17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Jane
I t was after three o’clock in the morning when my brain registered a blur on the security footage playing on my laptop. Instantly wide awake, I bolted upright and rewound the video. The camera angle was focused on the back door of the warehouse which wasn’t used by the employees, or at least it wasn’t supposed to be used, even though it could be accessed by a key.
When I again saw the dark figure approach, I paused and zoomed in on the grainy image. The intruder wore a baseball cap, but when he inserted the key and looked over his shoulder, I got a decent view of his profile.
Is that Leon Worthington?
I slowly advanced the film, taking note of the date and time—twelve sixteen a.m. on April seventeenth.
Wasn’t that when the board of directors visited Philly for a plant tour?
I took my laptop down to my office and checked my calendar. I was right. Not only was Leon there, so was I and the CEO of Hydroade who also happened to be a member of the board.
At least a dozen times I watched the six-second footage, more and more positive that the man entering the building was my ex-boss. I saved a clip of the video, then shifted to the inside camera pointed at the same door, on the same date and time. The intruder partially unzipped his bomber jacket and reached inside, pulling out something but he stopped as he looked directly at the camera.
My blood turned icy as I stared into the unmistakable black eyes of the bastard who fired me. I zoomed in to his jacket and was almost positive I could make out the faint outline of a Hydroade bottle.
Holy shit !
What did this mean? Why would Leon sabotage his own company’s inventory? The inventory was insured, but the payout wouldn’t be enough to take such a risk.
Or would it?
The CFO had told me Leon was handling the insurance claim. That seemed a little odd at the time, but not out of the realm of possibility because of my ex-boss’ innate desire to control everything.
But now I knew differently. Leon had a more sinister reason, and my guess was his partner in crime just might be the CEO of Hydroade.
I Googled Bethany Plastics news. The headline of the first article that came up was: Plastics Giant Files for Bankruptcy .
And then another idea sparked from the recesses of my memory. Several years ago, everyone on the board of directors was given preferred shares right after the stock split. If Bethany filed for bankruptcy, creditors would be paid first, and I highly suspected that Leon had used his dirty tactics to ensure there would be enough left over to pay out the preferred stock, leaving the common stockholders in the lurch. Furthermore, the board members’ preferred stock value was more like a bond. It didn’t go down with drops in the market, but the value sure as hell went up. All the common stockholders would lose everything while Leon and his comrades walked away with millions.
Was I being paranoid? Why the cover up when Leon could retire and walk away with his preferred shares? What about his divorces? He’d complained enough about getting fleeced. Moreover, what else was going on in the boardroom that I didn’t know about?
By the time I looked up from my computer, it was six in the morning. I thought about calling Curt, but he was further removed from the machinations of the board than I had been. Honestly, with Leon’s penchant for control, I didn’t know if I could trust anyone at corporate, and if he found out I was snooping, who knew what that asshole would do next?
After I went through my morning routine and made a cup of coffee, I decided what needed to be done. It took about a half an hour to get through to the FBI’s business and fraud prevention office, but once I got a woman on the line, I told her everything and emailed her the security footage. I asked that I remain anonymous unless it was absolutely necessary to release my name. She agreed and said she’d be in touch if she needed anything more.
By the time I hung up the phone, I was so drained I felt like I’d lost a pint or two of blood. I was dazed, but certainly not confused. The best thing was that I no longer felt like I had failed. I had been framed. I was used. I was mercilessly fired because Leon saw me as a threat. I must have been getting too close to the truth and he couldn’t have me blowing the whistle.
Except he was wrong on that count. The bastard.
A few days later I walked from my house to the local Moya Clinic for a doctor appointment. I know. I’m a glutton for punishment, but since karate was no longer allowed, to keep myself in shape, as soon as I moved to La Crosse I started taking fitness classes at the local YMCA. I bought a smartwatch to log my progress. I was so damned competitive, I tried to keep up with women thirty years younger than me, but once my watch started recording my heart rate at astronomical levels, telling me to slow down, I got a little worried. Sure, I was pushing myself, but I always pushed myself. Except after the dissection incident (when I’d been pushing too hard), I had eliminated pushups and burpees from my workout routines.
Wasn’t that enough?
