Brass Ring Page 4

She smiled, squeezing his knee as she got to her feet. “We’ll do our best to get you there, Jordan,” she said.

  It was dark when she left the hospital that night, but she took the time to stop at a stationery store to pick up a card for Brian. He would be home when she got there, after five days on the road. She wanted to celebrate, as she always did, his safe return. She hated those trips, knowing he was almost constantly in the air. Despite the safety record of commercial flights and the fact that he was one of the best pilots ever born, she couldn’t relax until he was securely grounded in the town house they’d shared for the past two years.

  She read more than a dozen cards before finding one that had the right tone. It was clearly, strongly, loving, but without demands or expectations. Brian regularly invited her to ask more of him, but she was not yet ready to make herself that vulnerable.

  It was after seven when she pulled into the garage of their town house, the garage her car shared with the metal pipes from Brian’s soccer goal, along with his varied collection of balls and bats and tennis rackets. He’d finally given up rugby this year—the week after he turned forty—but as far as Vanessa could tell, Brian Everett had simply channeled his passion for rugby into the other sports he loved.

  Stepping out of the car, she could smell the aroma of something Asian—soy sauce and sesame oil—and she smiled to herself. He was cooking. He was in a good mood, as happy to be home as she was to have him there.

  He greeted her at the door, spatula in hand, and pulled her into an embrace. Soft piano music from the stereo in the den filled the air around them as she kissed him, slipping the card into the wide pocket of his smock-style apron for him to find later. Brian liked surprises.

  “I’ve missed you something fierce,” he said.

  She stepped into the kitchen and took off her coat, draping it over a chair. Then she wrapped her arms around him again, and for a moment she was aware only of the warmth of his body against hers, the sensation of his lips pressing hard against her own.

  He drew away from her. A lock of brown hair fell over his forehead, and there was a smile on his boyish face. “Let’s skip dinner,” he said.

  “But it smells so good.”

  “Later.” He turned off the heat under the wok, then put his arms around her again. “How about right here in the kitchen, huh?” He nuzzled her neck. “Have you ever made love on the kitchen floor?”

  “Uh-uh.” She had, but not in a very long time. She barely remembered the man, and “making love” was probably not an accurate description of what had occurred between them.

  She tapped her foot on the tile floor. “It’ll be awfully hard, though,” she said.

  “It’s extremely hard.” He took her hand from around his neck and drew it toward the front of his pants. “Want to see?”

  She laughed, and their hands butted up against the card in his pocket.

  “What’s this?” He pulled out the card and opened it, reading it to himself. His face grew serious for a moment, and he pulled her back into an embrace. “I love you, too, Van.” His voice was husky, and for the second time that day she felt the threat of tears.

  It was another minute before he let go of her. “So,” he said, “the floor? I have to warn you, though. I’ve been replacing your birth control pills with placebos.”

  Vanessa shook her head with a smile, taking his hand. “Come on.” She led him toward the hallway, and without protesting further, he followed her into the bedroom.

  She made a quick stop in the bathroom, and by the time she emerged, Brian had lit a candle and set it on the dresser. She undressed and joined him on the queen-sized water bed. They kissed for a long time, so long that her body began seeking more from him. Her legs twined around his; her arms circled his back to pull him closer. But just as Brian’s hand came to rest on her breast, his fingers grazing her nipple, the phone rang on the night table.

  She lifted her head to see which line was ringing. The red light blinked above line two—her hospital line. It had to be important. She groaned.

  “Ignore it,” Brian said.

  “You know I can’t.” She reached for the telephone and spoke into the receiver. “Vanessa Gray.”

  “Van, it’s Darcy.”

  Vanessa rolled onto her back, frowning. This couldn’t be urgent. Darcy Frederick was the executive officer at Lassiter responsible for a variety of tasks, including fund-raising and legislation related to children. She was also Vanessa’s after-work running partner. It was unusual, though, for Darcy to call her at home.

