Barbara Delinsky - The Secret Between Us

“That depends on what the reconstruction team finds,” the police chief said with a glance at the phone. “I’ll let you know when the report comes in.” His round face softened. “How’s your daughter handling things?”

“Not well,” Deborah said, able to be honest about this at least. “I had to pick her up from school a little while ago. She’s traumatized, and the talk there doesn’t help.”

“What are the other kids saying?”

“I don’t know. She won’t tell me much.”

“She’s at that age,” John said, head bowed. “It’s hard. They want responsibility until they have it. By the way,” he added, scratching his upper lip, then looking at her, “I should warn you. McKenna’s wife called me this morning. She could be a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“She’s pretty upset. She wants to make sure we’re not letting you off easy just because you’re so well regarded in town. She’s the reason you need to get your insurance company up to speed. She’s angry.”

“So am I,” Deborah burst out. “He shouldn’t have been running in the dark. Did she say what he was doing?”

“No. Apparently she wasn’t home when he left the house.

But don’t worry. We’ll do our investigation, and no one’ll ever say we favored one side or the other.” He tapped the desk and stood. “If I keep you much longer, I’ll get flack from my men. You’re seeing Officer Bowdoin’s new baby this afternoon. He’s pretty excited about the kid.”

Deborah managed a smile. “So am I. I love newborn visits.”

“You’re good to do it.”

“It’ll be the highlight of my day.” She rose with the accident report in hand. “When do you need this back?”

She had five days from the time of the crash to file a report, but from the minute she left the police station, she wanted to get it done. She made copies and spent several hours that night filling it out. She went through several drafts before she felt she had it right. Then she copied the final result, one for the police, one for the Registry, one for her insurance company. She put the latter two in envelopes, addressed and stamped them, and tucked them in her bag, but out of sight wasn’t out of mind. Waking early the next morning, the report was the first thing she thought of.

Dylan was the second. She had barely left her room, when she was drawn to his by the soft sound of his keyboard. He was playing “Blowin’ in the Wind” with such soulful simplicity that it brought a lump to her throat. It wasn’t the song that got to her but her son. His eyes were closed, glasses not yet on. He had been playing by ear since he was four, picking out tunes on the grand piano in the living room long before he’d had a formal lesson. Even now, when his teacher was trying to get him to read music, he was far more interested in the tunes his dad had liked.

Deborah didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that Dylan loved music precisely because he could do it without using his eyes. He had been severely farsighted by the time he was three, and by seven had developed corneal dystrophy. Eyeglasses corrected the hyperopia, but the dystrophy meant that the vision in his right eye would be gauzy until the time when he was old enough for a corneal transplant.

Going into his room, she gave him a good-morning hug. “Why so sad?”

He took his hands from the keyboard and carefully fitted his glasses to his nose.

“Missing Dad?” she asked.

He nodded.

“You’ll be seeing him the weekend after next.”

“It’s not the same,” he said quietly.

She knew that. One weekend a month didn’t make up for four weeks of no father. She and Greg had always known that they would have to work hard to juggle family time and their careers, but divorce hadn’t been in the mix.

Sadly, she took a Red Sox T-shirt from the drawer, but Dylan’s voice rose in dismay. “Where’s my Dylan one?”

“In the hamper. You wore it yesterday.”

“I can wear it today, too.”

“Honey, it has Lívia’s spaghetti sauce all over it.”

“But it’s my good-luck shirt.”

His father had given him the shirt for his last birthday, along with an iPod loaded with songs sung by his namesake, hence “Blowin’ in the Wind” moments before. Deborah understood that it was Greg’s attempt to involve his son in something he loved himself. But the shirt had to be washed.

“What does Dad think of Lívia’s spaghetti sauce?” she asked.

“He hates it.”

Totally. “Think he’d like it on your shirt?”

“No, but she’s washing it too much. It’s getting faded.”

Deborah improvised. “Faded is good . Dad would agree with me on this,” she added to clinch it, sounding more sure than she was. Though not much taller than Deborah, Greg had cut an impressive figure with his thick sandy hair and designer clothes. But all that was gone. She didn’t know the man he was today—didn’t know what kind of man could leave his wife and children on a day’s notice.

“Can I call him now?” Dylan asked.

“Nuh-uh. Too early. You can call this afternoon.” She tussled the thick silk of his hair. “Put on the Red Sox shirt for now, and we’ll wash the other so it’ll bring you luck tomorrow.”

His eyes were sad. “Is Dad ever coming to one of my games?”

“He said he would.”

“I know why he isn’t. He hates baseball. He never played it with me. I hate it, too. I can’t see the ball.”

Deborah’s heart ached. “Even with the new glasses?”

“Well, I guess. But anyway, I sit on the bench most of the time.”

“Coach Duffy says you’ll play more next year. He’s counting on your being his right fielder once Rory Mayhan moves up a league. Honey? We need to get going or we’ll be late.”

Deborah was in the shower when the phone rang. Grace came into the bathroom and held the cordless up so her mother could see it. “You need to take this,” she cried shrilly.

Turning off the shower, Deborah grabbed the phone. It was the hospital calling to tell her that Cal McKenna had died.

Deborah felt her heart stop. When she could finally speak, her voice held panic. “Died? How? ”

“A cerebral hemorrhage,” the nurse reported.

“But he had a brain scan when he was admitted. Why wasn’t it seen?”

“He wasn’t hemorrhaging then. We’re guessing it started yesterday. By the time the vital signs tipped us off, it was too late.”

Deborah didn’t understand what could have happened. She had checked the man herself on the road—no vital injuries, solid pulse. He had sailed through an initial surgery and regained consciousness. Dead didn’t make sense.

Clutching the towel around her, she asked, “Are you sure it’s Calvin McKenna?”

“Yes. They’ll be doing an autopsy later.”

Deborah couldn’t wait. “Who was on duty when this happened?”

“Drs. Reid and McCall.”

“Can I talk with one of them?”

“They’ll have to call you back. A multiple-car accident just came in. Can I give them the message?”

“Yes. Please.” She thanked the woman and disconnected.

Grace was in tears. “You said he wouldn’t die.”

Bewildered, Deborah handed her the phone and, wanting to cry herself, said, “I don’t know what went wrong.”

“You said his injuries weren’t life threatening.”

“They weren’t . Grace, this is a mystery to me.” She was badly shaken, struggling to make sense of it. “He was in stable condition. They saw nothing on the tests. I have no idea how it happened.”