wreck when the baby comes.”

She was right.

“What story did you tell Fred when you gave him Jeff’s blood and urine samples?”

Richard and Fred Schmitt, the hospital lab’s manager, went way back. Long enough to call in a favor.

“Overdose. Prominent citizen. No publicity.”

“Then you slipped him a hundred.”

“Brenda!”

She’d known him too long—saw right through him.

“He wouldn’t take any money,” Richard admitted.

Brenda pursed her lips, her face filled with disapproval. “But he’ll call with the results.”

“It isn’t the first time he’s done this for a staff member.” Richard stared down at Jeff, who lay curled on his side. What if he hadn’t listened to Sophie and Maggie? What if he’d kept making phone calls? What if?

“I guess it’s easier on my conscience to think of Jeff as a patient than my brother,” Richard admitted, and glanced at his wife, looking for compassion. Instead, a muscle twitched along her jaw.

“I made a pot of tea. Come have a cup,” she said, and left the room.

Tea was the last thing Richard wanted. A nice, neat scotch would do about now. But he couldn’t afford to dull his senses, to indulge his own desires when someone else needed him more.

Richard switched off the lamp, but hesitated, straining to hear Jeff’s quiet, regular breathing. What was it he felt more? Guilt, or anger?

He was no longer sure.

Brenda sat at the dining table. A delicate bone china tea set—minuscule, purple pansies dotting a stark, white background—sat before her. She poured.

“Maggie bought this,” Brenda said, answering his unasked question. “She wanted him to have pretty things, too.”

Just another reminder of that failed relationship. But then just about everything in the apartment had Maggie’s stamp on it. Jeff hadn’t changed a thing.

“She’ll be back,” Sophie had said.

Not if he kills himself first
, Richard thought.

A quick glance around the room told him order had been restored. Thanks to Brenda’s efforts, the kitchen gleamed, the broken lamp was in the trash, the blanket neatly folded on the couch, belying the chaos earlier when, just to be certain, they’d torn the apartment apart looking for drugs. Richard poured all Jeff’s photo chemicals down the sink, emptied every drawer—even checked the toilet tank. He didn’t find anything. Neither did Brenda.

“How long do you plan to baby-sit him?”

Richard took a sip. He didn’t like Brenda’s tone. “He can move back in with us for a few weeks. Until I’m sure—”

“What? That you can trust him again?”

Richard stared into his cup. He never really liked the stuff.

Brenda’s dark eyes met his. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know.” Richard rubbed his eyes. “How could I have so badly underestimated the depth of his depression? For him to try this—”

“Are you kidding? He was ripe for it.” She leaned forward. “Since he lost his career, he’s practically been in social isolation. He’s had continual health problems since the mugging, and he just broke up with Maggie.”

“But he’s already in another relationship,” Richard countered.

“You’re confusing sex with love. Krista doesn’t mean a thing to him. He thought of Maggie as his soul mate.”

Sophie had said the same thing.

Richard shook his head. “Maggie told me she still loves him.”

“She does. But she had doubts. He couldn’t accept that.” Brenda paused. “And Maggie’s too proud to admit she isn’t happy with Doug.”

“What a waste.”

“Jeffy’s a complicated man with a lot of problems—both physical and emotional.”

Brenda was right about that.

“I still don’t understand what triggered this suicide attempt.”

“Isn’t it obvious? His birthday. The gala was your party—not
his
.”

“He said it wasn’t a big deal.”

“And maybe it wouldn’t have been if it had come on any other day. But look at all the attention
you
got on
his
day.”

“Brenda, birthdays aren’t as important to men as they are to women. And thirty-seven’s young for a midlife crisis.”

“Age had nothing to do with it.”

He looked at her, not comprehending.

“All he wanted was for someone to make a fuss of him. People fawned all over you. He sat alone while Krista networked. She was there to ride your coattails and advance her career.”

“I don’t buy it,” Richard said, shaking his head.

Brenda slid a yellowed, folded paper across the table. “I found this while picking up.”

Richard glanced down at the printed words: “To a fine so—” He met her steady gaze.

“You’ll notice he got no other birthday cards.”

He studied the signature, the blue ink as fresh as if it had been signed the day before.

Mom

A familiar, empty longing filled him. Richard had never received a birthday card from their mother, hadn’t known the woman who’d penned the signature.

“I never thought of Jeff as sentimental.”

“Why, because he never showed that side to you? You said yourself, since the mugging he’s been different. For most of his life he didn’t allow himself to feel anything. Now he experiences what just about everyone around him feels. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed?”

Richard studied the card again. He knew Jeff better than anyone, understood his strengths and the force of his will. Yet this suicide attempt was no cry for help. It was a down and dirty effort to end his life.

It didn’t wash.

During the past few years Jeff had endured a lot more than a romantic disappointment and survived. Something—drugs Krista Marsh had pumped into him? —had pushed Jeff over the edge. If Krista were responsible, Richard would make her pay.

Brenda sat back in her chair, her expression hardening. “Before we dissect the rest of Jeffy’s psyche, there’s something else I want to discuss.”

Richard tensed, knowing what was coming.

“You knew Jeffy took those pills. Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

The hairs on the back of Richard’s neck bristled. His gaze dipped to the table top. “There was no need.”

“What if he lied to you? What if he’d taken the pills an hour before you got up here? What if waiting to call for help killed him?”

Richard’s head jerked up. “Are you questioning my medical judgment?”