Susan hadn't meant to cry.
She knew before she came to the Oceanfront Research Center that her chances of success were slim. And yet she had to try. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't do everything in her power to help Jeffy.
Her face was already wet with tears as she lifted her child from his stroller and placed him in the car. He was so lifeless, almost as if he had already died and had forgotten to take his body with him. When she bent over him to fasten the seat belt, her tears dripped onto his still face.
He didn't even notice.
She swiped at her tears, mad at herself. Crying wasn't going to help her son. Crying wasn't going to help either of them.
Resolutely she folded the stroller and put it in the backseat. Then she blew her nose and climbed into the driver's seat. Couldn't let Jeffy know she was sad. Did he see? Did he know?
The doctors had assured her that he did. That the stroke damage had been confined to areas of the brain that affected his motor control. That his bright little mind and his personality were untouched. And yet, he sat beside her like some discarded rag doll, staring at nothing.
Fighting hard against the helpless feeling she sometimes got when she looked at Jeffy, she turned the key in the ignition and waited for the old engine to warm up. She was not helpless. And she refused to let herself become that way.
"Remember that little song you love so much, Jeffy? The one Mommy wrote?" Jeffy stared at his small sneakers.
Sweat plastered Susan's hair to the sides of her face and made the back of her sundress stick to the seat.
She wished she had an air-conditioned car. Not for her sake as much as for Jeffy's. It didn't seem fair that he should have to suffer the heat, too.
"Mommy's going to sing it to you, darling, while we drive." She put the car into gear and backed out of the parking space, giving herself time to get the quiver out of her voice. She was not going to cry again. "You remember the words, don't you, sweetheart? Help Mommy sing, Jeffy."
"Sing with a voice of gladness; sing with a voice of joy. " Susan's voice was neither glad nor joyful, but at least it no longer quivered. Control was easier in the daytime. It was at night, lying in the dark all by herself, when she lost it. She had cried herself to sleep many nights, muffling the sounds in the pillow in case Jeffy, sleeping in the next room, could hear.
"'Shout for the times of goodness. " How many good times could Jeffy remember? “Shout for the time of cheer." How many happy times had he had? Born with a heart condition, he had missed the ordinary joys other children took for granted—chasing a dog, kicking a ball, tumbling in the leaves, outrunning the wind.
"Sing with a voice that's hopeful . . . "
Susan sang on, determined to be brave, determined to bring her child back from that dark, silent world he had entered.
As the car took a curve, Jeffy's head lolled to the side so he was staring straight at her. All the brightness of childhood that should be in his eyes was dulled over by four years of pain and defeat.
Why do you let me hurt?
The message in those eyes made her heart break.
Susan would do the primal scream if she ever found a place where nobody could hear and a time when she wasn't too busy.
The song died on her lips. The last clear notes lingering in the car were an unbearable sadness.
Susan turned her head away and looked out the window. Biloxi was parching under the late afternoon sun. Dust devils shimmered in the streets. Palm trees, sagging and dusty, looked as tired as she felt. It seemed years since she had had a peaceful night's sleep. An eternity since she had had a day of fun and relaxation.
She was selfish to the core. Thinking about her own needs, her own desires. She had to think about Jeffy. There must be something that would spark his interest besides the dolphins.
o0o
"So this woman thought the dolphins would help him?"
Bill leaned back in the kitchen chair and watched his wife set the table. When it was just the two of them, they enjoyed eating in the kitchen. Timmy was spending the night next door with his best buddy, Skeeter, and Beth Ann was off at one of those mysterious parties teenagers went to.
"Yes. She was desperate, I think. Grasping at straws."
"A mother will do anything for her child." Maggie puckered her lips in concentration as she placed the silver on the table, just so. Bill loved that about her, that after sixteen years of marriage she still considered meals with him an occasion worthy of the good silver and candles on the table.
She touched his cheek as she walked by on her way to the oven. The softness and scent of her lingered. As he so often did, Bill marveled at his good luck. He and Maggie had been in love since they were sixteen. He couldn't imagine a day without her, a life without her.
She opened the oven door, puttering and humming. Heat from the stove made damp curls around her face.
He hugged her from behind, nuzzling the side of her neck. "You don't look a day older than you did when I first met you."
"Liar."
She leaned into him and they held on to each other, knowing how precious such moments were.
"We could skip dinner," he said.
"Hmmm." She twisted so she could kiss the side of his neck. "Or you could tell me more about this Susan Riley while you make the salad."
"What else do you want to know?" He got salad makings from the refrigerator and began to tear the cool, crisp lettuce into chunks.
"Exactly what role did she want the research center to play?"
"She wanted my permission to bring the little boy there. She hoped that seeing the dolphins, relating to them, would make him want to live, would make him try."
"What about a dog? Wouldn't a pet do the same thing?"
