The Life She Wants (8 page)

“You're lying,” Clarice said. “You had lawyers! My mother didn't have a lawyer, she couldn't
afford
one! And she didn't get that much. She borrowed against her house to invest with Compton!”

That was not exactly how it worked, as Emma knew from the trial. Richard Compton worked with a number of financial managers and brokers who represented smaller investors, and it was they who invested in his company. Richard didn't talk anyone into mortgaging their house; he talked hedge fund managers into investing with him and he neither knew nor cared where they got their money. Large sums. Many collections of smaller investors. Richard was big-time. He had a minimum requirement, probably a hundred times the value of Mrs. Sinclair's mortgage.

“My lawyer was assigned by the court and he wanted me to keep enough to live on since finding work would be hard, but I didn't keep anything. I'm sorry,” Emma said. “I'm so sorry. I would never have let something like that happen if there was anything I could do to prevent it.”

“You're
lying!
”

Clarice picked up a bedpan that sat on the now vacant bed and hurled it at her. Emma blocked the missile with her forearms but that did little good. The damn thing was full. Since she knew the patient just discharged was ambulatory, Clarice must have looked high and low through the whole ward for just the right bedpan. Or more likely, she emptied catheter bags into one. The splatter threw Emma off balance. She stumbled backward, hit her tailbone on the pail on her way down and cracked her head on the metal door handle. She was covered in the filth.

When she tried to stand, the world was spinning and she ended up scooting across the floor, escaping out of the room into the hallway.

“Oh, my God,” one of the other housekeepers said, running to her. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Clarice walked out of the patient room and, lifting her chin in the air, walked past Emma. She went down the hall to the nursing station.

“Can you get up?” the other housekeeper asked.

“I don't know,” she whispered. “Ugh. Oh, God, this is awful.”

“How did this happen?”

“She threw a bedpan at me. Apparently she was swindled by... My late husband was guilty of... But I didn't know,” she said, turning imploring eyes to her friend. “I swear I didn't. I would never. And he's dead now.”

Two of the RNs on staff came running down the hall. One said, “Dear God.” The other one said, “Clarice has lost her mind.” They tried to get Emma on her feet but when she swayed and threatened to fall again, they went for a wheelchair and took her to the ER. She tried to briefly explain the problem, but it didn't come out well. She tried to tell them she'd been married to a bad man, a thief, but she didn't know it and it seems Clarice was one of his victims but Emma didn't know...

I should have done something
, she thought.
I should have done something when I wondered why lawyers negotiated our prenup but Richard had hired both of them. I should have asked questions when this fabulously wealthy man wanted to marry me, but I didn't! I should have done something when the SEC started investigating him. I should have looked through his papers or found a way to hack his computer when I realized something was wrong, but I didn't know. I should have known. How could I not have known? I should have talked to the people who worked for him, the people who eventually testified against him. I should have found out how they were going to carry on—they got deals from the prosecutors. Everyone got deals—even his mistress!

When everything was so murky, so mysterious, I should have looked into it! Maybe I should have hired a detective or something. Maybe I should have run!

“Clean her up and get a head CT,” the ER doctor ordered. “Listen, you might have a concussion, Emma. Can you get a ride home today and a ride back for your car tomorrow?”

“I don't know,” she said, thinking
I'm covered in urine! Who wants to drive me home?

“Well, you can think about that. We're going to get you some clean scrubs, stand you in the shower and wash you off—Mandy will go with you and make sure you don't faint or fall in the shower. And while you're having your CT, think about who you can call. If there's no one, someone from the hospital can either take you home or put you in a cab. You can't drive for twelve hours, at least. And Mrs. Carlson is waiting to see you, but let's get you cleaned up first.”

Glynnis! Glynnis was going to fire her!

She was taken to a shower, her smelly uniform was put in a plastic bag and a set of scrubs provided. “I think your shoes are fine,” Mandy said from right outside the curtain.

“My shoes are fine because it hit me in the head and got in my hair,” Emma said with a hiccup of emotion.

“Just to be safe, throw the shoes in the washer when you get home. Or spray clean them with some disinfectant cleaner.”

“You can wash those?”

“I do it all the time—they're just running shoes. Canvas and that little bit of leather.”

If I'd been doing my own laundry and cleaning instead of hiring people to do it, I'd probably know that,
she thought.

