Carolyn McSparren - Listen to the Child

If there was, why wasn’t he picking up his wife?

He’d find out somehow on the drive home.

“I am driving Mrs. Lockhart home.”

“You are?” Pause. “You just better be sweet to her, Dr. Mac.” She hung up.

He stared at the telephone in his hand. Alva Jean didn’t exactly cringe when he walked by her desk, but she seldom said anything more to him than to announce his appointments. He’d have been less surprised if Kevlar had stood on his hind legs and roared like a lion. He glanced at Kit Lockhart who waited patiently. Sweet? He’d never been sweet in his life. He certainly wasn’t about to start now.

AT FIRST he found the silence in the car disconcerting. Because she couldn’t see him in the darkness, there was no way to speak to her. He felt frustrated because he wanted to talk. He wanted to ask her how and when she’d gone deaf, and what, if anything, could be done to correct it.

He was amazed to discover he wanted to know everything about her. There was an irony here, he realized. Most of the women he knew talked too much. They seemed uncomfortable with companionable silence. But then, he wasn’t exactly the companionable type. And until now, he was the one who decided when he needed silence.

But this woman could tune him out simply by turning her head. That gave her control of the situation. He loathed loss of control.

His entire life was based on keeping an iron grip on himself and his environment. If things started to get out of hand, he bellowed until somebody fixed them. He tried to use his bellow sparingly so it wouldn’t lose its effectiveness, but he’d found over the years that sometimes a little shouting worked wonders.

Most of his colleagues here in Memphis had learned to ignore his tirades. Nancy Mayfield had worked with him so long she knew he was a marshmallow inside. Rick Hazard, the managing partner of Creature Comfort, laughed at him. Apparently even Alva Jean was losing her fear.

Not good. His reputation as a terror was his only protection from the world. Without his shell, the only defense a snapping turtle had was to bite. Mac didn’t like biting.

He could bellow his head off at this woman. She wouldn’t care any more than if he’d whispered.

“Second driveway from the corner on your right,” she said.

He’d been so deep in his own thoughts that her voice startled him. “Sure,” he said automatically.

The moment he stopped his Suburban, she opened the door and jumped out, then turned to him. “Thank you for helping Kev. I’ll be by to see him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“He’ll still be groggy.”

She pointed at the ceiling of the SUV. “Lean into the dome light, please. Then tell me again.”

He started to growl, but realized that wouldn’t impress her, either, so he did as she asked, then repeated his statement and added, “Come late morning or early afternoon.”

She nodded. “Thanks again.”

“I’ll walk you to your door.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said…”

She shook her head. “I got it. Don’t bother.” She grinned. “I can handle myself.” She strode up her walk with an athlete’s arrogant swing.

He clicked off the overhead light, but didn’t start the car until she’d unlocked her door and gone inside.

INSIDE, Kit leaned against the front door and flung her shoulder bag across the room onto the sofa so hard that her wallet and makeup spilled onto the carpet. She picked everything up, stuffed her bag again and set it on the chest at the side of the room.

She leaned both hands on the top of the chest and took some deep breaths. Some tough cookie she was, breaking down every time she got safely home from one of her encounters with what she was coming to think of as “them.” People who could hear.

At least Dr. Thorn didn’t dole out great gobs of pity. She’d had her fill of that. She looked at the mirror above the chest and grinned at the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. “First purchase tomorrow morning—waterproof mascara,” she said. She wiped her cheeks with the flat of her hands. Better.

Not being able to hear her own voice resonate inside her head was perhaps the oddest thing she’d had to adjust to. That, and the continual whistling sound.

The stairwell lights went on, and a moment later, her mother came down the steps and stopped directly in front of Kit. “Darling, how’s Kev?”

Kit headed for the kitchen. She badly needed a cold beer. “He’s going to be okay, but they had to remove a kidney.”

She got the beer and turned, realizing her mother had probably reacted to the news. Now Catherine Barclay sat at the kitchen table and held out her hand to her daughter. “Emma’s been terribly worried.”

“I’ll tell her the minute she wakes up tomorrow.”

“Tell me he’s okay.” Emma appeared in the doorway, blinking in the light.

Kit nodded. “He’ll be home in a couple of days.”

“What was wrong with him?” The ten-year-old padded into the room and leaned against her grandmother’s shoulder.

“His kidney went bad. They had to remove it.” Kit saw the alarm in Emma’s eyes and held up her hand. “Whoa! I promise he’s fine. Everybody’s got two kidneys and can get along with one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Now, go back to bed. Sunday school tomorrow, remember.”

“Do I have to?”

Kit could almost hear Emma’s patented whine in her head. There were occasional blessings about being deaf. Not having to listen to Emma’s histrionics was a definite plus, but as Emma grew more used to her mother’s deafness, she was becoming more and more adept at pantomiming her emotions.

“Yes, we have to go to church tomorrow. Now, back to bed, please. It’s late. And take Jo-Jo with you.”

Emma reached down and picked up the bobcat-size yellow tabby that was winding himself around her ankles. “I think he misses Kev.”

“One less creature to terrorize.”

Emma waved one hand over her shoulder as she wandered into the shadows while Jo-Jo looked back at them.

Her mother reached out to get Kit’s attention. “She worries about you. I had the devil’s own time getting her into bed tonight.”

“She’s taking advantage of you. Worrying about me is a great excuse to stay up late. She managed to get to bed on time when I was with the T.A.C.T. squad. If she worried then she never showed it.”

“She was too young to realize how dangerous your job was. Small children trust that their parents will always be there—hale and hearty. First she lost her father when you divorced him, then your accident proved you’re breakable. She’s afraid she might lose you to something worse than deafness.”

“She hasn’t lost her father. She sees more of Jimmy now than she ever did before the divorce. At least he’s on scheduled visits, when he deigns to show up.”

“Not the same thing.”

“And as for Emma’s worrying about me, she’ll have to deal with it. I used to worry about you all the time when you were on the job. Every time a cop got killed I’d think, ‘That could be my mother.’ Didn’t stop you being a cop, and it hasn’t stopped you being a P.I., either.”

Catherine took a deep breath. This was hardly a new discussion. “Being a P.I. is not dangerous. I spend most of my time combing through financial records.”

“Any situation can turn dangerous,” Kit said. “That was the first thing you taught me, remember? Always keep your guard up? Anyway, Emma doesn’t have to worry I’ll get caught in a shoot-out or anything. Not anymore.”

“That’s not the point.” Catherine took the half-full bottle of beer out of her daughter’s hand, poured the remainder down the sink and dropped the bottle into the recycle bin. “Until you were hurt, losing a child was something that happened to other parents. Then when your father and I got called to the hospital, I realized I could actually lose you.” Her mother’s voice clouded.