"Apparently she's tried everything . . . dogs, cats, birds, goldfish. She thinks it's going to take something marvelous to bring that child out of his depression." Bill grinned. "Marvelous, like old Fergie."
"What would be the harm? Why can't she come?"
"Well . . . obviously the visits would have to be strictly scheduled. We couldn't have the distraction while we were working. I thought about letting them come at feeding time, but Paul . . ."
"... said no." Maggie faced him, holding onto her stirring spoon, her eyes damp with tears. "Oh, honey. Of course he said no. Every child he sees reminds him of
Sonny. Don't you know that's why we have to practically hogtie him before he'll come over here for dinner?"
"I understand. But sometimes I get so mad. The damned finest cardiovascular surgeon in Mississippi, and he's throwing it all away." Bill slammed his fist onto the kitchen counter. The salad bowl bounced, then settled back into place.
"That's not good for your blood pressure."
"That's what Paul said."
"Good for him. I'll have to take him a chicken casserole."
Laughing, Bill gathered his wife into his arms. "What would I do without you?"
"I hope you never have to find out." Maggie squeezed his waist. "Call her."
"You want me to call another woman?" he asked, teasing her.
"I know you. You'll worry and stew for weeks, wondering if you did the right thing. Wondering if it might have worked. Call her, Bill."
"Paul . . ."
". . . needs something, someone to bring him out of that prison he's put himself in."
"You could be right."
With his arms around his wife, Bill considered what she had said. Obviously he wanted to help Susan Riley if he could. But his first priority had to be Paul. They had grown up together, played football together, gone to college together. Paul had been best man at his wedding, had stood beside him in the church at both his children's christenings, had kept him from falling apart when Timmy had almost died of pneumonia. Paul was his oldest and best friend.
Paul . . . was killing himself with the bottle. Bill would do anything to help him, even at the risk of losing his friendship.
"I'll call her if I can find that number she gave me just in case I changed my mind." He smiled at his wife.
While he searched his pockets, Maggie got the portable phone.
o0o
"Dammit, Bill. No. I can't do it." Paul rammed his fists into his pockets and felt his pants sag at the waist.
They were too big. All his clothes were too big now, but he didn't care.
"You can. I know you can, Paul. I'm doing this as much for you as for the woman."
"Don't do me any favors. Get somebody else. Let Dave do it."
"I can't spare him. He's too busy analyzing that echo- location data." Bright color began to creep up Bill's neck. "I gave her my word, Paul. I told Susan Riley she could come here, and by God, you will stay sober long enough to stand out there and toss a few fish in the pond while that child watches."
"You're the boss."
Bill stiffened as if he had been punched in the stomach. Then the anger went out of him, and he gave Paul a sad smile.
"You can do it, Paul." Quietly he turned and left the room.
Paul was ashamed. He and Bill had argued before, many times. But never had Paul used sarcasm. It was a weak man's tool.
With his hands still rammed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward, he looked out the window. The water was deceptively calm, its glassy surface sparkling under the bright hot sunshine. Paul knew that looks were deceiving. Underneath the water lay tons of power, the dolphins who could set the surface moving with one thrust of their mighty bodies.
Life was like that. Right now, with everything around him in its place, Paul felt a certain amount of calm. Of peace.
But he knew what would happen when he saw the child. He would think of Sonny, of that small hand that used to slip into his, of that lilting little boy voice that used to call to him across the yard when he would come home at the end of a long hectic day.
Daddy, can you come and play ball?
Watch, Daddy. I can climb that tree. All the way up to the top.
Can I ride piggyback, Daddy? Can I? Can I, please?
He would think of Sonny, and then it would be as if dolphins had disturbed his soul, had stirred demons and ghosts that would accuse him, haunt him, wear him down until he couldn't cope without the one thing that would give him ease. The bottle.
With sweat forming on his upper lip, Paul walked to the closet and opened the door. The bottle was right where he had put it earlier that morning before Bill had come in.
His hand closed around the neck. It felt cool. Soothing. Swallowing the dryness in his throat, he began to pull the bottle from his boot.
Paul lifted the liquor out and unscrewed the top. He would drink it straight from the bottle. Just one sip. Or two.
With the mouth of the bottle against his lips, he hesitated. The liquor was right there waiting to perform its black magic. What was he waiting for?
He remembered a Christmas party he and Jean had given two years ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Clayton Frasier had been drinking before he came. After he arrived he had kept his stool at the bar hot, throwing back the scotch and soda. Clayton's wife had left him; his medical practice was going all to hell, and he was drowning his sorrows in the bottle.
Paul had despised his weakness. So had Jean.
"Wouldn't you think a man in his position would have more respect for himself?" she had said.
Slowly Paul lowered the bottle, screwed the cap on, and placed it back in the boot. He could get through one day. Just one. He would stay sober long enough to keep Susan Riley and her son from falling in the pool.
A man in his position. A respected physician. There wasn't much to respect anymore.
