Wednesday's Child

By Deborah Shlian

Leigh Novak left behind a faithless husband to begin a new life with her young son Jeremy - as a family doctor in a small northern California town. But Hartwood held a bitter welcome for them both and a secrt only the children knew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Shlian
• Release date: Jul 6, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452472843

Deborah Shlian

Physician, medical consultant, and author of medical mystery thrillers: Double Illusion, Wednesday's Child, Rabbit in the Moon (winner of Gold Medal, Florida Book Award; First prize Royal Palm Literary Award (Florida Writers Association),;Silver Medal, Mystery Book of the Year (ForeWord Magazine); Indie Excellence Award and National Best Books Award Finalist (USA Book News); Dead Air by Deborah Shlian and Linda Reid (winner 2010 Royal Palm Literary Award and Silver Medalist, Florida Publisher's Association's President Award) and Devil Wind by Deborah Shlian and Linda Reid (winner of best Audiobook Hollywood Book Festival, Next Generation Indie Next Award; First Place, 2011 Royal Palm Literary award

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The woman readjusted the baby bottle. That’s better now, isn’t it, love?

She was a pretty little thing: iridescent blue eyes in a porcelain face, yellow corn silk Shirley Temple curls cascading over the pink lace pinafore the woman had just sewn for her. A real doll.

Pretty baby. Aren’t you my pretty baby?

The woman smiled, silently rocking as the bottle emptied. It was nice here. Peaceful in a way. She didn’t want to leave this place---even though she never really belonged in a hospital. That’s what the nice old man said. Said he was very sorry.

But when mother died no one wanted her. There was only Aunt Sarah. She had that big house up north. Lots of rooms for little girls to play in. Why hadn’t she come back for her like she promised?

Nurse Whelan said Aunt Sarah was too busy with her own life. Besides, who wanted a four-year old who wasn’t potty trained and couldn’t talk? No one.

All these years and now Aunt Sarah was dead too. That old man had found her here. Said she was free to go. Should have gone years ago. The big house was hers now since she was the only living relative, as long as she kept who she was a secret: their secret.

All these years she’d been locked up in this place, behind closed doors. Suddenly she was free.

The woman sat for a long time, stroking the soft curls, thinking. Straightening the lace pinafore, so clean and neat. That’s how good children must be; seen and not heard. Nurse Whelan had taught her how to be good. Just like Aunt Sarah.

Suddenly the woman felt the wetness in her lap. Her dark eyes narrowed, her face flush with anger. She raised her fist and brought it down on the emptying bladder, the circle of wetness growing.

Disgusting child, she hissed, all control lost. How many times have I told you not to do that? You’ve ruined your new dress.

She smacked the porcelain face with the back of her hand. There were tears in the baby blue eyes, but no sound from the rosebud mouth. Tiny arms reached up, expecting an embrace.

Don’t do that, the woman shrieked. You know you’ve been bad.

With a violent yank that almost pulled one arm out of its socket, she flipped the tiny body over her knee and began spanking it.

Each slap produced a feeble waa.

Bad children must be punished. The woman’s voice was shrill. You give me nothing but trouble. Nothing! Ungrateful child. I’ll beat your backside till it’s black and blue.

Another blow and another. The cries continued.

Shut up or I’ll kill you!

Grabbing the baby-fine hair, she forced the blond head up, nearly snapping the delicate neck. With another blow, the doll slipped to the ground with a sickening thud.

The woman looked down thoughtfully at the lifeless form lying with its arms splayed out helplessly, wide eyes starring. You only got what you deserve, she whispered, her gasps slowing now. You were a bad child.

Nora sat there for a moment, then suddenly got up, tossed the doll onto the bed, and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER ONE

Two gelatinous globes dangling over expectant lips.

Umm. A pleasured sigh as he ensnared one.

Leigh Novak watched from the doorway, fascinated, horrified, twisting the slim gold band on her left ring finger while her husband sucked the girl’s breast like some goddamned milking machine.

Even with his cheeks stuffed, she spotted the dimpled smile that had never failed to move her, until now.

Tongue teasing fuchsia nipples to stiffness.

Stop it, sweetie. Adolescent laughter.

Leigh trembled. Her husband was fucking a teenie bopper in their bed. Damn you, Kyle Novak; Dr. Kyle Novak, M.D., Ph.D. Ten years of shared memories flooded her senses: the smell of the sea breezes on a summer’s night, the sight of that secret smile at day’s end, the taste of morning kisses, the feel of an embrace, the sound of promises--- unkept.

