Hannah's List

  “Did you hear from Winter?” Ritchie asked as we walked out of the gym.

  I’d wondered when he’d get around to asking me that. I’d just about made a clean escape, but I should’ve known my brother-in-law wouldn’t let it pass.

  “She left a message on Sunday afternoon.”

  “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” Ritchie chastised.

  “Nope.” No point in lying.

  “That’s what I thought.” We walked toward the parking garage, and I hoped that would be the end of the subject. Wishful thinking on my part.

  “You didn’t pick up, did you?” Ritchie said when I didn’t elaborate.

  I was continually surprised by how well Ritchie could predict my behavior. It was almost as if he’d been sitting in the same room with me. “No,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “What did she say?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing much. She asked me to return the call when it was convenient.”

  “How long do you suppose it’ll be before you find it convenient?”

  My delaying tactic wasn’t working as successfully as I’d hoped. “I thought I’d give her a call later this afternoon.”

  Maybe. I wasn’t convinced Winter and I were a good match, despite what Hannah seemed to believe.

  “Don’t disappoint me,” Ritchie warned.

  I was grateful when I reached my car, eager to bring this awkward conversation to a close.

  “How about poker on Thursday night?” Ritchie asked.

  Sometimes I swore he had radar and knew exactly how hard to push before backing off.

  “Steve’s got a meeting,” he went on, “and can’t make it.”

  I shook my head. I used to play with Ritchie and the other guys every Thursday. In fact, I’d been the one to instigate the poker game. Patrick O’Malley, one of my partners, Steve Ciletti, an internal-medicine specialist, Ritchie and I used to get together for poker every week. At first we took turns hosting and then we settled on Ritchie and Steph’s place because it’s centrally located and easily accessible to all of us. We never played past midnight and the wagers were friendly. I’d given up poker and all other unnecessary distractions after Hannah was diagnosed with cancer.

  “I don’t think so,” I said automatically.

  “Bill’s been substituting for you for two years now. Isn’t it time you rejoined the group?”

  “Maybe I will,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I hesitated. I used to enjoy our poker nights, and I didn’t understand my own reluctance.

  I had hospital rounds that morning. We did it on a rotation basis and this was my week. Because Hannah had spent so much time in this hospital, I’d had the opportunity to see the situation from two different perspectives—first, as a physician, and secondly, as the spouse of a patient. I could write a book on what I’d learned. When I arrived at the hospital, I noticed signs everywhere for the annual picnic. The children’s ward put on a huge charity function each year, one specially designed for children with cancer. This wasn’t a fund-raising event. The sole purpose was to let them be kids and forget about chemo and surgery for an afternoon. Hannah and I had volunteered at the picnic for several years and since I often had a patient or two in the pediatric oncology ward, it was very personal for us.

  “Michael.” Patrick O’Malley called my name as he walked down the wide corridor to meet me. I hadn’t expected to see him; he must’ve been there for one of his patients. “What’s this I hear about you?” he asked.

  “What?” I didn’t know anyone had much of anything to discuss about me. I’d pretty much stayed under the radar, especially when it came to social activities.

  “Friday night at the clinic.”

  “Oh, that.” Actually, I was embarrassed by the altercation and wished I’d kept my cool. I’d just…snapped. I didn’t know what had brought it on and had regretted it ever since.

  “I hear you threatened some guy within an inch of his life.”

  I didn’t want to talk about it. “His wife fell down the stairs—” I made quotation marks with my fingers “—three times in three months. I figured someone should do something.”

  “She wouldn’t press charges?”

  “Apparently not. She wouldn’t admit the guy even touched her.” I might have maintained my professional attitude, but her chart confirmed that her injuries had become more extensive with each assault. Shamika didn’t seem to realize she was risking her life if she stayed with the creep. Still, I was appalled by my own behavior; the audacity of it was completely unlike anything I’d ever done.

  “You only did what all of us have felt like doing a dozen times.”

  No matter, I’d been out of line. “I don’t think the clinic wants me back.”

  “Are you kidding?” Patrick said. “It’s hard enough for them to get volunteers. They’ll look the other way, at least this once.”

  I thought so, too, but my decision was made. I’d resigned. My uncharacteristic act of violence simply disturbed me too much. A replacement doctor had already been found, according to Mimi, but I didn’t tell Patrick any of this. He’d find out soon enough.

  “Speaking of volunteers,” Patrick said, glancing pointedly at the posters decorating the hallway. “The picnic’s on Saturday.”

  “It’s a little early this year, isn’t it?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “Not really. It’s always in May.”

  I hadn’t attended last year’s. Hannah’s funeral had been only a couple of weeks before that and I was barely coping.

  “We could use a few more volunteers.”

  “I’ve got plans,” I said, although it wasn’t true. Again, my own reluctance baffled me. Until Hannah’s illness and death, I’d enjoyed being part of the event.

  “Can you change your plans?” Patrick asked. “We’re really shorthanded. We need someone to help with the games.”

  I sighed.

  “We need a volunteer to flip burgers, too, if that’s more to your liking.”