I’d also be fooling myself if I believed having a heart rate of 195 wasn’t a little scary. I never wanted to do anything to bring on an artery dissection again and trying to keep up with the twenty and thirty-somethings might shove me over the edge.
No matter how much I wanted to forget about FMD, whatever had happened that Saturday at the dojo wasn’t natural. And I’d come to realize my visit with Dr. Vaughn in Denver had been an utter waste of time. I discovered that vascular surgeons specialize in different disciplines. I also looked up Dr. Vaughn’s practice. His specialty was in angioplasty and arterial stenting, which explained why he only saw elderly patients.
It did not, however, explain why he blew me off as if I were a woman who complained about every trifling ailment. In my opinion, his abject disregard was unforgivable.
I still didn’t have a satisfactory answer as to the possible repercussions of what happened to me, and subsequently to Meg. Maybe if I were the only one affected I wouldn’t be so bothered, but Meg was too young to have vascular issues. She had so much life yet to live.
I guess I wasn’t ready to call it quits, either. After all, who would take my mother milkshakes if I kicked the bucket? Definitely not my brother, Roger. He’d probably leave our mom’s care in Meg’s hands without an iota of guilt.
Since I was only going to be on Bethany’s health insurance for a couple more months, no matter how much I didn’t like doctor visits, I wanted answers— if I could get someone to take me seriously. So, after arming myself with as much information about FMD as I could find, I decided to resume my quest, no matter how much I had to bite back my pride or put up with doctors who found it their roles in life to belittle their patients and fill them with self-doubt.
My records had already been transferred. I’d go in, tell them about my heart rate issues, then I’d mention the radiology report from Denver and see if I could get a referral to a doc who actually treated FMD patients.
I had carefully researched the physicians online, and made an appointment with Dr. Wahl, a specialist in internal medicine who also had a background in vascular. Once I checked in at the kiosk, I waited less than five minutes before I was called. I was also pleasantly surprised when I overheard the nurse actually relay the information I’d given her to the physician before Dr. Wahl came in, introduced herself, and took a seat on the stool.
“You have FMD,” she said, sounding concerned as she scanned through my records, then turned the monitor toward me and pointed to an image of my beaded and twisted carotid arteries, something neither Dr. Panda nor Dr. Vaughn had done.
I gripped my hands together. Here I was for the umpteenth time in my life, needing to explain my weird medical stuff. I had quite a history, including spontaneous hemorrhaging on a plane for no apparent reason as well as the ruptured uterus when Meg was born. I didn’t mention any of those things and kept it current. Other doctors had told me those things were ancient history and no longer needed to be addressed, though I did put my heart prolapse on the intake form. “I don’t know if I do or not. The radiologist seemed to think so, but the vascular surgeon Dr. Panda sent me to when I was in Denver wasn’t sure. He didn’t seem to think the dissected carotid artery was a big deal, either.”
She readjusted the monitor then peered at me with an expression of utter sincerity. “I assure you, a dissection of any artery is serious. FMD isn’t a picnic either. Tell me what happened.”
Hello? I didn’t expect her to be quite so interested. I thought she’d be in a hurry like most docs and pass over the dissection so I could just get to my speedy heart rate issues, which had been what I’d told the nurse was the main reason for my visit.
To my surprise, Dr. Wahl listened thoughtfully while I described the incident at the dojo, including the screaming pain, and going blind. “My daughter thinks I had a TIA, but the CT scan I had a few days later indicated my brain was fine.”
The doctor started scrolling again. “You very well might have had a TIA. By definition, a transient ischemic attack happens when blood to the brain is briefly interrupted. If you lost sight in both eyes when you dissected, we certainly cannot rule out a TIA.”
I relaxed a bit. Dear God, the woman was actually talking to me like I possessed intelligence. As if I mattered. “The FMD website says I shouldn’t do martial arts.”
“Oh, no. Definitely not. You shouldn’t do anything that might cause sudden jolting of your head and neck.”
I gulped, glad that I decided to move to Wisconsin, otherwise I might have been obstinate and gone ahead and tested for my second-degree.
“If you have FMD, it is in all of the mid-sized arteries of your body. They should have done a scan of your abdomen and pelvis as well.”