Sweetie, that tickles.

Leigh watched silently, struggling for control. A single tear began a slow descent down her cheek.

Why, Kyle? Didn’t I sacrifice everything for you - my family, my home, even my inheritance?

Somehow she knew this wasn’t the first time. She had closed her eyes to the truth before, pretending that it wasn’t so. But not this time. This time he was going to pay.

Tightening her grip around the revolver, she aimed the gun at him. He was still smiling as she fired into his head.

Go with a shit-eating grin on that pompous face of yours.

It was a slow-motion ballet: Kyle arching backward under the impact of the bullet, raising his hands to his head, opening his mouth to scream. But there was no sound. Only blood erupting from his throat like molten lava.

She watched dispassionately as his eyes begged for an answer. He started coming toward her, slowly lumbering, like some great wounded beast.

Get away!

She raised the gun and fired again, and again.

His hands lashed out wildly, his eyes blinded by blood.

I love you.

Stop it. Lies. Always lies. Leigh shut her eyes tight.

A hand caresses her cheek. I love you.

What? She heard him through a mist. But it wasn’t Kyle’s voice. Her eyelids fluttered open. The room was dark. His face came slowly into focus, flaxen blond hair, dimpled cheeks, pottery-blue eyes; Kyle’s eyes.

Mommy, wake up.

Leigh looked at her son, only four, but already the image of his father. Leigh was dark: soft sable eyes, thick raven-colored hair, olive skin that tanned, never burned. It was as though this child had been mysteriously conceived, implanted and nurtured in her body without having absorbed any of her genetic code.

Jeremy, what’s wrong?

My tummy hurts. His lower lip trembled, anticipating her response.

What am I going to do with you? Leigh sighed, still shaken by her dream. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

It hurts. Here. He pointed to a vague spot in the center of his abdomen.

All right, lie down. I’ll get my bag and examine you.

It was a ritual they had observed at least once a week for the past three months, since Kyle had walked out on them.

She pulled the black medical bag from the top shelf of the bookcase. A drug-company gift to the graduating class of Cornell Med School, 1973. It had its owner’s name embossed in gold letters: Leigh Spencer Novak, M.D.

Leigh hadn’t thought twice about taking Kyle’s name professionally. She’d met Kyle only two months before they were married. He was a senior, she was a junior.

She graduated, Leigh Spencer Novak, M.D., Spencer being a token tribute to her father, whose only child was not a son to carry on his name.

She reached in her bag, took out her stethoscope, gently palpitating her son’s belly with the diaphragm.

That’s cold, he complained.

Sorry. Does it hurt?

A little.

She listened for bowel sounds. Normal. Then she moved her finger to the other side. How ‘bout over here?

Uh-huh.

She prodded for rebound tenderness. There was none. And here?

The boy nodded, his expression sullen.

The pain was everywhere, and nowhere. It was always the same. No inflamed appendix or simmering ulcer. Not even intestinal flu. But Jeremy hurt; he was suffering from an emptiness where his father’s love ought to be.

What could she say? Ten years of marriage was over? Meant nothing? That her husband up and left, abandoned his medical practice and research position at UCLA to run off with a would-be country singer almost half his age? No warning, no apologies, just a short note saying he needed his space.

His space. Damn it, she ached too.

Mommy, can I sleep in your bed?

She studied her son. His dimpled smile was winsome, his pain forgotten now. That too was part of the ritual.

You’re too big to sleep in Mommy’s bed, Jeremy.

I’m not Jeremy. I’m baby! He clutched his ever-present Linus blanket, making gurgling baby noises.

Too tired to cope with a tantrum, Leigh pushed back a stray wisp of hair from her brow. All right. But I’m warning you. You can’t keep this up, always pretending to have tummy aches. How will I know if you're really sick if you lie?

Jeremy didn’t answer.

Do you know what I mean by lying?

I guess so, Jeremy yawned.

I want you to understand because lying is different from make-believe. She looked at her son to see if he was following. Remember last year when your friend Scottkins came to stay with us? Leigh smiled at the memory of Jeremy’s make-believe companion, a fluffy sheepdog as big as a three-year-old. One day he was there shadowing Jeremy everywhere he went, and then just as mysteriously he disappeared.

The little boy nodded sleepily.

Well Scottkins was make-believe. He was part of your imagination. Leigh prided herself with using big words with her son. The more he was exposed to, the more he seemed to absorb.