  I could see Patrick wasn’t going to make this easy. “I might be able to come.”

  “We need every worker we can get.”

  “How long would I need to be there?” I asked, hedging. If I could find a way out of this I’d gladly take it. Patrick shrugged. “A couple of hours should do it.”

  “Okay, I’ll rearrange my plans,” I said, continuing the farce. The only thing I had scheduled for Saturday was my routine five-mile run.

  “Thanks, buddy.” He slapped me on the back and hurried off.

  The word that I’d signed up as a volunteer at the Kids with Cancer event spread faster than a California brushfire. Clearly Patrick hadn’t wasted any time. A couple of other physicians stopped me during my rounds to say how pleased they were that I was socializing again. In my opinion, the news that I was volunteering at a charity function shouldn’t be treated like a public announcement. Besides, I wasn’t socializing. I’d been pressured into helping what I considered a good cause. I wouldn’t be doing this at all if Patrick hadn’t cornered me and practically blackmailed me into it. Naturally, I couldn’t say that.

  I smiled at the two physicians and quickly extricated myself from the conversation so I could go about my business.

  I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when I noticed a couple of the nurses with their heads together, whispering. They looked up a bit guiltily as I approached them, and I realized they were probably talking about me.

  “Morning, Dr. Everett,” the first one said. She seemed impossibly young and energetic.

  “Morning,” I responded and picked up my pace. Over the course of the past year I’d received quite a bit of attention from certain women in the medical field. I was fairly young and presentable…and I was available, at least in theory.

  Emotionally, I was worlds away from being ready for another relationship. The fact that I’d even talked to Winter on the subject of dating confused me. I resented the way some people thought that because a year had passed, my time to grieve wa
s over. They seemed to think I should’ve awakened a year after Hannah’s death, prepared to “move on” with my life—an expression I’d come to hate. I also hated people’s assumption that all I’d need to get over her loss was three hundred and sixty-five days. On day three hundred and sixty-six, I should be running around acting all bright and cheery as if—sigh of relief—I’d completely recovered from my wife’s death.

  “I hear you’re going to be at the picnic,” the same young nurse said. She nearly had to trot to keep up with me.

  I nodded, not wanting to encourage conversation.

  “Our whole shift has volunteered. It’s such a wonderful idea, isn’t it?”

  Again I nodded.

  “I’ll see you there,” she said, sounding breathless. Before I could speak, she veered off, making a sharp turn into a patient’s room.

  I made the rounds, filled out the paperwork and left the hospital with my head spinning. First Hannah, then Ritchie and now Patrick. It seemed everyone wanted to help me, and while I appreciated their efforts, I wasn’t prepared for any of this. From the hospital I drove to the office. Linda Barclay looked up from her desk when I entered through the private door reserved for staff.

  “Good morning, Michael.”

  Linda’s the only person at work who uses my first name. She’s nurse, surrogate mother and friend all rolled into one middle-aged woman.

  “Good morning, Linda.” I walked past her, then turned back. “Why is it,” I asked, still perplexed over what had taken place at the hospital, “that everyone seems to have this opinion that I’ve grieved long enough? What unwritten decree is there that I only have one year?”

  “Ah…” Her eyes widened, and I could see that my question had startled her.

  “Apparently, I’m volunteering at the children’s picnic on Saturday,” I explained, inhaling a calming breath.

  “Good for you. It’s about time.”

  “Et tu, Brute?” I muttered, and Linda laughed.

  “My family’s after me to date again,” I said, growing serious. Linda would understand. “I’m not ready.”

  “Of course you aren’t.”

  Her soothing voice took the edge off my irritation.

  “I’ve basically been manipulated into going out with Hannah’s cousin.”

  “The one who owns that restaurant?”

  I nodded, surprised Linda would remember.

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “No.” There, I’d said it. My mind was made up. I refused to be controlled by another person’s wishes, even if that person happened to be my dead wife.

  I loved Hannah—I would always love her—but that didn’t mean I was willing to get involved with Winter or anyone else just because Hannah felt I should. Like I’d told Linda, I wasn’t ready and I didn’t know when I would be. Perhaps because the morning had started off wrong with Ritchie interrogating me about Winter’s message, I felt out of sorts all day. I didn’t intend to call her back. She was obviously in love with her Frenchman, and I clung to my memories of Hannah.

  By the time I got home, I was cranky and tired and hungry. The fridge and cupboards revealed a depressing lack of anything quick or easy. I knew I should avoid processed foods whenever possible, but there were many times, such as tonight, when I would gladly have pulled a frozen pizza from the freezer and popped it in the oven. A trip to the grocery store was definitely in order. I ended up eating a cheese sandwich and a bowl of cold cereal without milk. It wasn’t the most appetizing dinner of my life, but it filled my stomach. When I’d finished, I sat down in front of the computer, logged on and answered e-mail. I was just beginning to feel human again when the phone rang. The sound jarred me. It seemed to have an urgent tone as if something bad had happened, or was about to.

