Diane Chamberlain - The Lies We Told

“You mean the world to us, Dr. Ward,” Taniesa’s mother said. I couldn’t remember her name. Taniesa’s last name was Flanders, but I knew her mother’s surname was different.

“I’m so glad we could fix her up,” I said, reluctantly letting go of the little girl and handing her back to her mother. Taniesa had on a sweater against the air-conditioned chill of the restaurant, but I ran my fingers down her arm, picturing the scar beneath the fabric.

Rebecca gave the girl’s mother a little wave. “I’m Dr. Ward’s sister, Rebecca,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. This is Brent Greer and my husband Adam Pollard, and this is—”

“Lucy Sharp.” Taniesa’s mom saved me the embarrassment.

“I like that panda, Taniesa,” Adam said. “Is it a girl or a boy?”

Taniesa looked at the stuffed toy as if she was just noticing it. “Girl,” she said.

“She have a name?” Adam asked.

“Taniesa.”

We all laughed, and Taniesa grinned.

“That was so smart!” Adam’s eyes were wide with feigned wonder. “You’ll never forget her name, will you?”

God, it was strange watching Adam with other people! I’d forgotten what he was like. How playful he could be. How he used to be playful with me. Our lives had become far too consumed by fertility and pregnancy and worry. We needed to change that, yet I knew he wasn’t ready to give up. I knew he wanted a child more than he wanted the sun to rise in the sky.

“Isn’t this some place?” Lucy Sharp asked. She glanced down at our plateless table. “You haven’t tried anything yet?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“What do you recommend?” Brent asked.

“Oh, Lord, anything you get’s going to fill you up. Try the Churrasco. It’s barbecue, Brazilian style. I never thought I’d like Brazilian food. Who would’ve guessed? But my sister-in-law got me in here a couple weeks ago and now she can’t get me out.”

Our waitress came to the table just then, and Lucy Sharp took a step backward. “I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, “but Taniesa wanted to be sure we said ‘hey.’ ”

“I’m glad you did,” I said. “Bye, Taniesa.”

The little girl reached for me one more time, and her mom leaned over to let her kiss my cheek.

I have the world’s best job, I thought. I watched them walk back to the front of the restaurant, and even before I saw them sit down again, I felt happy and at home and hungry enough to eat alligator meat.

The food was delicious and I was eating coconut flan when I noticed that the crowd was beginning to thin out.

“I’m drunk,” Brent admitted happily. He was. Adam was not far behind him. His eyes were glossy and a little unfocused, and the grin he’d been wearing most of the evening was lopsided in a way that made me smile.

“I’ll drive,” Rebecca said. “Though I’m so stuffed I may not fit behind the wheel.”

Adam said something in response, but I didn’t hear him. My gaze was on a man who had walked into the restaurant. He was Caucasian, dark haired, wearing a white T-shirt and beige pants and he stood in front of the door, shifting his gaze quickly from table to table. Something about him sent a shiver through me.

He started walking toward us—or at least, I thought he was heading toward our table. His stride was deliberate, his nostrils flared. Then I saw that his eyes—his ice-blue eyes—were locked on the two men at the table in front of ours. Adam said something that must have been funny, because Brent and Rebecca laughed, but

I’d set down my spoon and was gripping the corner of the table, my heart thudding beneath my breastbone.

I knew better than anyone how quickly these things could happen. The man reached behind his back with his right hand, then whipped his arm out straight, the gun a gray blur as it cut through the air, and I saw the tattoo of a black star on his index finger as he squeezed the trigger.

BEFORE I COULD SCREAM OR DUCK, THE SHOT RANG OUT and the man at the table in front of ours slumped in his chair. Then I did scream, the same way I’d screamed twenty years earlier in my driveway. This time, though, I had plenty of company. The congenial atmosphere of the little restaurant gave way to utter chaos. I bent over in my chair, making myself as small as possible, and I felt Rebecca cover me with her body like a shell. My hands were pressed to my ears, but I still heard footsteps racing toward the restaurant door.

“Get him!” people shouted. “Stop him!” Chairs scraped against the floor, and I heard the thud of a table falling on its side.

“Call nine-one-one!” I heard Adam yell.

Rebecca sat up and I straightened slowly from my crouched position, my stomach clenched around the meal I’d eaten. Brent and Adam were already on the floor next to the injured man, who had fallen from his chair in a crumpled heap. Rebecca sprang from her seat to the floor next to the men, while I remained frozen in my chair. The table blocked my view, and I caught only snippets of their conversation. “Press harder,” my sister was saying. “Can’t get a pulse,” Adam said. “Dude’s gone,” Brent added.

Should I try to help? Could I? This is why the three of them belonged in DIDA and I didn’t. I loved my work because it put me in control. “Maya knits teeny little bones back together,” Adam always said when introducing me to someone. That’s what I loved doing: fixing the fixable.

My gaze sank to my dessert plate, and I saw the splatter of blood across the remnants of my flan. The room spun, and I sprang out of my chair and raced toward the ladies’ room in the rear of the restaurant. The tiny restroom was crammed with crying, frightened women who let out a collective scream when I pushed open the door. Just looking at the small sea of hot bodies stole my breath away. I let the door close and sank to the dirty tiled floor of the hallway, my back against the wall.

I couldn’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs. Those cold eyes. The steady aim of the gun. Gulping air, I lowered my head to my knees and fought the darkness that seeped into my vision. I’d never once fainted. Not the first time I’d worked on a cadaver. Not during my medical training. Not as an intern in the O. R. I’d never even come close. Yet, I could feel the pull of unconsciousness teasing me now. He’s gone, I told myself. The danger’s over.

Above the voices and commotion from the restaurant, I heard the distant sound of sirens. The women left the ladies’ room en masse, stepping around me, trying not to trip over my feet. I pulled myself into a ball, wrapping my arms tightly around my legs. The sirens grew louder, multiplying in number. I pictured the police cars and ambulances squealing to a stop in front of the building, and I heard new voices adding to the din in the restaurant.

A few minutes passed before Adam walked into the hallway. He squatted down in front of me, his hands on my arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“The guy died,” he said.

I nodded again.

“I’m sorry, My,” he said. “You didn’t need this tonight. I know you still feel like shit.” He glanced behind him as if he could see the interior of the restaurant instead of the peeling paint on the wall. Then he sat down on the floor across from me. The hall was narrow enough that, even leaning against the opposite wall, he was able to keep one hand on mine. God, I loved his touch! During the past week, I’d wondered if I’d ever feel him touch me again.

“The cops locked the door, because they want to talk to everyone who was here when it happened,” he said. “Especially you and Becca, since you were facing the shooter. But if you’re not up to it … I can tell them you’re only six days out from a miscarriage and to leave you alone. You could go into the police station instead of—”