Margaret Carter - From the Dark Places

FROM THE DARK PLACES

by

MARGARET L. CARTER

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.amberquill.com

Dedication

Gratefully dedicated to Chris, who provided the inspiration.

Chapter 1

San Francisco, August, 1977

"The dark! It's watching me--make it go away!"

Wrenched out of sleep, Kate sat up in bed. From across the hall, Sara screamed

again. "Mommy! Make it go away!"

Throwing the covers back, Kate glimpsed the glowing numerals on the alarm

clock--one thirty-five in the morning. Nightgown tangled around her hips, she

dashed into Sara's room and snapped on the light. Her daughter sat up in bed,

rigid, her eyes wide, shrieking, "The dark! The dark!"

Blinking in the sudden glare, Kate sat on the edge of the bed and put her arms

around Sara. The child's slender body felt as stiff as a mannequin. Stroking her

hair, Kate found it damp, plastered to her scalp with sweat. Sara gave no sign

of seeing, hearing, or feeling anything. She screamed over and over, emitting a

siren wail like nothing Kate had ever heard. Shaking, she murmured Sara's name

and massaged the tight knots of her shoulders under the Winnie-the-Pooh

nightshirt.

Night terrors. Now, with her panic fading, Kate remembered reading about this

phenomenon, a nightmare-like seizure so extreme nothing could break its grip

until it ran its course. She'd never expected to see it in Sara, though.

She set her teeth, her own pulse pounding in her head, and waited for the attack

to end. After several minutes, Sara abruptly fell silent and slumped back, eyes

shut. Kate eased her onto the pillow, tucking sheet and quilt up to her neck.

She looked sound asleep.

Kate watched for ten minutes before she could force herself, still trembling, to

stumble back to her own bed. She lay awake for over an hour, straining her ears

for any sound from the other room. Sara had never before expressed any kind of

irrational fear, certainly not of the dark. Was she sick? She didn't have a

fever. Was the stress of having no father and a working mother taking its

psychological toll? I can't believe that, not when she's always handled it so

well. And if I did believe it, what could I do about it? A succession of worries

chased each other around Kate's skull like hamsters on a wheel until exhaustion

stilled them.

* * * *

The next morning, she considered asking for the day off from work. To her

surprise, though, Sara didn't mention her panic attack. She dressed herself and

ate her whole-wheat raisin toast as calmly as ever. When Mrs. Pacheco, the

widowed grandmother who lived upstairs, arrived to baby-sit as usual, Sara

welcomed her with no apparent reluctance. Rather than upset Sara all over again,

Kate left at her normal time.

When she came home that afternoon, though, Mrs. Pacheco greeted her with the

whispered remark, "I don't understand what's gotten into Sara this afternoon.

About an hour ago, she started acting, well, nervous."

"Nervous?" Kate kept her voice low, glancing from the foyer into the living

room, where Sara sat on the rug in front of the TV, watching Sesame Street.

"It's not like her, Mrs. Jacobs, that's why it worried me," said Mrs. Pacheco.

"She said something about a dream she had last night."

"A nightmare. She's never had one before that I know of." So she hasn't

forgotten it, after all. Kate gnawed on her lower lip as she shrugged out of her

jacket and hung it in the entryway closet.

Mrs. Pacheco whispered, "She said she didn't want you to leave tonight."

"But how could she possibly know--" Kate herself hadn't known until half an hour

before quitting time that her boss had an assignment for her this evening. She

stifled a twinge of guilt about having to go out. This is the 1970s; mothers are

allowed to have careers. As if I had a choice, anyway!

Recalling last night's hysterical outburst gave her an almost physical chill. It

contrasted so sharply with Sara's normal behavior. No mother could ask for a

more self-possessed, composed four-year-old. The child probably got her

competent manner from associating so much with adults. Now Kate didn't know how

to cope with this sudden change. Could it come from the strain of acting older

than her age? Did Sara think she had to act grown up because of her mother's

job? Cut out the amateur psychology, Kate told herself. One nightmare does not

mean a breakdown.