Emma was given a comb and had a little lip gloss in her purse. By the time the doctor looked at her head CT, her hair was almost dry and completely mangy-looking. Without some product, a brush and a blow dryer, she looked a wreck. It was a relief to be clean, but she wasn't feeling much better about the whole thing. They gave her a list of symptoms to watch for and she had a very large bump on the back of her head, but that didn't hurt nearly as much as her tailbone where she'd hit the metal bucket on the way down. She was given some ibuprofen.

The doctor was insistent that she not drive herself. Emma thought about just ignoring the instructions. Then her wiser self intervened and reminded her that all she needed was to pass out while driving and kill a family of four. She couldn't bear the thought of calling Lyle and having Ethan snigger to learn that her past was kicking up trouble. She didn't want to call Penny; she didn't want her landlady having second thoughts about her decision to rent to her.

She texted Adam.

I fell and had a little accident at work and need a ride home from the hospital in Petaluma. Are you available? If not, I'll look around for someone who will give me a lift.

He responded immediately
.

School's almost out so I'll come for you ASAP. It'll take about an hour to get there. Are you all right until then?

I'm okay. Text me from the parking lot and I'll come out. And thank you.

She went to Glynnis Carlson's office and sat outside her door, holding the plastic bag with her work clothes in it. It was a few minutes before the dragon lady opened her door and motioned Emma to come in. She indicated the chair in front of her desk. Then Glynnis folded her hands on top of her desk.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I'll try,” Emma said. “My husband was Richard Compton. Do you know the name?”

Glynnis nodded. She explained that Clarice claimed her mother was a victim, but Emma had only met a few of Richard's clients socially; they were typically big investors or multimillionaires. She had seen a few in court and was surprised there was anyone from California, especially surprised to learn it was Clarice's mother, but the crime was Richard's. Not hers.

“You should have told me,” Glynnis said.

“You wouldn't have hired me.”

“I might've hired you and put you on the night shift. Well, spilled milk. Now, you have the prerogative of calling the police and filing assault charges. The nurse's aide who attacked you will be disciplined, possibly fired, but you can still—”

Emma shook her head. “It would be a mistake to draw attention to it. Plus, I do understand her anger, I really do. Thing is, I can't help her with this. I surrendered everything. I didn't want anything Richard had gotten by swindling people. There isn't anything.”

“Why does she think there is?”

“There were a couple of books written about Richard's crime, lots of articles, news stories and internet posts speculating that I had some of his money hidden away. False, of course.”

“Emma, you can't work with the public even though you've been exonerated of wrongdoing. Not for a long time. Do you understand that?”

“I'm trying to keep a low profile,” she said.

“I'm applying for workers' compensation for you, Emma. I've taken you off the schedule. You should take two weeks and then my recommendation is that you resign and find something else. You'd do better in hotel housekeeping—less contact with the public.”

“I'm not hurt that badly,” she said. “I don't need two—”

“This isn't the place for you right now, Emma. You should take the time. You're entitled to it.”

“But you're not going to fire me?” she asked.

“As far as I know you haven't done anything wrong. But I want you to think about whether this is the right job for you. I can put you on a different shift from the aide who beaned you with the bedpan, but I'm sure she has friends. Word will travel. Life could be difficult.”

She almost laughed. “I might not have any choice...”

“While you're recovering, check out the hotels in the area. That's an option. You'd be working alone, not with a lot of other employees. You'd rarely come into contact with guests. Or...wait a second.” She reached into her drawer and began to shuffle through business cards. “This woman has an excellent service—domestic, business, et cetera. But for God's sake, tell her the truth from the start. And if you need one, I'll write you a letter of recommendation. You've done a good job here in your brief employment.”

Emma looked down at the card. Riley Kerrigan. Lord, she was everywhere. “Yes, ma'am,” she said. The only advantage she could see was that she wouldn't have to explain her circumstances.

“Think things over. Call me with your decision, please.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

* * *

Emma went from Glynnis Carlson's office to the restroom. She took several deep breaths. Glynnis had been kind. Fair and kind. But Emma had to face facts; people would blame her. If they didn't blame her as a co-conspirator, they'd blame her for not taking action or for not testifying against Richard. They'd never believe she had nothing to say, nothing to add.

Keep your head
, she told herself.
It's only been six months. This could go on awhile. You knew it wouldn't be easy, no matter where you went, no matter what you did.