Lying is saying your tummy hurts when it doesn’t. She was about to tell him the story of the little boy who cried wolf when he wrapped his arms around her neck.

I love you, Mommy.

Shaking her head, she planted a kiss on his forehead and ran her long, slim fingers through his tousled blond curls.

Honey-tongued manipulator! So bright and sometimes such a pain in the ass. I love you too, sweetheart. Now go to sleep. You have school tomorrow and I have work.

Leigh covered him and lay down beside him. She knew it was wrong to give him his way. He needed more discipline.

She’d think about it tomorrow.

The digital bedside clock blinked 2:00 A.M.

Tomorrow, she sighed melodramatically, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. Tomorrow is another day.

CHAPTER TWO

It was starting to drizzle. Jeremy felt the first cool drops of rain against his forehead as he watched his mother’s blue station wagon pull away, wondering if she’d remembered to bring his yellow rain slicker when she picked him up later. Or would she forget to come back at all? Gone forever, like Daddy?

He kicked a stray pebble across the playground. It hit the sand box and stopped. The seesaw and slides were abandoned now; the swings, still.

Jeremy looked around. He used to like this place. Now it only reminded him of unkept promises. He’d heard his parents talking late at night. Daddy wanted him to go to the university preschool: He needs to be with other children his own age. Mommy worried that he was only four.

But Daddy won. I’ll be able to take him and pick him up everyday. Jeremy and I can have lunch together sometimes. Just the two of us.

That sounded like fun to Jeremy.

The rain came down harder. Mrs. Forrester was standing in the doorway of the stucco building, calling his name. A tall stringbean woman, she reminded Jeremy of Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oil.

Hurry, Jeremy, before you get soaked.

The teacher bent to help him off with his sweater. Your friends are already in the playroom waiting for you.

I don’t want to play.

Fine. Mrs. Forrester took his hand and escorted him into a large open room where a group of three- and four-year-olds were absorbed in various games. Little heads bent eagerly over their work. You don’t have to play. Just sit with the others. She deposited him on a chair beside a husky black boy with a scraggly Afro.

Gotta new truck. Tyrone flashed a bright smile. Dad bought it for me yesterday. Look at all the stones it can carry. He’d filled the dumpster with pebbles from the schoolyard.

Who wants a stupid truck? Jeremy answered sharply. I can carry stones in my pocket.

Tyrone didn’t reply, but slowly, deliberately started counting each stone as he placed it in the new toy. One, two, three...

Juan, a tall Chicano boy, sauntered over to the table. Wow! What a neat truck! I’m gonna get my father to buy me one for my birthday.

My dad says that this was the best in the whole store, Tyrone bragged, then resumed counting: Five...six...

Jeremy gave a frustrated stomp with one foot and shoved out his lower lip. Stop that! Who wanted to hear about fathers and trucks?

Three-year-old Marcie sitting on the other side of the table, watched wide-eyed, sucking her thumb.

I said stop! Jeremy repeated.

Unfazed, Tyrone turned to him. Wanna help?

Jeremy grabbed a stone, hurling it with all his might against the far wall.

Hey, watta you doin’? Tyrone demanded.

Jeremy didn’t know what. Or why. Tears glistened in his eyes, though he willed them not to fall. He really wasn’t a baby.

Still, he couldn’t understand. Why? he asked himself. Why should Tyrone and Juan have fathers who loved them? It wasn’t fair!

He scooped up a small handful of the small pebbles and sent a spray across the room. One whistled past little Marcie, just grazing her forehead. It didn’t really hurt, but she was frightened. Her shriek knifed the air.

What’s going on? Mrs. Forrester scanned the room.

Marcie ran to her, burying her sobs in the teacher’s skirt. Jeremy hit me.

He threw a stone at her, Tyrone piped in.

Mrs. Forrester rubbed Marcie’s sore spot solicitously, then walked with her over to where Jeremy sat, folded up into a little lump, his arms tightly wrapped around his knees.

Did you throw that stone at Marcie?

Silence.

Jeremy Novak, did you throw that stone?

He shook his head.

Yes he did, Tyrone volunteered. I saw him.

Don’t you know you could hurt her that way? the teacher demanded.

I didn’t do it, Jeremy cried.

Then who did?

Somebody else.

Who? Tyrone saw you. Marcie saw you. Why are you lying? What do you think your father would say if he heard about this?

Jeremy looked up. His voice quivered. I have no father. ...He died.