At that moment Oscar the Grouch finished his trash song, and Sara leaped up to

run into the foyer. "Mommy, you're home!" she cried in a surprised tone as

atypical as the fears. She flung her arms around Kate's waist.

"Of course, just like this time every day." Kate let Sara clasp her hand and tug

her to the couch.

Barefoot, dressed in lime green shorts and T-shirt, Sara perched cross-legged on

the couch, with her elbows resting on her knees and chin supported by her fists.

"Please don't go out tonight. It's real important." Now she wasn't screaming or

crying, just making a statement she obviously saw as plain fact.

"I have to. I promised." Sara usually understood about promises. Kate stroked

her daughter's honey-colored, shoulder-length hair. "I've worked late plenty of

times, and you didn't mind." She glanced up at Mrs. Pacheco, waiting in the

entry hall. "I'm awfully sorry about the late notice, but could you possibly

watch her this evening? Starting about six-thirty?"

"Of course, Mrs. Jacobs, no problem," said the older woman, though her worried

frown didn't relax.

"It will be all right. I won't stay out any longer than I have to." Kate knew

how lucky she was to have someone like Mrs. Pacheco living in the apartment

right above hers. Comparable personal attention at a day care center would have

gutted her budget.

Sara didn't speak again until the babysitter had left. "Who did you promise? Mr.

Boyle?"

She nodded. Sara knew and liked Ned Boyle, not only Kate's employer but a

long-time close friend of her deceased parents.

"He's a nice man," Sara persisted. "He'll let you stay home. Tell him it's

important."

"Why, munchkin? What makes this time different?" Kate stepped across the room to

turn down the sound on Sesame Street.

Sara's lips quivered. "The dark. I don't want the dark to get you."

"But you know the dark isn't an animal or a person. It can't 'get' anybody." The

faded couch sagged in the familiar spot as Kate sat down again. "You've never

been afraid of the nighttime before. It's just like in Goodnight Moon,

remember?"

"Not that kind of dark." Sara's voice held the long-suffering patience with

which she often explained things to her lovable but rather dim parent--or so it

sounded to Kate. "This is a special kind. I saw it last night." Fear welled up

in her blue eyes.

Worried that the child might talk herself into another panic, Kate stood up and

said more firmly, "I wish I didn't have to go, too, but this time I don't have a

choice. You like Mrs. Pacheco, and you know I'll come home as quick as I can.

Don't you?"

Sara gave a tentative nod.

"You have to be brave, munchkin." She ruffled the girl's mop of hair. "All for

one--"

"And one for all!" Sara managed a smile.

Kate turned up the TV and headed for her bedroom, her eyes stinging. No

four-year-old should be required to "be brave." At moments like this, she felt

an irrational anger at Johnny for abandoning the two of them.

Yeah, right, as if he planned the whole thing.

She plucked hairpins from her chignon and collected them in her palm as she

walked. She'd have to hustle to make it to the Mark Hopkins by seven.

What a day for Ned Boyle to ask her to represent him at a book signing! But he

wouldn't have done it on the spur of the moment without good reason. He'd been

scheduled to attend the affair himself, until his wife had gone into the

hospital with pneumonia barely an hour ago. The other three staff members had

previous commitments; only Kate remained available. She couldn't say no to the

man whom she owed so much. His small publishing firm, Golden Apple Press, had

hired her straight out of college, with no qualifications beyond a B.A. in

English from Berkeley and a year on the campus newspaper. Not only that, she

owed him double for hiring her back after Sara's birth, when she'd desperately

needed an income.

But tonight of all nights! And for Arthur Sandoval, of all people! She zipped

through her shower, consoling herself that she could escape after a brief show

of support. Ned believed Sandoval's latest treatise on occult and supernatural

occurrences in modern California could be a breakout book for both author and

publisher. The public's fascination with weird phenomena might give this release

a wider appeal than Golden Apple's usual line, poetry and regional-emphasis

material such as guidebooks. Kate kept her opinion to herself. She'd had to

copyedit Sandoval's book as part of her job; otherwise, she wouldn't have

touched the thing. After Sara's birth and Johnny's death, her indifference to

the occult had changed to outright revulsion. And she didn't care for Sandoval

himself, either. He wore a black goatee that looked doubly affected with his

thinning hair and middle-aged pot-belly. Apparently, he was hoping to make

himself resemble the head of that "Church of Satan" downtown.