Then she put the bag holding her soiled work clothes in the trash can. She went to the locker room in the basement where they clocked in and grabbed her jacket. She wasn't going to wait around for Adam where other employees might pass her on their way to their cars. There was a nice little courtyard behind the emergency room. It was primarily there for those die-hard smokers left in the world, but no one was there at the moment. The sun was shining. It was a beautiful fall afternoon. She sat with her back to the door and talked to herself a little more.

It's only been six months. Some of his victims will be angry for the rest of their lives. Many will feel his death wasn't punishment enough.
And there would always be those who believed she had some of that money, that she had a plan, that she was just waiting to emerge like a phoenix, rolling in dough, living the high life.
It's only been six months so don't cry.

But silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

A few minutes had passed when she heard the door behind her open. She heard a little rustling, some footsteps, then a man walked past her. He was carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet, hanging down at his side. That was the rustling she'd heard—the cellophane. He walked all the way to the end of the courtyard then turned back toward her. He glanced at her briefly and sat on a bench several feet away and didn't meet her eyes. He was looking at his knees.

She gave her eyes a little wipe.

He looked up. “Bad day?” he asked.

She nodded. “You?”

“A little disappointing, but it'll all work out. What happened to you? You're a doctor?”

She shook her head. It was the scrubs, she realized.

“Ah. Nurse. I guess nurses can have all kinds of bad days.”

She didn't respond because it wasn't required, except that she had this real problem with deception. No one would believe that, of course. She imagined almost everyone thought she was a liar.

Her cell phone chimed in her pocket. She took it out and saw Adam's text. “I have to go, my ride is here,” she said. “I hope your day gets better.”

He actually stood and she realized he was very handsome. Also tall and broad-shouldered. “I hope yours does, too. Here,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “Take these. They'll go in the trash otherwise.”

“Can't you take them home to your wife?”

“No wife.”

“Your mother? Daughter? Sister?”

He smiled, improving his looks even more. “Nah. Here. Enjoy.” She just stood there. “Come on, someone just did something nice for you. Take them.”

She did. She said thank you. She went to Adam's SUV in the parking lot and climbed in the passenger seat.

He eyed the flowers. “Parting gifts?” he asked. And she burst into tears.

Chapter Six

Adam knew something was wrong. Something more than “I fell at work.” He wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew. He stopped on the way to the hospital and picked up a couple of large mocha coffees with heavy cream. When he asked Emma what had happened, there was a lot of incoherent blubbering and he decided it was probably best to drive rather than sit in the parking lot while she emoted. And emoted.

He picked up a few things—someone had identified her, recognized her, threw a ripe bedpan at her head. There was a lot of whimpering about how she hadn't known, hadn't been complicit, everyone thought her a gold digger, a liar. She ended with some incoherent bawling about the disgusting state of her hair, comments that caused his eyes to widen in shock. What did this have to do with hair?

He found a nice park and pulled into the lot in the shade of a colorful tree. He handed her some tissues and after she'd made use of them, gave her the coffee. And the world slowed down and she began to just talk about it.

Adam had a feeling he was going to hell for this, but he wanted her to get this issue resolved, in her mind, at least emotionally, because he just couldn't pursue her the way he'd like to until that happened. She just wasn't ready. She wasn't moving on yet. Everything was so unsettled for her. And that had more to do with what Emma thought of
herself
than the people who might think badly of her.

“Thank God I ran into you at the burger joint,” she said tearfully. “Just take me home, please, Adam. I didn't mean to unload on you.”

“Nah, we're not going home yet. You're going to have some coffee, calm down and we'll just talk awhile.”

“I'm sure you don't need all this chaos clogging up your mind...”

“My mind is fine,” he said. “I'm a little worried about yours. It seems like maybe you're still feeling confused, out of control. Vulnerable. Victimized.”

“Wouldn't you?” she returned defensively.

“Probably. But I want you to think about something, Emmie. Lack of power comes from lack of knowledge. Unless I'm totally off base here, you're still completely confused about what happened to you, how it happened, what to do about it now.”

“I don't know what you're getting at,” she said.

“Have you seen a counselor?” he asked.

“What kind of counselor?” she asked.

“Okay, I'm just guessing here, but I think you're still in shock. Maybe you have a little PTSD because you're not advancing beyond the shock.”

He actually smiled slightly when he noticed she was looking at him with wide, startled eyes.

“PTSD isn't limited to war veterans, Emmie. Anyone who's been through a trauma qualifies. With a war veteran it might be a car backfiring that sends them into a series of PTSD symptoms—anger, sleeplessness, fear, panic, phobia, so on. For the victim of emotional abuse it might be facial expressions, certain comments, another's rage or threat. You should check this out, see a counselor.”