  “What’s up?” she asked. Brian was playing with her hair, lifting it up, letting it fall from his hand. In the candlelight, she could see the strands of gold slipping through his fingers.

  “Bad news, Van,” Darcy said. “Sorry to bother you at home, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  Vanessa braced herself. She knew that Darcy was not talking about a patient; she was talking about the hospital’s purse strings. The administrators had been meeting for days to determine where to make cuts.

  It felt suddenly chilly in the room, and she tugged the sheet up over her shoulders. “Spit it out,” she said.

  “The AMC Program.”

  Adolescents Molested as Children. Vanessa shut her eyes. “What about it?” she asked, although she was certain she knew.

  “I’m so sorry, Van. They cut it.”

  “You mean, completely?” Vanessa opened her eyes to find Brian looking at her, a frown on his face.

  “Yes.”

  “Uh-uh.” Vanessa sat up. “That is absolutely unacceptable.”

  “You talk like you have some say in the matter,” Darcy said.

  “They cannot cut the AMC.” She heard Brian groan as he realized what she and Darcy were talking about.

  “I fought for it, Van,” Darcy said, “but I was alone out there. I know it’s your pet project, but they just don’t get it. ‘Lassiter has bigger fish to fry.’ That’s a direct quote.”

  “But it’s a preventive program,” Vanessa argued. That had been the approach she’d taken when she’d initially started the fight for funding not much more than a year ago. The thought of going through that all over again was exhausting. Yet the arguments poured out of her mouth easily. “The kids who try to kill themselves, or starve themselves, or—”

  “I know, I know.” Darcy interrupted her. She sounded tired, and Vanessa pictured her taking off her thick glasses, rubbing her blue eyes. “You don’t have to sell me on it, Van. And you might as well save your breath with the other decision makers as well. The fact is,

  those kids are not the ones who generate a ton of sympathy, you know what I mean?”

  Yes, she knew all too well. If the hospital had a dollar to spend and the choice was between some cute little five-year-old who was currently being abused by a stepfather and some oppositional, self-destructive, nasty-mouthed teenager who’d been abused at some time in the past—well, there was no contest. They couldn’t get it through their heads that both kids were worth saving, that maybe they could prevent that teenager from becoming an oppositional, self-destructive, nasty-mouthed adult.

  “Those idiots need to get their priorities straight.” She felt Brian’s warm hand stroking her back. She had almost forgotten he was there.

  Darcy sighed on her end of the line. “I’m only the messenger,” she said.

  “We’ve barely gotten off the ground.” Vanessa couldn’t seem to stop herself from arguing. “We’ve had no chance to collect statistics, no chance to measure how effective the program is. Just two more years. Tell them that.”

  “They’re firm about this, Vanessa. It was one of the cuts they were in complete agreement on. They think it’s expendable.”

  “Right, and what if it was one of their own kids on the line? How expendable would it be then, huh? Assholes.”

  “Van,” Darcy was losing her patience. “Chill out.”

  Vanessa lay down again with a sense of defeat. She was useless when her
emotions got in the way. She could handle a battle from a controlled, logical, persuasive stance only so long before she was reduced to cursing, fist-pounding, and on a few humiliating occasions, tears.

  She pulled in a long breath before speaking again. “I’m getting funding for the AMC somehow, some way, Darcy,” she said. “That program is not folding.”

  Darcy was quiet for a moment. “I’ll help you,” she said finally. “You won’t get it from Lassiter, but we’ll put our heads together and come up with something else, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Vanessa hung up the phone and looked at Brian.

  “Sorry, Van,” he said. “It wasn’t unexpected, though, was it?”

  The honey-colored candlelight flickered on the high cathedral ceiling above the bed. “I guess I was hoping a miracle would happen,” she said. From the moment she’d been hired at Lassiter, she’d fought for that program. Any kid who passed through the adolescent unit whose current problems might be linked to past abuse was screened to be put in the AMC. Vanessa could practically sniff those kids out. The rest of the staff marveled at her sixth sense.