He would do it for Bill.
o0o
Susan was nervous about what she was going to do. Nervous and scared. What if it didn't work?
It might, though. When she had first thought of bringing Jeffy to see the dolphins, she'd consulted his doctor.
"I see no harm, Susan. And I will tell you this: unless Jeffy comes out of that depression, unless he wants to get better, his present condition could be permanent. He might never walk again." Dr. Freelander's voice had softened. "It might work, Susan, but don't get your hopes up too high."
In spite of what the doctor had said, Susan's hopes were high as she unloaded Jeffy from the car. If she didn't keep her hopes high, if she didn't hold onto a positive attitude, she was defeated even before she got started.
"I have a surprise for you, darling," she said, adjusting his tiny baseball cap so the sun wouldn't glare in his eyes, turning his collar back just right, folding the small hands and placing them in his lap. She wanted him to make a good impression.
"We're going inside that big fence and see something wonderful. Remember when we were here the other day? Remember those big fish that like to play and jump in the water?"
No response. She hadn't expected one.
"They're called dolphins, sweetheart, and we're going to see them in just a minute. You'll love them . . . and I know they'll love you."
Please, God. I'm not asking for much. Just a small miracle.
She pushed Jeffy's stroller across the parking lot, careful to avoid the cracks.
Dr. McKenzie was waiting for her inside the gate. He was smiling and his hand was big and warm when he shook hers.
"Welcome, Mrs. Riley.”
"Call me Susan."
"Susan, then.” His smile encouraged her. “I'm glad you could come today."
"Thank you, Dr. McKenzie.”
"Call me Bill. Everybody does."
It was her turn to smile. She had known from the beginning that Bill McKenzie was a nice man, somebody she would like, even when he had initially turned down her request.
"Bill, after you called last night, saying you had changed your mind . . ." She felt tears gather in her eyes. Of all the silly things. To cry. She wasn't about to cry today. She blinked hard. "Nothing could have kept me away this afternoon."
"Susan, I won't be the one to supervise your visits here. Paul Tyler will be the person in charge. Our dolphins are friendly, playful, and people-oriented, but they are also powerful. You will, of course, have to abide strictly by Paul Tyler's rules."
"Certainly. I understand."
"Well, then. I'll leave you two to get acquainted with our dolphins and with Paul. Wait here. He'll be right out." He touched her hand. "Good luck."
"Thank you." She watched him walk away. A teddy bear of a man with broad shoulders and a kind heart. If Paul Tyler was anything like him, she might benefit as much from these visits as Jeffy.
Since Brett . . .
Her mind temporarily closed down at the thought of her late husband. Foolish that after three years she still couldn't think of him without regret and a certain amount of guilt. She could only think of his death as going away, as if he had departed for a distant land and might come back some day on a whim, just the way he had left.
Since Brett went away she had been in the company of very few men. Her own father was dead, and Reverend Silas Cartwright at Hope Methodist Church where she directed music was more grandfather to her than boss. A few men had asked her out over the last three years, but they were always the brash, pushy ones with big mouths and small manners. Socializing hadn't seemed worth the effort.
It would be nice to be in the company of a good man like Bill McKenzie.
"Susan Riley?"
Startled, she looked around. The man standing beside her was tall and gaunt. His shoulders were wide, but the sweatshirt he was wearing bagged and his jeans looked about two sizes too big.
He wasn't anything like Bill McKenzie, and he certainly didn't look like a doctor of anything. She hoped her shock didn't show.
"Dr. Paul Tyler?"
"I've been instructed to stay with you while you're here. Don't get closer than three feet from the edge of the pool, and keep your hands on the child's stroller so it won't roll." He never looked at Jeffy. It was as if her son didn't even exist.
She prided herself on never making snap judgments, but she didn't like this man. And yet, her being there depended on him. She fought to hide her feelings.
"I understand, Dr. Tyler."
"Paul." When Dr. McKenzie had told her to use his first name he had been smiling. There was nothing remotely jovial about Paul Tyler. He was distant, almost hostile.
And yet there was something in his dark eyes, something sad . . .
There she was again, romanticizing. Her mother always said, "Susan, that's your main problem. You don't look at things the way they really are. You're always making it better in your mind, romanticizing." Just this morning in the kitchen as she had crammed choir
music into her briefcase, her mother had warned her. "You're setting yourself up for another big letdown. Tell me, what good are a bunch of fish when the best doctors in Biloxi can't help Jefiy?"
She really should feel nothing but gratitude for her mother. Who else would watch after Jefiy with a mother's love while Susan worked? Sometimes, though, she did wish for a little optimism, a little hope.
"One other thing, Mrs. Riley," Paul said. Susan didn't bother to say, Call me Susan. "Don't make any loud noises."
"Loud noises?"
"Some people are afraid of dolphins. Don't scream."
"I can assure you I won't scream."
If she started she might never stop.