“Listen,” she said earnestly, scooting forward in her seat and turning in his direction. “I don't have the money for a counselor and I have health insurance for emergencies, but no one, I mean
no one
,
is ever going to offer me discounted therapy because I suffered through kissing goodbye to millions of dollars after living like a queen for years.”

“
Victim
,” he said. “You are a victim. And you were probably a victim then, not a queen. You need some help. I'll check around. I might find someone, you never know. I know everyone—I've been teaching half their kids for fifteen years. But while I look, you might want to do some reading. From what you say, you still have so much mystery about what happened to you, you can't even figure out how you ended up in this mental-emotional minefield and there must be some kind of explanation. If there's not a clear explanation, there might be enough information out there to help you draw some conclusions. Hit the library. Read those books written by other people who think they've drawn conclusions. Find out who
they
think you are. And who they think your husband was.”

She was shaking her head. “You have no idea what you're suggesting, how painful that is. Just the little excerpts are horrible.”

“I know.”

“You know? How do you know?”

“I read about it all,” he said with a shrug. “Lots of theories about your late husband. About you. Varying theories.”

“Why?” she asked softly. “Why would you read that trash?”

“Emmie, I'm a science teacher. We investigate. We look shit up.” Then he gave her a wan smile. “I'm just suggesting, since you can't escape it, maybe it makes sense to face it.”

“I thought I'd been facing it for the last several years,” she said. “I was in the apartment when Richard blew his brains out, after all. I had to hide from angry plaintiffs. I had to watch the house stripped of personal possessions. I—”

“You wanted it behind you, and who could blame you. Now that the whole fiasco is part of your identity and you have to live with it, would it help to understand it better? Like, what kind of man was he, really? Because you don't actually know, do you? You've said that had you known, you would have run for your life. So what do you know about sociopaths? Because that's my guess. He was a sociopath.”

“What do
you
know about sociopaths?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just a little bit, but I admit to being fascinated. I think when they were passing out consciences they missed a few people but they gave the surplus to me—my conscience seems to work overtime.” He reached for her hand. “If you understood, at least as much as possible, could you be at peace?”

“I don't know.”

“Find out,” he suggested. “I'll help if I can. I love research. And I love talking to you. But first things first. You need a few days of rest and ice on your head.”

“And my butt,” she added.

“Did they x-ray that part?”

“No. They said if it remains painful to come back in, but it's already better from just a couple of Advil.”

“Then let's keep moving forward. It's time to call Riley and see if you can get a job. It doesn't have to be a long-term job. But you have to have something...”

“Oh, Adam...”

“She'll protect you, Emmie. She knows how hard it is to start over, to rebuild your life after you've hit bottom.”

“I can't believe she'd actually help me,” she said.

“Sure she would. In fact, if she doesn't that would mean I don't know my sister at all. And that's not possible.”

“Does she know we've been in touch lately?” Emma asked.

“She knows I ran into you at the burger joint. She knows we had a glass of wine and I gave you her business card. That's all she knows. In fact, I never mentioned we'd talked after you and Jock broke up, after Maddie was born...”

“It was more than a few times,” Emma said. “And why didn't you tell her?”

He took a moment. “I didn't call you all those years ago for Riley and if I'd told her we talked, she would have asked a lot of questions about how you felt about her, how you felt about your situation, your feud, for lack of a better word. It would've been all about her and her relationship with you. That's not why I called you. You were around my house for years, all your growing-up years. I called you for
me.
”

“Oh, Adam,” she said softly.

“And same goes for you. Every time I called, it didn't take long to get around to Riley. Riley and Jock. Riley and you. Even after years had passed. I'll say one thing for you and Riley—you have some amazing stamina, keeping that tired old feud alive this long. It's still got some energy—you got tears in your eyes when I introduced you to Maddie.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, yes, that's true, I almost cried. Can you keep a confidence? What am I asking, of course you can. You haven't even told Riley how much we've talked since I've been back. It wasn't because Maddie should've been my child. Not at all, even though anything would have been preferable to where I landed in the end. Lord, what would I have done, pregnant with only Rosemary to lean on? No, it was because on top of everything else I went through with my husband, my marriage, it turns out I'm also infertile.”

Well damn, Adam thought. It was his turn to be shocked speechless.