Bundling on a robe over fresh underwear, Kate dashed from the bathroom to her

bedroom. As she started working on her makeup at the scarred early-American

dresser, she heard Sara switch off Mr. Rogers and patter down the hall. "Mommy,

may I come in and watch you?" She seldom forgot to use "may" instead of "can"

when appropriate.

"Sure. What do you want for supper?"

"Hot dogs?"

Kate sighed and blotted her lipstick. "Okay. Not the healthiest thing in the

house, but it's quick."

Sara knelt on the end of the bed, behind her mother. "You really gots to go?"

"I really gots to go." Watching Sara in the mirror, Kate compared the child's

reflection with the picture of Johnny on the dresser. The familiar resemblance

struck her afresh. Sometimes she fancied that Johnny had produced Sara by a sort

of male parthenogenesis, with Kate only an incubator. Father and daughter had

the same thick, dark-honey hair, the same deep blue eye color that faded after

infancy in most people, the same elfin features. Kate's own face was broad

rather than delicate, though her height enabled her to eat what she liked

without expanding from solidity to plumpness.

She began to French-braid her auburn hair. To her relief, Sara seemed to give up

trying to make her stay home. Instead, Sara asked, apropos of nothing, "What's

inn trow pee?"

She pronounced the three syllables so distinctly that Kate had to mouth them to

herself a few times to come up with the word "entropy." Good grief, what did I

do to deserve a precocious genius? "Chaos, I guess. Disintegration. Everything

winding down like a worn-out clock." As if that will make any sense to her.

"Where on earth did you hear that word?" Kate figured Sara must have

accidentally viewed part of a science program on public TV. The concept couldn't

have popped up in conversation with Mrs. Pacheco, who, for all her fine

qualities, was no intellectual.

"Daddy told it to me." Sara made the remark in the same offhand way she always

made these outrageous statements.

A chill prickled over Kate's skin. She'd given up trying to talk Sara out of

these fantasies. Dwelling on them only made Kate herself miserable, without

shaking the child's conviction. And why shouldn't a fatherless little girl

indulge in compensatory fantasies? Other kids had imaginary friends; Sara had a

phantom father. She appeared serene enough otherwise; she'd never shown any odd

behavior that could indicate something--wrong. Until now. Until that nightmare

and this stuff about the dark.

Kate ordered her fears to shut up. Sara didn't need a dithering, overprotective

neurotic for a mother.

Sara herself clearly didn't attach any importance to what she'd said. "Will you

read me Goodnight Moon before you leave?"

"Sure, munchkin, if there's time. I'd better get a move on." Though Sara had

begun to puzzle out simple words, she was a long way from ready to give up her

read-aloud time. Nor did Kate want to give it up, not for years to come. She

tossed her robe on the bed and wiggled into an electric blue, crepe-de-chine

cocktail dress, then hurried to the kitchen to zap a pair of hot dogs. The new

microwave oven was a blessing, despite the dent it had made in her savings.

When she set the single place in the dining nook, Sara asked, "Aren't you going

to eat some hot dogs, too?"

"No, I'll get my supper out of the snacks at the party." In truth, Kate's

stomach felt so knotted from anxiety that she had no interest in food.

After tidying up while Sara ate, she barely managed to finish Goodnight Moon

before Mrs. Pacheco arrived. At the door Sara clung to her, another unusual

action. But no tears, no begging. The child made the effort to act brave. All

she said was, "Promise you'll be careful, Mommy."

Kate promised--and rushed off before she could succumb to the yearning to stay

home.

Outside, she breathed deeply to quell the simmering brew of fear and resentment,

while she scanned the street for the cab she had called. It would've been too

much of a hassle trying to park in the hotel's garage. She drew her evening

shawl tight around her shoulders. She didn't need it yet, but nightfall brought

a nip to the San Francisco air, even in August.

