Debbie Macomber - Hannah's List

“You’re a little man,” I spat out. “You hit your wife again and I will personally see to it that you’re sorry. Do I make myself clear?” I carefully enunciated each word so there’d be no doubt in his mind that I was serious.

He fought to break my hold, but I had a firm grasp on his collar.

“Do we understand each other?” I asked, shoving him against the wall.

He managed to nod, which wasn’t easy, seeing that I had his shirt wadded up to the point that he could hardly breathe.

“Good.” I glared at him, our faces so close our noses practically touched.

“Dr. Everett.” Mimi Johnson, who ran the clinic, had her hand on my arm. She repeated my name again and then a third time.

I didn’t know how long she’d been standing there or what else she’d said.

Reluctantly, I released Kenny, but maintained my stance, glaring at the other man, letting him know I wasn’t backing down. He, on the other hand, couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

The piece of scum brought his hand to his throat as if he’d been in mortal danger of being choked to death. If he hurt Shamika again, I’d have no qualms about making sure he suffered. I doubted Shamika would press charges against him. I’d seen this type of situation far too often; bullies and abusers rarely got the punishment they deserved.

Under normal circumstances, I’m not a violent man, but my limit had been reached. I wanted Kenny to feel embarrassed and humiliated and at the same time I was fairly confident that he understood there’d be consequences if I ever heard of him hitting this woman again. I’d make sure a police report was filed, but it wouldn’t do much good unless Shamika pressed charges.

We scowled at each other and then he turned and fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

Mimi asked me to come into her office, which I did. Needless to say, the lecture that followed was completely justified. I listened and nodded at the appropriate times. My job wasn’t to judge, but to treat the sick and injured to the best of my ability. It was up to the authorities to handle cases of domestic violence. And it definitely wasn’t my place to take matters into my own hands.

“Do you understand?” Mimi asked.

“Yes.” Although I couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t happen again.

“If this aggressive behavior is repeated,” Mimi warned, “I’m going to have to suggest that you might not be an appropriate fit for our clinic.”

I said nothing.

“Do you need to leave? Shall I call for a replacement?”

“I’ll behave,” I assured her like a repentant youngster.

“Good.” She sighed with relief.

We both knew it would be difficult to find a replacement, especially at the last minute like this.

I finished the shift without incident and left with barely a word to Mimi and the others. As I pulled into the driveway, I was shocked anew by my own behavior. In all my years in the medical field, I’d never once stepped over the line the way I had that evening. It was time to bow out. Mimi realized it and I did, too. I’d send a letter of resignation on Monday.

Inside the house, I tossed my car keys on the counter and then sat on the edge of the sofa. “I lost it,” I told Hannah. “I just lost it.” Kenny deserved everything I’d said and done, and in that sense I didn’t regret it. However, I’d been called upon to treat the sick and injured—nothing less and certainly nothing more.

Generally, I picked up something to eat on my way home from the clinic. But I hadn’t thought of food all evening, although I hadn’t eaten since noon. My stomach growled.

I located a can of soup, heated that and ate it over the kitchen sink. When I finished I set down the bowl and just stood there. I was still angry. My hands became clenched fists.

“I can’t do it anymore,” I told Hannah.

How I missed her. How I needed her. She would’ve been horrified by the regular attacks on Shamika and concerned about my uncharacteristic loss of control. Undoubtedly she would’ve found the perfect words to comfort me and ease my mind.

But Hannah wasn’t here. She never would be again and I’d need to deal with instances like this on my own. I’d acted foolishly. But while I regretted cracking, I didn’t regret threatening that wife-beater.

It was midnight before I’d calmed down enough to go to bed, but sleep didn’t come. After tangling the sheets, rolling one way and then the other, I decided to sit up and read. That didn’t help, and in an act of pure desperation, I reached for the photo of Hannah. It was one of my favorites—she was walking in an open field, carpeted with blooming wildflowers. I’d taken it on a day trip to Hurricane Ridge several years before. I kept the framed photograph by my bedside and now I set it on the pillow next to mine.

As I suspected it would, having Hannah’s picture close soothed me and I finally fell asleep.

I woke to the bright light of morning and lay on my back, gazing up at the ceiling as I replayed the events of the previous night. I turned my head to one side to look for Hannah’s photograph, planning to replace it on my nightstand. I was surprised to find it missing.

I sat up and looked around. It took me a few minutes to discover that at some point I must have thrashed around and caused the photograph to fall to the floor.

I leaned over to retrieve it and found the glass shattered and the frame broken.

I work out at the gym three days a week, but on Saturday mornings, I usually run. After my five-mile jog, I stepped into the shower and let the spray beat down on my back while my thoughts churned. I couldn’t get the vision of Hannah’s broken photograph out of my mind. It felt almost as if she was telling me how upset she was that I hadn’t done what she’d asked, which I realized was ridiculous. And yet…the glass had shattered. Why now, I wanted to know, after the countless times I’d placed it on the empty pillow next to mine?

I’m not a superstitious man; I believe in science and rational behavior. But I couldn’t help wondering if Hannah was the reason I instantly recalled Winter’s phone number. Of course, the fact that I’d stared at it for ten minutes yesterday evening might have something to do with it.

I waited until nine-thirty, then called. Winter answered on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Winter. It’s Michael,” I said. Actually, I’d been hoping the call would go to voice mail and I could escape talking to her. No such luck.

“Michael! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you? No, don’t answer that, I know how you are.”

“You do?”

“You miss Hannah. Oh, Michael, I do, too.”

So I’d been right. Hannah would be the primary focus of our conversation.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

“Me, neither,” I muttered. In some ways, though, it felt much longer.

“I heard you stopped by the café,” Winter continued. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I hope you’ll come again.”

“Sure.”

“How about now?”

“Now?” I repeated.

“Unless you’ve got other plans. We can have coffee, spend a few minutes catching up.”

Perhaps it would be best to get this over with quickly. I’d fulfill my duty and then go back to missing Hannah. She wouldn’t be able to fault me once I’d made the effort. “It’ll take me fifteen minutes to get there.”

“That’s perfect. How do you like your coffee?”

“Black,” I told her.

“I’ll start a fresh pot. It’ll be ready by the time you arrive. Would you like a croissant?”

I wasn’t turning one down. “That would be wonderful.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon.”