* * *

Three days later Emma was introduced to Lucinda Lopez, family, marriage and individual counselor. “It's the first time Adam has ever asked a favor of me,” she said. “He was my first friend in teaching, a great teacher. I was not such a great teacher but I think I'm a good counselor.”

“You didn't like teaching?” Emma asked.

“It paid the bills and I did an adequate job. I know I did all that was required of me. But there are some teachers, like Adam, who instinctively know how to inspire. He might've grown some real scientists. So—he tells me you're on a very limited income but in need of counseling. I haven't read your intake form yet—does that describe you?”

“I'm on workers' comp right now and looking for a new job because... Well, that job isn't going to work out. And the reason for that is the same as the reason I need counseling.”

“All right, we'll get right to it. But before we take a lot of time on the story, tell me what you can afford. It's very important that you pay something for your counseling, that you make it in some way a priority. At any time you might decide it's not working for you, and that's entirely up to you, but please understand—if it's free, you won't value it. Make an effort, please, not for me—I'm not in need. For you. Your results will be better if you stretch yourself. If you commit.”

“I don't know. I don't know how often I'll be seeing you. Can you help me with it?”

“The cost of the session? Sure. I provide a sliding scale based on income. Here's the graph,” she said.

Emma looked at it. She was taken aback by the numbers there, which ranged from thirty-five dollars for a one-hour session to one hundred twenty-five. Presumably, she'd try to meet with the counselor at least twice a month. Even seventy dollars cut deeply into a budget as tight as hers.

“We better get right to it,” Emma said.

“I'm ready whenever you are,” she said.

Emma launched into her story, the condensed version. That took fifteen minutes, interrupted by a few questions from Lucinda, merely for clarification. It took only that long for Lucinda's face to begin to seem soft and accessible to Emma. She was a very pretty Mexican woman with just the slightest threading of silver in her pitch-black hair, the deepest black eyes, the softest smile. Her voice was likewise soft, but very confident and gracious.

When Emma had brought Lucinda up to the present, the counselor said she'd like to go back in time a bit, to before Emma met her husband.

“How far back?” Emma asked.

“I'm flexible,” Lucinda said. “Take me back to a time that seemed pivotal in your life. A time of change, maybe? A time that required a great deal of you? A period of adjustment and a shift in your priorities. Does anything stand out?”

She thought for a moment. Then she said, “The year after high school. When I went away to college. A year after my father died.”

“Good. Try, if you can, to tell me not just the events that you think caused a major change in your life, but how those significant events made you feel then and how remembering them makes you feel now.”

“We may run out of time,” Emma said.

“And try, if you can, not to worry about the time. We don't have to do it all today. In fact, a great deal is achieved in counseling when you leave me with things you'd like to think about. Because, Emma, I'm not going to solve your problems. You are. I'm just here to direct the traffic.”

When Emma left, she hugged Lucinda. “Do you think I'm completely crazy?” she asked.

“I think you're remarkable. I'm so glad we met. Be sure to thank Adam for me.”

* * *

Emma called several hotel chains to ask about job availability and each one invited her to fill out an application and possibly be called back for an interview. No one she talked to seemed interested in hiring. She looked in all the newspaper ads and online for employment opportunities, as she had been doing since the day she returned, and nothing promising turned up there, either.

She tried to bolster herself to call Riley and ask for help.

Sometimes words fade over time, sometimes they fester, blister, even swell. Burned into Emma's mind was when she screamed at Riley, “I don't ever want to speak to you or see you again in my life!”

“We can find a way to get beyond this! We said we'd never let a guy get between us!”

“Yeah, until he was
my
guy! Well, he's all yours now! I wouldn't take him back if he begged me. Not with your stink on him!”

“You'll be sorry you let this ruin us! You know you'll never have a friend like me again in your life!”

“I hope to God
not
!” Emma had hurled.

And now she was going to ask Riley for a job.

“I'm so sorry,” the receptionist said. “We don't have any openings right now. But if you'd like to leave a name and number, I can call you as soon as something opens up.”

“Sure,” she said. “I'm Emma Shay and...”

“Oh, Ms. Shay, I reserved an appointment for you. Can you come into the office to meet with Ms. Kerrigan Thursday afternoon at two?”

“Um. Sure,” she said. Was that a good sign? Adam had said Riley would help her, but what if he was wrong about that?

Sixteen years ago, right after screaming she hoped she'd never have a friend like Riley again, Riley had screamed at her, “Emmie,
please
!
Please try to understand! I didn't mean for this to happen and I'm sorry. I can't lose your friendship!”