  “I think I blew it when I went for funding originally,” she added. “I wasn’t tough enough. Maybe what I really needed to do was to give them a dose of personal experience.”

  Brian touched her cheek. “Could you have done that?” he asked softly, and she shook her head.

  “No.” She stretched her arms toward the ceiling with a sigh. “No, I’m gutless.”

  Brian chuckled and rolled to face her, propping himself up on his elbows. “That’s hardly the adjective I’d use to describe you.”

  “Yeah, well, the adjectives that describe me are going to be my ruin. I’m a stubborn, obnoxious woman, remember?” That was the phrase one of the administrators had used in reference to her the year before.

  Brian kissed her lightly on the lips. “I would never use those words to describe you.”

  “Difficult, then.”

  “Determined.”

  She smiled at him. “I love you.”

  He gave her a rueful smile in return. “That phone call was a real passion-killer, huh?”

  She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  THEY ATE DINNER AFTER making love, the stir-fried chicken and vegetables by this time sodden but delicious. Then they sat in the den by a glowing fire, comparing their schedules for the week. It was close to midnight when Brian finally persuaded her to go to bed for the night. She was afraid of bed, afraid that sleep would be elusive.

  Once in bed, she tried to block thoughts of the AMC program from her mind, but they were replaced by images of Jordan Wiley, small and gaunt, bright and ever hopeful. Still, she fell asleep more rapidly than she would have thought possible. Around two, though, she was awakened by a nightmare so vivid in color and sound and motion that she lurched forward in bed, clutching her throat, gasping for breath.

  It took her a moment to realize that Brian was sitting next to her, that he was holding her. “You’re safe, baby,” he said. “Safe in Seattle, Washington, a million miles from anything that can hurt you.”

  The music played in her head, and she pressed her hands over her ears as if she could somehow block it out.

  “The carousel?” Brian asked.

  She managed to nod her head, squeezing her eyes shut. The painted ponies with their wild angry eyes and open mouths still galloped and leaped in front of her. The brass poles shifted up and down, and the small oval mirrors on the inside rim of the carousel sent shards of reflected light to her eyes. The world spun past her, far too fast, and she felt sick to her stomach. And all the while, the hideous organ music filled her ears.

  Brian let go of her to turn on the lamp, and she clutched his arm. “I’m right here,” he said. “Not going anywhere.”

  She opened her eyes to the light and looked around the room. The mint green walls stretched up to the high cathedral ceiling, the mirror above the teak dresser reflected the painting of soothing green grass and red poppies that hung behind the bed, the water-bed mattress was warm beneath her legs. And slowly, the horses became pale and transparent, featureless. Finally they disappeared, along with the music.

  “Shit!” Vanessa pounded her fist onto the bed. “Where the hell did that come from?” She looked into Brian’s eyes and wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Good old Vanessa, right? She’s losing it again.”

  “Stop it.” He scolded her, then lay back on the mattress, pulling her down next to him.

  She stared at the ceiling. “I thought I was through with that garbage.” There had been other dreams, other nightmares. The one where they took Anna from her, where she searched the streets and knocked on doors and looked in dumpsters trying to find her again— that was the worst. But the carousel was a close second. She hadn’t had that dream in more than a year, not since those miserable days when she was first fighting for the AMC program.

  And now she was starting that fight all over again.

  “It’s not fair for you to have to go through this with me again,” she said.

  “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself, Vanessa.”

  “I would understand if you wanted out. There’s no reason for you to suffer just because I have to.” She was always doing that, giving him permission to leave. Then, if he ever did go, she could tell herself it was her doing, not his.

  “I have a better idea,” he said. “Marry me and let’s have a baby. Then maybe you’ll get it through your thick skull how committed I am to you.”