Mrs. Forrester gasped. She had heard there was some problem at the Novaks, but she never realized. The poor child. No wonder Jeremy was so upset. She bent down, taking one of his hands with both of hers. Come here, dear.

Jeremy was afraid to meet her eyes. He knew he had lied. He also knew Mrs. Forrester would tell his mother once she learned the truth. She’d tell his mother and he’d be punished. Right now he was a lonely four-year-old whose father had walked out on him.

Slowly he came to his teacher, wrapped his arms around her tightly, and burst into bitter tears.

Go ahead and cry, child. It’s okay.

CHAPTER THREE

At 2:00 P.M., with the shift almost over, it was quiet in the small L.A. Community Hospital emergency room where Leigh sat, relaxing in the glass-enclosed nurse’s station. She sucked deeply on her cigarette, drawing the poisons into her lungs. Sure she should stop smoking. Planned to. Tomorrow. Hadn’t she done it twice before?

Real exciting today, eh Yolanda?

The buxom black nurse looked up from her newspaper, affecting a thoughtful pose. Don’t you call two bladder infections, three colds, and a gas pain exciting?

Leigh took another drag, savoring it as long as she could before letting the smoke escape from between her lips. I guess I shouldn’t complain. It does pay the bills and I don’t have to carry a beeper when I’m off duty. It’s just that...

That what? Yolanda asked. Veteran of over twenty-two years of hospital nursing, she often played confessor to young doctors. Besides, she really thought there was something special about Leigh Novak.

"Sometimes I feel ER work is a dead end. Sure there are frantic moments, but it’s not real medicine. These patients are never really my patients."

You’re a damn good doctor. What you do here is important. You’re just having a midlife crisis.

At thirty-two?

The nurse shrugged. So you’re an over-achiever.

Leigh put out her cigarette in a Styrofoam cup half filled with cold coffee. When I was in med school, I wanted to be a family doctor, the complete physician; continuity of care from the cradle to grave.

What stopped you?

Marriage. She’d made her sacrifice gladly at that time. Now she felt a surge of bitterness. Kyle wanted to go on for a Ph.D. He’d convinced me he’d lose his chance for a good academic position if he broke stride. You can always pick up where you left off, he said. So I dropped out of my residency and started working per diem. That was almost seven years ago.

Why not hang out your shingle? Seven years of experience in this place is better than any residency.

Leigh shook her head. Too risky. I've got a son to feed now. It takes time and lots of money to build up a medical practice these days. I, unfortunately, don’t have either.

The older woman leveled clear agate eyes at Leigh. Don’t look for excuses. Lots of women are in your position today. They manage to change jobs, go back to school, raise families. Believe me, I know. I’ve been there too. If you want something badly enough, you find a way.

Leigh pushed back a stray wisp of hair. Maybe.

No maybes about it, miss. Yolanda turned to the employment section of the paper and ran a stubby finger up and down the page. Ah, here’s something just right for you.

What are you talking about?

You said you wanted to be a family doctor, the complete physician. Right?

Leigh nodded cautiously.

Well, listen. ‘Wanted to take over family practice in small town near San Francisco. Lovely setting, friendly people, good place to bring up children. For information, call or write to Dr. Ellsford, Hartwood, California.

And where exactly is Hartwood, California?

Weren’t you listening? Near San Francisco. Hartwood could be just what the doctor ordered: ready-made practice, friendly town that loves children.

Their conversation was interrupted by an insistent tapping on the glass window. An enormous woman in a housecoat and slippers was clutching her chest, her face contorted in pain.

Can’t breathe, she gasped.

Leigh ran to the other side of the nurse’s station and guided the woman to an empty bed. You’re going to be fine. I’m Dr. Novak. What’s your name?

Frances. Frances Conners. You can call me Franny.

Lying down, Franny seemed fatter than she had standing. Her thick jowls hung in layers like a stack of pancakes under her chin. Easily three hundred pounds, Leigh guessed.

The pain; it’s like a knife. Franny pointed to a spot just below her right breast. When I cough, there’s blood, and my leg hurts too, real bad.

Leigh had just been handed the diagnosis of phlebitis with pulmonary embolism, right out of a textbook. Or was it?

She took a good look at Frances Conners. Over the years she had developed a sixth sense about patients. Something about his one didn’t add up. She placed her stethoscope over the alleged pain and listened.

Yeah, that’s the spot.

Nothing. No wheezes, tachycardia, no pleural friction rub, only the normally exaggerated respiratory efforts of obesity.