  Caller ID informed me it was Winter Adams. I stared at the readout but couldn’t make myself pick up. Winter didn’t leave a message, which was actually a relief. I didn’t want to be rude; all I wanted was peace and quiet. Okay, so maybe I was being a jerk, but this was a matter of self-preservation. The refrain I’m not ready clamored in my head and I couldn’t ignore it. Chapter Nine

  “What is that noise?” Macy Roth asked Snowball, who’d planted himself on the closed toilet seat and studied her as she brushed her teeth. It was late and Macy was tired. She had a photo shoot in the morning; she planned to work on her knitting for half an hour or so and then go to sleep.

  A car horn blared not far away, followed by the sound of screeching tires.

  Macy turned off the water and then it happened again—a driver repeatedly hitting the horn.

  Walking barefoot through her living room, the toothbrush clenched between her teeth, Macy decided to investigate. Peeking through the front window, she saw the lights of an oncoming car illuminate a large dog who stood, paralyzed by fear, in the middle of the street. Although Jackson Avenue was in a residential neighborhood, there was quite a lot of traffic, even at night. If the animal remained where it was, sooner or later it would be hit. Someone had to do something and, despite the noise, she didn’t think anyone else had noticed.

  Opening her door, Macy hurried outside, disregarding the fact that all she had on were her cotton pajamas. Her toothbrush was still in her mouth. She grabbed the trembling dog by the scruff of his neck and urged him onto the sidewalk.

  Her heart pounded furiously as she led him toward her front steps. He was terrified enough to allow himself to be dragged, offering no resistance at all. Macy drew him into the house and closed the door. He was a large, long-haired brown dog of indeterminate breed—or breeds. Once inside, he stared up at her with a forlorn expression that would’ve softened the hardest of hearts. His pitiful brown eyes seemed to thank her for coming to his rescue. He continued to tremble as she bent to stroke his head.

  She removed the toothbrush from her mouth and saw him gaze at it longingly. “Nope, this isn’t very tasty,” she said, tucking it behind her ear. The dog thumped his tail.

  “Who are you, fellow?” she asked. Not surprisingly he had no collar and she doubted he’d have a microchip or a tattoo. The poor dog looked as if he’d been lost for quite a while. He was emaciated, his thick hair matted with mud and grime.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  He sat down on his haunches and stared at her with trusting eyes.

  “You might as well come into the kitchen and I’ll see what I can find, but be warned—I only have cat food.”

  As if he understood every word, he got up and trotted behind her.

  Snowball stood guard over his dish; he took one look at the dog, arched his back and hissed.

  “Hush,” Macy said. She placed her hand on the dog’s head. “You’ll have to pardon the lack of welcome from Snowball. Don’t take it personally.”

  She removed a can of cat food from the small stack on her shelf. “Sorry, this is all I have. I hope you like salmon.”

  From the looks of this mutt, he’d eat practically anything. She was right.

  He gobbled down the cat food almost as fast as she could spoon it onto the paper plate. The dry food disappeared just as quickly and when he was finished he gazed up at her as if to plead for more.

  “Poor boy,” Macy whispered. Lovie and Peace strolled casually into the kitchen to inspect the newcomer. Snowball, on the other hand, viewed him as an interloper and was having nothing to do with him.

  Lovie edged close to the dog and began to purr. He’s kind of cute, she seemed to be saying. Can we keep him?

  “No, he can’t stay,” Macy informed her. “He’s lost and we need to find his owner, or, failing that, a decent home.”

  Peace joined her friend, apparently taking up the dog’s cause.

  “Not you, too!” Macy groaned. “Okay, just for tonight, but that’s it.” She regarded the dog a second time. He was filthy. “However,” she added, “if I let you stay the night, you’re going to have a bath.”

  As she took the pet shampoo out from under the sink and opened it,
all three cats scattered in different directions. “I wasn’t talking about the three of you, ” she said with a laugh. Lovie and Peace hated water, although Snowball rather enjoyed playing with it. He frequently stuck his paws or his tongue under the faucet. It was a brave front, Macy suspected, aimed at showing up the two females. But he wasn’t any fonder of baths than they were, no doubt recalling the time he’d escaped into a muddy, rainy night and come home to face the consequences—being doused with this same antiseptic-smelling shampoo.

  The dog cocked his head to one side.

  “You need a name,” Macy said. She wasn’t sure why animals found their way to her door. It’d started when she was a child. They seemed to sense her love, her appreciation and her joy in their presence. While mice and spiders terrified her family and friends, Macy saw them as utterly fascinating. She couldn’t imagine a home without pets, or herself without a host of animals.

  “How about Sammy?” she suggested.

  The dog lay down on the cold kitchen floor and rested his chin on his paws.

  She patted his head. “Okay, Sammy it is. Now, don’t you worry, we’ll find you a wonderful home.” Seeing that he was such a well-behaved dog, she couldn’t help speculating on what might have happened. Had he wandered off when someone opened the door? Or perhaps he’d escaped from a farm miles away. Worst of all, he could’ve been abandoned, maybe because his people had moved to some apartment building with a no-animals clause. She’d make an effort to return him if he had an owner—and if that owner was looking—but she suspected the task of relocating him would be up to her.