At the Mark Hopkins, riding up in the elevator, she reminded herself to behave

pleasantly to Sandoval. The Golden Apple Press prided itself on offering authors

personal consideration in lieu of huge royalties and mass marketing. I can't let

Ned down on this. It's not much to ask, just for an hour or two. Standing around

in high heels and listening to a lot of boring chitchat hardly constituted

medieval torture. She smiled to herself at the sudden memory of one of her late

mother's favorite pronouncements: "Only boring people let themselves get bored."

A minute later, she scanned the room reserved for the book-signing party. She

easily spotted Arthur Sandoval, holding forth at stage center--i.e., the table

adorned with a pyramid of copies of Shades of the Golden State. He wore a

rumpled blazer with the stem of a briar pipe sticking out of a side pocket. Kate

had never seen him smoke the thing. Another prop, like the beard. He waved at

her, and she walked over to him.

"Ms. Wade, meet one of the architects of my success," Sandoval said to the woman

next to him, wearing a tailored suit and a hotel staff name tag. "Kathryn

Christina Jacobs, my editor."

Gritting her teeth at the verbal flourishes, Kate pasted on a smile and shook

hands with Ms. Wade, who turned out to be in charge of catering. After receiving

Kate's thanks on behalf of Golden Apple, Ms. Wade excused herself. Sandoval

introduced Kate to a silver-haired lady whose name promptly slid out of her

mind. "We were just discussing the reality of the supernatural," he said.

The woman said, "I asked Mr. Sandoval if he really believes in it."

"Well, to paraphrase Horace Walpole, I don't believe in ghosts, but I'm afraid

of them." That line got a polite laugh from the knot of people beginning to

gather around him. "But seriously, why should the dimensional plane we live on

be the only one that exists? I firmly believe that some people can get in touch

with other levels of reality--other modes of being."

Kate hoped he wouldn't quote the "more things in Heaven and Earth" line from

Hamlet again, as he had during a local talk show on which he'd guest-starred the

day before. Listening to that rigmarole once had been more than enough for her.

The other woman said, "Suppose you're right? And suppose your books inspire

weak-minded people to get in touch with these entities? If they contact evil

powers, couldn't they get into serious danger?" Her tone suggested that she

asked for the sake of argument, not out of genuine belief.

"Any great adventure can hold danger. As for evil, the question may not have any

meaning. What makes you think that good and evil are any more than

culture-specific referents?"

He had spouted the same lines on the talk show. Hearing them repeated word for

word, Kate couldn't resist the opportunity to speak up. "Mr. Sandoval, are you

saying that ultimate reality is amoral?"

"Why should our insignificant selves and our moral standards have any importance

for the cosmos?" He waved his arms for emphasis, jarring a stack of books. Kate

leaned over to rescue them. "All my research into the occult seems to indicate

that they don't. After all, as Shakespeare says, 'nothing is either good or bad

but thinking makes it so.' If these discarnate entities--assuming they

exist--think they're acting in their own best interests, what gives us any

grounds for arguing with them?" He chuckled at his own cleverness.

Kate refrained from pointing out that Shakespeare hadn't exactly made that

remark; one of his invented characters had, at a particularly low moment. I've

heard this guano in plenty of college bull sessions, expressed more

intelligently, too. Why do I let this man get to me? She slipped away, murmuring

something about the buffet table, and left Sandoval to his admirers.

At the bar she ordered a wine cooler and downed half of it, then drifted over to

the food, nodding at a few acquaintances she passed. The hors d'oeuvres spread

didn't appeal to her, but she knew she would regret it later if she didn't eat.

She forced herself to nibble a carrot stick. When her stomach didn't revolt, she

filled a plate with vegetables, crackers, and cheese cubes, picked up her drink,

and zigzagged across the room exchanging greetings with the guests. When she got

within Sandoval's range again, he had dropped the subject of the occult and was

arguing with a professor from Berkeley about President Carter's foreign policy.

A balding man in horn-rimmed glasses at the fringe of Sandoval's group offered

his hand to Kate. "Good to see you. I was expecting Ned."