She examined Franny’s legs. They were fat, but not swollen, red, or hot. There was no palpable cord to indicate an inflamed vein. Yet when she squeezed on the right, Franny cried out in pain. Positive Homan’s sign? Leigh was betting this was something else.

She pulled up the housecoat. Railroad tracks of surgical scars crisscrossed Franny’s entire belly which was stretched thin like filo dough and hung loose, an apron of adipose.

I see you’ve had some surgery. Leigh casually observed.

Franny fell for the bait, smiling for the first time. She pointed to each scar lovingly, as if they were prized trophies. I’ve had thirteen operations: three laparoscopies, two D&Cs, a hysterectomy, salpingoophorectomy, cholecystectomy, appendectomy, and four exploratory laparotomies.

With normal path reports on every one, Leigh wagered. Franny was a dyed-in-the wool fake. She had what doctors called Munchausen's Syndrome: the repeated fabrication of acute, dramatic illnesses by people who wander from hospital to hospital for treatment. Leigh had only to perform one more test to clinch her diagnosis. She took a syringe and an alcohol swab from the pocket of her white lab coat.

Franny licked her lips. What are you doing?

I'm going to draw blood from your artery. That will tell me how much oxygen is getting through your lungs.

Uh, can't you do tests after you put me in the hospital?

If the results are normal, we won't have to admit you. Leigh felt for an internal pulse.

Franny sat up. Wait a minute, doctor. I think I'm feeling better. She started to push herself off the bed.

What about your chest pain?

Uhh, it's gone. Just went away.

So you don't want me to do the blood test? Leigh called as Franny disappeared out the door.

Yolanda pretended to be busy with paperwork when Leigh returned to the nurses' station and sat down. You did real good, Dr. Novak, she said without looking up. But next time, remember to have her sign out Against Medical Advice.

Smart-ass, you set me up, didn't you? I'll bet this isn't the first time she did that act here. I don't know how I missed her before.

The old nurse shrugged. She usually works the night shift. Franny's a real pro. She's faked seizures, brain tumors, fever of unknown origin. She specialized in surgical problems until she ran out of organs, then she switched to medical diseases.

Why didn't you tell me?

You figured it out pretty fast for yourself; faster than anyone I've ever worked with in this ER.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

The doors to the unloading area outside swung open and a wheeled stretcher was pushed hurriedly in. An anxious-looking older woman with bluish-white hair ran alongside, and a man Leigh recognized as Dr. Floyd Axton led the procession. Axton was a distinguished man of fifty-five with silver sideburns and an ingratiating manner with patients that mitigated his lack of medical expertise. To hospital staff, he was a holy terror.

Call respiratory therapy stat, he bellowed. We've got a CVA here.

Come on, Dr. Kildare. Yolanda pulled Leigh up. This one looks like a real emergency.

The man on the stretcher was the color of slate. His eyes were closed and sunk deep in his head. Leigh noted that his respiration was erratic-rapid breathing, stop, catch up, then stop again-a cycle called Cheyne-Stokes.

The woman ran up to Dr. Axton. Al's flu seemed better last night. He wouldn't eat, but I got him to drink a hot toddy with his medicine before he went to sleep. This morning I couldn't wake him up.

I'm afraid he's had a stroke, Mrs. Breslow, Axton smiled sympathetically.

Will my husband be all right? Pleading.

A comforting pat on her shoulder. Hard to say at this stage, my dear. But we'll do our best.

Saccharin sweet, Leigh thought, watching.

Why don't you have a seat in the waiting area? We'll let you know if there is any change.

Thank you, doctor. I know you'll do everything you can.

When she was out of earshot, Axton snapped at the ER clerk. Put a call into Neurology. I don't want this son-of-a- bitch to crap out on me without a consult.

Cover your ass, Leigh thought angrily.

BP’s ninety over sixty, pulse is one-forty, skin is cool and clammy, Yolanda reported.

Dr. Axton, is your patient diabetic?

Leigh's question drew a blank look.

I think he may be having a hypoglycemic reaction. The history fits: older, debilitated patient, doesn't eat, then drinks alcohol with his diabetic medication. She turned to the nurse. Go ask Mrs. Breslow if one of the pills her husband takes is for sugar."

Yolanda was out the door before Axton could stop her.

See here, Dr.... Novak. he said, reading Leigh's plastic nametag. "Mr. Breslow is my patient. I don't expect interference