  She managed to smile at him. “Someday, maybe,” she said. She wanted both those things more than she could express to him, and she had thought she was nearly ready. Weeks, sometimes months went by when she didn’t once think of the possibility of Brian leaving her.

  “Do you want the night-light on?” Brian asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I guess.”

  She reached low on the wall behind her night table to turn the little switch on the night-light while Brian turned off his lamp. Then she settled next to him, her arm across his chest. With her eyes closed, the night-light bathed her vision in a familiar, comforting deep violet, and she knew the light would keep her safe from the horses and the mirrors, safe from the spinning, reeling world of the merry-go-round.

  5

  VIENNA

  CLAIRE AND JON SPENT the morning in Claire’s office at the foundation, counseling a young couple, Lynn and Paul Stanwick. For the most part, the Stanwicks had adjusted well to the injury that had left Paul in a wheelchair, but when it came to the issue of sexuality, their basically solid marriage was creaking under the strain of too much left unsaid.

  “He’s never even mentioned sex since the accident,” Lynn said, “so I figured he’s just lost interest in it.” She looked squarely at her husband from beneath her long, dark bangs. “I don’t think you feel anything for me anymore. Any desire, I mean.”

  Paul groaned and looked up at the ceiling.

  Jon laughed. “Can I speak for you, Paul?”

  Claire knew what Jon was going to say. She could have said it herself, but the words would never have the same impact coming from her.

  Paul nodded his permission, and Jon continued. “I’d be willing to bet that sexual desire is so constant and so intense for you that you can feel it in your toes.”

  “Yes.” Paul looked surprised.

  “You long to express it, but can’t,” Jon said. “You used to know how, but not anymore. Everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed. Your body is completely different, but your needs are entirely the same.”

  Claire saw tears welling up in Paul’s dark eyes, and she was pleased when Lynn reached over to take his hand. They would be all right, these two.

  Of all her tasks at the foundation, this was Claire’s favorite— working with Jon to help a couple meet the challenges that had been dumped in their laps. She loved watching Jon counsel someone. He was
so good at capturing the feelings of whoever sat in that wheelchair and making those feelings safe to talk about. Claire always emerged from these sessions enormously glad that he was her husband.

  She and Jon gradually led the Stanwicks into a discussion of experimentation, of discovering each other’s needs and desires, of separating the possible from the impossible.

  “I can have a reflex erection,” Paul said. “It’s not spectacular but—”

  “I think it’s spectacular,” Lynn interjected.

  Jon laughed. “Well, then you can experiment with intercourse, too.”

  “But he can’t ejaculate,” Lynn said. “It doesn’t seem like it would be fair to him.”

  “I’d like to try, though.” Paul looked at his wife. “You’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you? I’d like watching you enjoy it.”

  Claire was touched. This guy was a sweetheart.

  “I’m not saying it won’t be frustrating, Paul,” Jon said. “The truth is, a lot of your pleasure will come from Lynn’s.”

  Jon had once told Claire that when she was happy, he was happy, when she hurt, he hurt…and when she came, he came. She’d felt a flash of selfishness then, but he’d said those words with no sorrow or self-pity, and she’d tucked her guilt away.

  Jon could come, in a sense. Sometimes. It was unpredictable, both the occurrence and the sensations it produced. Unlike Paul Stanwick, Jon had suffered an incomplete injury to his spinal cord. At times, his numbness gave way to a prickling, burning feeling or to what he described as “minifireworks” that shot off when and where he least expected them. He’d once said that having some feeling was worse than none at all. But he’d never said it again, and she didn’t believe he’d meant it.

  Claire had something she wanted to say to Lynn Stanwick. She debated quickly whether to bring it up here or to wait until she had a session with the woman alone. This couple could handle it, she decided.

  “Lynn.” She leaned toward the younger woman. “Paul’s not going to have the ability to move the way he used to. You’ll probably have to take responsibility for your own orgasm if you want to have one during intercourse.”