Setting down her drink to shake hands, Kate explained about the Boyles' family

emergency. After a moment's mental floundering, she recognized the man as owner

of an independent bookshop near Fisherman's Wharf. "Glad you could make it,

Jeff. Having a good time?"

Jeff glanced over at Sandoval, then said with a wry smile, "An interesting time,

anyway. We'll stock the book, of course. People go wild over that stuff. I hear

he's tackling UFOs next. How's your daughter?"

Flattered that he remembered that much about her, Kate gave a noncommittal

answer while trying to suppress her anxiety. Maybe she ought to phone home, make

sure Sara had settled down for bed all right? Only half hearing Jeff's remarks

and her own automatic replies, she chatted with him about their respective

families and the new science fiction epic, Star Wars, which she hadn't seen yet.

From what she'd heard, Sara might find parts of it fascinating, but Kate wasn't

sure even a mature four-year-old could sit still for a movie of that length.

When Jeff excused himself and wandered off, she ate a couple of crackers and

then looked around for her wine cooler. There, next to the stack of books where

she'd left it. She picked up the glass but froze with it halfway to her lips.

Hadn't she drunk down to the halfway mark? Now the glass was almost full. The

shiver of alarm along her spine annoyed her. Don't be silly, somebody must have

exchanged drinks by mistake. Yet she was suddenly possessed by the notion that

the liquid smelled wrong.

Silently mocking her fantasies, she raised the glass to her mouth. A foul odor

enveloped her like miasma from a sewer drain. Her stomach churned. At the same

moment, Kate felt an animal prickling of nerves as if someone were watching her.

Watching to see me drink? The situation was ridiculous, though. If the beverage

really gave off such a stink, everybody around her would notice it. I must be

coming down with the flu or something. Still, she would no more taste the cooler

now than she would sip from Alice's "Drink Me" potion. She set down the glass

and glanced around the room.

Something was wrong with her vision. The air seemed dense with smoke. Her eyes

ached from peering into it. Yes, she must be sick; first imaginary odors, now

imaginary fog. Again the sensation of watching eyes crept over her. Scanning the

room, she found the source of the stare she felt. Earlier, she had looked out a

window in that corner and seen, framed by crimson drapes, the cold sparkle of

the downtown lights Now the view was blocked by--Nothing. Not no-thing, but

Nothing, if nothing could have substance.

She thought of black holes, dead stars so compressed that not even light could

escape their gravity. She felt as if a black hole stood before her, a rip in the

cosmos revealing a universe of negation.

A piece of the dark turned itself toward her.

Though the zone of negation was man-shaped, like a silhouette cut out of the air

by a sharp blade, Kate couldn't distinguish a face. Yet she did see a pair of

eyes. They glinted icy-blue.

Her stomach clenched. Her skin contracted with chill. The fog in the corners

thickened and rolled toward her. Sara's cry from the previous night flashed into

her head: "Mommy, the dark, the dark!"

Kate stumbled toward the door. The fetid mist stretched octopod tentacles after

her. It entwined her ankles, slowing her steps. She staggered blindly to the

door, careening against anonymous bodies whose voices made an insectile buzz in

her ears. By the time her vision cleared, she'd made it to the ladies' room.

She leaned on the sink, water running, splashing her face and gasping. She

became aware of someone beside her, a woman in a tailored suit. Focusing on the

name tag, Kate recognized Ms. Wade, the hotel's catering director.

"Are you ill, Mrs. Jacobs? Maybe I'd better get you some help."

Somehow Kate managed to steady her heaving breath and speak calmly. "No, it was

just the stuffy air. I felt dizzy for a minute. I'll rest a little while and get

a cab home."

"Wouldn't you like me to sit with you?"

Kate shrugged off the woman's hand. "No, please don't fuss, I'll be fine."

Ms. Wade looked dubious but finally yielded to Kate's insistence. Relieved to

find herself alone in the restroom, Kate swallowed hard a few times and stared

at her panic-stricken face in the mirror. She had to get out of the hotel before

some other well-meaning person delayed her. The memory of Sara's nightmare rang

in Kate's head like a warning bell in a fogbound harbor. She had to get home

right away.