News to me.
Her stool squeaked as she turned. “I also detected a heart murmur. Have your other doctors ever mentioned it?”
I blinked as my mind sifted back through three decades. “When I was pregnant, my obstetrician sent me to a cardiologist for a heart ultrasound.” I guess I’d buried this information in a little-used part of my brain because I’m positive that somewhere along the line, someone told me it was ancient history and I didn’t need to refer to it again. “He said I have a mitral valve prolapse. Is that something to worry about?”
“It’s something that should be listed in your history, certainly.” Dr. Wahl’s lips thinned. “I’d like to refer you to Moya’s vascular center in Rochester—it’s an hour’s drive. Will that be okay?”
Another vascular doc? “Do you think it’s necessary?”
“I believe it would be advisable for you to be seen at one of the best facilities in the country. I personally know Dr. Davis. I’ll refer you to her. She’s extremely thorough.”
“Does she know what FMD is?” I asked.
“She’s an expert on the subject—even published. ”
Dr. Wahl counseled me for a half-hour and though she didn’t think the mitral valve prolapse in my heart had anything to do with my high heart rate readings, by the time I left the clinic, I’d given five vials of blood and had been fitted with a heart monitor which I was instructed to wear for a week so they could identify what was going on when I exercised.
Meg and I pushed into my mother’s apartment in her new assisted living facility. “Hey, Mama, how’re you doing?”
“Jane!” she said as if she hadn’t seen me two days ago.
“I brought you a vanilla milkshake.” I set the cup on the table beside her recliner. “I also brought along your granddaughter, Meg.”
“Hi, Grandma,” she said, peeking around me with a brown paper shopping bag in tow.
My mother picked up the milkshake and greedily sucked on the straw. “Mm, this is good. Thank you.” Mama loved vanilla milkshakes, though her blood sugar had been borderline diabetic for years. I used to try to keep her on a strict diet, but she got way too thin and Roger told me to pump calories into her and give her whatever she’ll be likely to eat.
Meg and I settled on the teal loveseat I purchased to make her room cozy. It coordinated with her lampshade and bedspread.
“How have you been, Grandma?” Meg plastered on one of those doll-like smiles, though she liked to visit about as much as my brother did. At one time my daughter idolized her grandmother, though now had a terrible time accepting her as a doddering old woman. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you for a while.”
Licking her lips, Mama gave her a blank stare, then shifted her gaze to me.
“Meg works at the library.” I pointed to her bookshelf which was full of activity paperbacks and some of the novels my mother had read over the years. “She’s the granddaughter who gave you all those books.”
“Oh. Thank you. I love to read,” Mom replied, though she was no longer able to follow story plots.
We sat awkwardly for a moment while Mom sipped again. “This is delicious.”
I beamed, now fairly certain my smile looked as plastic as my daughter’s. “I’m glad you like it. ”
“Did you say your name is Meg?” Mama asked.
Dear God, I didn’t have to wonder if that question tore Meg’s heart out but bless her, the girl’s only outward sign of her frustration was her blink. “Sure is.”
“Isn’t that short for Margaret?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
It seemed the old girl was quite in the mood for a chat today. “My mother’s name was Margaret, but she didn’t go by Meg.”
For the past seventeen years we’d had this conversation every time Meg was in the room.
“Isn’t that crazy?” My dear daughter played along, though she jabbed my arm with her elbow—hard enough to leave a bruise. “Mom named me after her!”
I scooted away and rubbed the sore spot. “I’ve been refinishing my floors with a very nice contractor.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, he’s become a friend.”
“I have a friend here, you know,” Mama said, moving the conversation right along.
“Oh?” My eyebrows shot up. “What’s her name?”
She slurped. “I can’t remember.”
I sat for a moment. When it came to my mother, conversation was usually one-sided and always challenging. “So, I’m going to Moya in Rochester for some tests.”
“Are you?” she asked, sounding interested.
Meg jammed her fists onto her hips. “You didn’t tell me about that.”
Honestly, I wasn’t sure I was going to say anything until afterward because I wanted some concrete results first. But given the fact that Meg was as neck deep in this as me, there was no reason to keep it to myself. “Well, now you know.”