Hurrying out of the restroom, she ignored the elevators and ran down the stairs.

Nothing mattered but escape; the building felt like a trap, its atmosphere

choking her. On the street level, she dashed through the lobby doors and looked

around wildly. A cab--she had to find a cab. But panic still gripped her.

Dimly conscious of the sidewalk pounding under her feet, she ran toward Union

Square. Car horns and shouting voices crashed around her like the noise of waves

on rocks.

Sara's voice burst upon her: "Mommy, watch out! Stop!" Not a memory--this sound

was real.

Kate abruptly halted. She was standing in the middle of the street, hemmed in by

traffic. A row of headlights struck her in the eyes. The car behind them

careened straight at her.

With Sara's cry still reverberating in her head, she took a half step backward.

A massive impact, and she felt herself hurled from the pavement into the dark.

Chapter 2

She floated in a warm, translucent fluid, gazing up at the surface of a pool,

where a diffuse, pearly light shone. Liquid didn't seep into her lungs; she felt

no need to breathe, no suffocation. She was slowly sinking, lapped in the

light's silken embrace, not afraid of hitting bottom, for the pool had no

bottom. Lazily she stretched toward the light. She began to drift upward. After

a while she recognized the glow. She remembered it from that other time.

For almost four years she had blocked from her mind the anomalies surrounding

Sara's birth. She had drawn back, as if from a chasm gaping at her feet. Now she

wondered why. Why had she wanted to forget this? Why had she been so absurdly

frightened? This was the peace and joy she'd been denied the first time. This

time no one could summon her back to the torturous weight of her body.

Rising toward the light, she glimpsed a shape hovering above the surface. A

face. She knew it even before it grew distinct. "Johnny!" While her bodiless

form could not shed tears, they welled up within her nevertheless. He hadn't

deserted her; he was waiting--

* * * *

Darkness like the shadow of a hovering bird of prey fell across her path. She

could barely discern Johnny's silhouette, outlined by the now-obscured glow. His

voice faded, as if the shadow muffled sound just as it clouded sight.

"Kathryn!"

The unfamiliar voice called from a great distance. She ignored it.

"Kathryn Christina!"

"Go away!" she moaned--not aloud, only in her mind. "Leave me alone, let me go!"

"You can come back now, it's safe."

The voice sounded very faint. It couldn't drag her back against her will. "No!

Let me go!"

But the stranger wouldn't stop calling. "Kathryn, come back, you're needed."

Ignoring the appeal, she reached for Johnny. His outline began to shimmer and

dissolve. "I'm sorry, beloved. It's not time yet. You have work to do."

Despairing rage seized her. Abandoned all over again? She felt caught in a

vortex that sucked her down into the pit.

Scarcely audible, Johnny said, "Go back. Sara needs you."

Of course, I can't leave Sara. She surrendered, allowed the whirlpool to drag

her downward. The shadow loomed to block her way. Staring into its heart, she

confronted the palpable emptiness that had terrified her--when? She couldn't

identify it with a time or place. She struggled to rise away from the dark

thing, but her will seemed drained.

The voice she'd heard before echoed in her mind. "This way, Kathryn! To me! If

you fight, it can't touch you."

She oriented herself upon the voice. A burst of radiance obliterated the shadow.

With an agonizing wrench, she dropped back into her body, and then into

nothingness.

* * * *

She woke to dryness in her throat, the scrape of sheets against raw skin, and a

pounding in her head. "Let me go," she tried to moan, but no sound emerged.

The masculine voice that had summoned her back spoke again. "Stay with us. The

pain will pass." Warm fingertips touched her wrist. She sank into sleep.

When she woke again, she felt each separate throb of pain, along with her

burning eyes and parched throat. This time she hung onto consciousness. She took

in the white glare of the walls and the empty bed in the other half of the room.

A petite nurse with platinum hair stood at the end of Kate's bed. "Would you

like some water?"

Kate licked her lips and nodded. After sipping from the bent plastic straw, she

said, "Sara? My little girl. Where is she?"