For the first time since it happened, I told Mama about my dissection incident. Meg also described hers.
As we relayed our stories, my mother gazed off in the distance at something, maybe nothing. “I think I had a stroke once.” Yes, this is what Alzheimer’s did to people—deprived them of their capacity for empathy.
“You did?” I asked. “When?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. ”
Meg and I exchanged eye rolls, then I started in on my routine of checking her supplies while the dregs of the milkshake bubbled loudly in the plastic cup.
“Hey…” I picked up a flyer from Mama’s counter. “This says school kids are coming here for trick-or-treat.”
She tossed her cup into the trash. “Are they?”
“Yes, and you’ll be able to pass out candy on Halloween. Would you like that?”
Mom’s eyes lit up. “As long as they behave.”
“I’ll bet they will. And they’ll all be dressed up in costumes.”
“Really?”
Meg scooted forward and pulled out a pumpkin candy bucket from the shopping bag. “The local kids come to the library and we give them candy. I thought you’d like to have one of these.”
Mama stared at the smiling jack-o-lantern, her expression blank. “I don’t eat much candy.”
Meg set the pumpkin on the counter. “Then give it to the kids when they come around for trick-or-treat.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Well, Mama, we have to get going.” I bent over the recliner and gave her a hug. “I love you.”
She didn’t hug me back. “Love you, too.”
Meg opened the door and waved. “Bye, Grandma.” Once we were in the hall she looped her arm through mine. “I don’t see how you can take coming here twice a week.”
“She’s my mother.”
“She was .”
I stopped and shook my finger at her nose. “That woman raised me. No, she isn’t all there, but I’m not going to abandon her and pretend she doesn’t exist like your Uncle Roger does.”
Meg threw out her hands. “I know you feel responsible on some level…even guilty, but she probably has already forgotten that we were just in her room. In fact, I’ll bet if you walked in there right now she’d say, ‘Jane!’ like she hasn’t seen you in decades.”
I continued out to the car. Meg was right. But I was brought up to carry the responsibility of the family on my shoulders. Besides, someone needed to look after her. Someone needed to take her to doctor appointments and shop for her supplies. Though those tasks did add up, a voice at the back of my head always whispered I ought to be doing more. So what if she didn’t remember anything? The woman was still my mother.
Once we were in the Volvo, Meg fastened her seatbelt. “I’m sorry. I just can’t bear to see her like that.”
“I know.” I started the engine. “So, let’s go get something to eat and talk about—”
“Sex?”
I snorted out a laugh. “If you really want to.” Then I gave her a sideways glance. “I finally figured out what happened with the goose shit debacle.”
“Seriously?” she rubbed her hands together. “I love a good sleuth story.”
As I drove to the restaurant, I told her everything, including my phone call with the FBI. At last, my inadequacy complex was crumbling. In no way had I been “culpable” as Leon had egregiously claimed.
In the library of my Victorian home (aka office), I was playing Bach’s Ave Maria on my recently tuned 1905 Sleger & Sons piano. My fingers only hit a few wrong notes as I sang my heart out, drawing in a humongous breath before holding forth with the high G toward the end of the piece, then softening to a decrescendo finale, my fingers finding the notes…more or less.
If I hadn’t had the piano tuned, I could have blamed my awful playing on the instrument. But I was no virtuoso.
Maybe I shouldn’t try to sing and play at the same time. I was never much of a pianist. I had a few lessons in the second grade, but when my piano teacher was arrested for child abuse I ended up on my own, teaching myself—something I wouldn’t recommend. At least I was fortunate not to suffer abuse from the man aside from a ruler across the knuckles once or twice.
As I held the last chord, the Google Nest in the parlor nearly gave me a heart attack, boisterously announcing there was someone at the front door. I was immensely proud of myself for installing a Nest system without having to ask anyone to help, but ever since, people had stopped using my beloved brass knocker.
I darted off the piano bench then wobbled dizzily through the entrance hall, having to stop for a second and put my hands on my knees. “Coming!” I shouted, taking a deep breath to clear my head. Jeez, just this morning, when I was getting dressed upstairs I’d felt like the floor was moving. It was akin to being on a ship in rough seas. I attributed the sensation to the uneven floorboards, but I didn’t think the floor in the entrance hall was wonky.
The good news was the results from wearing the heart rate monitor had been useful. Dr. Wahl called me herself and said that though my heart rate went as high as 175, it came back down as soon as I stopped exercising. She told me to keep an eye on it and try not to go over 160.
So, I was still pushing myself too hard.
By the time I opened the door, I figured the caller would be gone, but no. Bob stood there with a goofy grin on his face, his green eyes shining.
My stomach dropped to my toes as I glanced in the direction of my piano. “You didn’t hear that fiasco, did you?”
“Of course not,” he said with an unfettered snort. He most likely had been there through the entire abysmal concert and hadn’t knocked until the concert was over.
“Whew.” I sank about two inches as I stood back and ushered him in. “So why are you here?”
“Just came to check on the floors,” he replied, reminding me that I loved to hear the bass of his speaking voice and I wondered if he liked to sing—though my piano playing was so bad, I’d have to practice every day for ten years before I was good enough to accompany anyone.
“They’re beautiful, thank you.” We’d finished varnishing the hardwoods a couple of days ago. I inclined my head to the dining room. “Want a cup of tea? The contractors have finished with the kitchen for the day and about all I can get to is the electric kettle.”
“Do you have something herbal?”
I beckoned him. “Sure do.”
Bob followed me into the butler’s pantry where I made the tea. He stood on the threshold and looked at the disaster that had been my kitchen as of yesterday morning. “At least it will be done in time for Thanksgiving.”
“Plenty of time,” I put the teabags into cups. “And the floors turned out better than I’d hoped. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
“Thanks, Jane, but you worked your tail off.” He sauntered back into the dining room and sat at the head of the table in one of the chairs with armrests. “I’ve been thinking…we ought to join forces and start up a partnership.”
I breathed in cinnamon wafting from my mug. “Hmm? ”
“Well, there are a heck of a lot of older homes in this town and not many contractors who do restoration work.”
“Ugh.” I took the side chair closest to him. “I don’t mind restoring my own house, but I’m not sure about meeting the expectations of the general public. I’d probably refinish their floors and they wouldn’t pay me.”
Bob’s eyebrows pinched together. “Where are you from? This is Wisconsin. You do a job for someone and they’ll be happy. Hell, you answer the phone and do the work within a decent timeframe and they’ll adore you.”
“You mean us . You’re proposing a partnership, right?” I asked carefully.
“I think we’d make a good team.” He gestured toward the hardwoods. “We worked well together on the floors.”
The floors are gorgeous.
True, I wasn’t ready to retire, but it was a big step to form a partnership with my landscaper who also had been a pharmacist and had subsequently proved to be a jack of all trades. When I put it that way, the idea had its merits. “Let me think about it. After all, I still have work to do here.”
“And we’re heading into winter.”
I blew on my tea then sipped. “You keep saying that.”
“Yes, well, it’s not the best time to start a new business venture. Though I could always put in a word or two with my contractor buddies. Who knows, we might get a few gigs—nothing too overwhelming.”
“If we were to start restoration work, what would happen to your landscaping business?”
His shoulder ticked up as he reached for his mug. “There are a lot more landscapers in La Crosse than there are restorers.”
“Interesting.”
“Well, mull it over. Maybe make a list of pros and cons.” Bob took a drink, then let out a sharp breath as if his tea was a little too hot. “I will, too. After all, the idea only popped into my head when you opened the door.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’re crazy.”
He grinned. “Nah, just spontaneous.”
I liked his smile. It triggered something deep as if I’d just swallowed a bite of the creamiest, most delicious chocolate soufflé ever made. “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
The man looked lost. “I’m coming here, aren’t I?”
I wouldn’t have asked the question if I didn’t want him to come. He’d been such a humongous help over the past weeks, I was more than happy to have him join my little family. “Of course I’d love it if you joined us. What do you normally do for Thanksgiving?”
“I usually serve food at the Salvation Army, but they always have a boatload of volunteers show up for the holidays.”
“All right, then. You’re officially invited.”
He sipped his tea and licked his lips. And was that a blush I saw peeking above the trim line of his beard? “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, his expression familiar and comfortable. “I’d like that very much.”