"Don't you worry. Dr. Benson made sure she was taken care of."

"Who?" Kate's throat rasped painfully when she spoke.

The nurse ignored the question, perhaps hadn't even heard the faint sound.

"Don't try to talk too much yet. Your throat's probably sore from the respirator

tube--general anesthetic during surgery."

Surgery? What's she talking about? Kate didn't have the energy to ask for an

explanation. She forced out the words, "How long?"

"You were brought in yesterday evening. It's almost two in the afternoon now.

You're out of recovery and in a private room." The nurse stuck a thermometer in

Kate's mouth and felt her pulse, then made a note on a clipboard. "Just try to

take it easy. The doctor will probably authorize removing that catheter later

today, and then we can try getting you up."

Once free of the thermometer, Kate said, "When can I see Sara?"

"I'm sorry, hospital rules don't allow children under twelve." The nurse patted

her hand. "Now, don't worry. Get some rest."

Rest? What else have I been doing? Kate fumed. Is my insurance going to cover

all this? And what surgery, anyway?

Despite her anxiety, she dozed. When footsteps roused her to full awareness, she

found a young man with blond bangs and boyish apple cheeks standing over her.

His name tag identified him as Dr. Hardesty.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Jacobs, I'm the resident on duty. How are you feeling?"

His voice didn't resemble the one she'd heard while half-conscious. Or had she

only imagined hearing it? "Like I've been run over by a steamroller."

He chuckled. "Not that, just a Chevy." He looked into her eyes and checked her

pulse.

"What happened to me?" Cautiously shifting position, she grimaced at the pain in

her side and felt something binding her skin. With a downward glance, she saw

bandage tape around her chest.

"What do you remember?"

She remembered rushing away from the party and out of the hotel, dodging

traffic, imagining Sara calling to her--and a cascade of confused images she

didn't want to relive. Hallucinations, induced by head injury or drugs, not

worth mentioning. "The last thing I can remember is a car barreling down on me."

Dr. Hardesty nodded. "You were brought to the emergency room as a hit-and-run

victim. You have two cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, assorted bruises, and a

concussion. Believe it or not, you got off lightly--somehow you managed to

sidestep the full impact at the last minute. We had to perform surgery to

relieve pressure on the brain, but you're making a remarkable recovery." He

glanced at her chart. "The memory is a good sign. Many people in your situation

forget events leading up to the trauma and in some cases never regain them."

Kate let that comment pass; she would have been glad to forget those minutes of

panic. "When can I go home?"

"We'll shoot for day after tomorrow." Kate stifled a groan. What was Sara doing

all this time? "Right now I'll order the nurses to take out that IV and

catheter. You can try a few steps and take some nourishment by mouth. And don't

be afraid to ask for pain medication if you need it."

Kate was surprised and indignant at her dizziness when the nurse helped her

stand up. I can't afford this, I have to go home! She managed to get to the

bathroom and back, after which an aide assisted her with a sponge bath. The

"nourishment" turned out to be clear broth and a cup of tea. Though she

discovered with the first sip how empty her stomach was, she became sated

quickly.

Now that she could talk more comfortably, she phoned her apartment. No answer.

Taking deep breaths in an attempt to slow her racing heart, she dialed Mrs.

Pacheco's number. Her neighbor answered on the third ring.

"Mrs. Jacobs, I'm so relieved to hear your voice. How are you feeling?"

Kate tossed off a noncommittal answer and inquired about Sara.

"Don't worry about a thing, dear. I've been staying with her at your place. We

just came up here for a little while, to collect some things I needed, and we

were about to go back downstairs. That nice Dr. Benson arranged everything."

I'm already getting tired of people telling me not to worry. And who is Dr.

Benson? "Please let me talk to Sara."

When Sara came on the line, she cried out, "Mommy, you're okay! It didn't get

you!"

It? "No, sweetheart, I'll be fine. How are you?"

"Mrs. Pacheco is taking care of me. I made you some paper butterflies. Did a bad

Margaret Carter - From the Dark Places

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: