Two days later, Max found himself in an Iowa college library. Such academic surroundings were not his home territory. An internet search was about the furthest he’d go in the name of research, but he’d uncovered a story of a World War II wounded aristocrat funding a nature-path renovation that would accommodate a wheelchair, and he thought it would make a nice bit of info to add to an event AA was planning in another Iowa city. The scarcity of available materials meant actually going to a library to do it old-school—microfiche readers and old files of yellowing newspapers. At first it seemed like a pain, but it was getting too cold to go out in the Sea Legs and Max had decided he needed the three-hour drive to think over everything that had happened lately.
“May I help you?” the librarian asked.
“I need newspaper files from 1980 to 1984 on the Baker trail-system renovation. Your website said those aren’t electronic yet, right?”
“No...sir, they’re still on microfiche. Our electronic archives only start in 2000.” Max found it amusing that she seemed to have to think about whether to call someone dressed like him “sir.”
“Can I get to the readers and the files in my chair?” Max pictured a musty file room down several flights of stairs.
“You can access the readers fine, but I’ll have to bring the hard-copy files up to you one year at a time.”
It sounded as if he was going to be there for a couple of hours. “That’ll work for me. Lead on.”
The librarian removed the chair from in front of one of the ancient-looking microfiche reading machines, gave him a few slips to fill out and within fifteen minutes Max was trudging his way through endless images, feeling like one of Heather’s high school students working on a boring research paper. Academic research was definitely not how he liked to spend his time.
By the third reel, Max needed a break. He wheeled up to the reference desk and put in an order for the files of hard-copy issues he’d managed to identify as likely sources for the information he needed, then asked for directions to the nearest decent cup of coffee.
The diner half a block down was not only accessible, it had free internet access. Max flipped open his laptop for a little twenty-first-century coffee break, deciding that not all small Iowa towns were boring and backward.
Come to think of it, Heather had said she was from Iowa, hadn’t she? Would an internet search bring up any high school pictures of her? Had the town made a big deal when she’d graduated despite such a traumatic injury? Normally, Max wasn’t in the habit of cyber-sleuthing women of interest, but the query seemed the perfect way to recharge his history-numbed brain cells. Counting backward, he guessed her high school graduation at somewhere around 2004, typed that and her name into his search engine, and started in on his very good coffee.
He found four photos of the small graduating class—there couldn’t have been more than fifty students—and a pair of articles on “inspiring seniors.” Heather looked young and fresh-faced, a cheerful but wobbly smile under her mortarboard cap. She had the beginnings of the beautiful woman she was now, but a shy and cautious nature came roaring through in the way she posed for pictures. In fact, he saw more of Simon in those photographs than the Heather he’d come to know.
The Heather he’d come to care about. A lot.
He clicked a few associated links, ending up at two articles covering her accident and the resulting burns. Another article covered the driver’s charges—the ones that had so angered Heather’s father. Max could see where Heather’s father’s fury came from: the article was clearly written to cast the boy as a victim of his youthful indiscretion. There wasn’t a single mention in that article of Heather’s injuries and the resulting medical consequences.
It was the next set of links that dropped his jaw. They were from a few years later—her senior year in college, as far as he could tell. They were engagement announcements. Heather had been engaged.
She’d never mentioned it, and he’d have thought something that significant would have come up in the conversation by now. Who was this Mike Pembrose, this all-American farmboy-looking guy who had captured Heather’s heart in college? And, more importantly, what had broken them up? He began clicking on links about Pembrose, curious and surprised at the jealousy rising in his gut.
Pembrose was a medical student. “Dedicated,” one hometown paper announcement declared, “to the treatment of the diabetes that has afflicted him since childhood.” That felt significant, although Max couldn’t say why.
Two more links led to bits of information: one was an announcement of Pembrose joining a medical practice last year in Des Moines, his name mentioned on a fund-raising committee. The second, a post in a forum for diabetics, gave him the most telling detail of all. The comment thread was about when a man should tell his girlfriend he was diabetic. Pembrose—at least it sure looked as if it was Pembrose—wrote a long post about how challenging the issue was for some couples. “As involved as my disease was, my girlfriend knew about it, but we never really discussed it. I never tested in front of her. I kept my insulin out of sight. I never talked about the complications. That was a dumb thing to do, but I think I knew somewhere inside that she couldn’t handle it. I learned I was right. She ended up breaking off the engagement—my future marriage yet another victim of the Big D.”
That didn’t sound like Heather. Then again, did he really know her that well? It was a few years ago, but could someone’s basic nature really change? And given the nature of their conversations, why hadn’t this come up? Why hide that she’d been engaged before?
Granted, this was Pembrose’s side of the story—and at least the guy had the decency not to call the lady out by name—but could it be anyone other than Heather? Luke Sullivan’s words about women came back to him: They only think they can handle it. Then everyone finds out how ugly it can get.
She’s different, his heart argued with a force Max hadn’t expected. No, she’s not different, his head countered. When you let her in far enough to see all of what it’s like, it’ll be over. Sullivan said it. Pembrose said it. Could he even hope to have enough of a sense of things to call them wrong?
Talk to her about it. Alex had taught him the virtues of going straight to the source when a problem arose. Only he knew what would happen if he did. She’d swear by her loyalty now. She’d say all those sweet and hopeful things that turned his jaded defenses inside out. She’d convince him. He’d believe it because she’d believe it. And then, like Mike Pembrose, he’d be too far in when the bottom fell out. Reality never had to play fair—wasn’t he walking...rolling proof of that?
Max slammed his laptop shut and stared out the diner window at the charming little town. It looked like someplace Heather would have grown up, all quaint and friendly and rural. Then the corner of his eye caught the three people from the counter staring at him. They averted their eyes the minute he met their gazes—no smiles, no friendly hellos, just the embarrassment of having been caught gawking. For a handful of moments Max considered getting in his car and heading west instead of back east, of just ditching the whole “have a real life” dream and embracing his life as an oddity drawing stares.
You can’t do this alone. The infuriating truth was that Max needed other people to survive: doctors, aides, money, an accessible place to live. He couldn’t pretend not to need JJ; for all his bravado, he wasn’t ready to be all alone.
Max stared at his now-cold coffee. I don’t know what to do. He was surprised to find the thought feeling closer to a prayer. Alex always said he went to God with his problems—and Alex was the best, most creative problem solver Max knew. Heather, JJ and many of the other nice people at Gordon Falls Community Church had said the same. None of that made him feel better. I don’t know who to believe, he admitted, still staring into the fragrant brown liquid. I can’t believe God, Heather, Sullivan, Pembrose and Alex all at the same time. I’ll have to choose.
“Oh, no!” Heather dropped the file she was holding as Simon Williams rolled into the administrative suite with blood all down one side of his face. “Simon, what on earth happened?”
“Three guesses,” Simon said with a sneer, his voice dark and sharp. He spun his chair toward the nurse’s office as the door behind him filled with the algebra teacher, a hefty man who was currently wrestling a fuming Jason Kikowitz into the office by one elbow.
“No,” Heather said in disgust more to herself than to anyone else. “I’d hoped we were past this.” She shot up a quick, silent prayer for wisdom, squelching her own rising temper.
“Mr. Kikowitz” came Margot’s equally displeased voice. “What a disappointment to find you in my office again.”
Heather stood up, momentarily stumped as to whether to head left toward the nurse’s office or right toward the principal’s. Simon won, and she walked to the left. “Simon, are you all right?”
“Fine!” Simon barked, slamming the nurse’s office door shut behind him. Clearly, he didn’t want questions right now. At least not from her.
“I don’t know what Jason said to him in Study Hall,” the teacher said, wiping his hands off with a tissue from the secretary’s counter, “but suddenly there was a whole herd of them shouting. When Jason tried to tip Simon’s chair over, Simon turned on him and rammed him so hard Jason fell over. It went downhill from there.”
“Stupid baby raked my shin open with his baby carriage, that’s what!” Jason pointed to his bloody shin. “I’ve got a game on Friday and this hurts like—”
“Enough!” Margot cut in before Jason’s language went south. “What did you say to Simon to start this?”
“Candace Norden told me she got hired to be Simon’s babysitter.”
Heather slumped against the wall, her eyes closed in a wave of regret.
Jason went on. “Little twerp made fun of my algebra grade—”
“Your failing algebra grade,” the teacher cut in, earning a “don’t make this worse” look from Margot.
“So I called him a baby who needs a babysitter. Then he called me a thug.”
Heather winced. “Thug” had been Max’s term of choice for Jason.
“You can imagine how things went from there,” the teacher concluded.
Margot steepled her fingers. “Jason, this isn’t the first time. This isn’t even the first time with Simon.”
“He hit me!” Kikowitz actually sounded surprised. “And not just with his chair—the little nerd actually tried to punch me.”
Heather’s stomach began to tie in knots. This was not the kind of confidence she was looking to foster in Simon. Please, Lord, do something!
“I’ll find out soon enough if that’s true, but let’s keep this conversation about you. I warned you if there was another incident, I’d have to suspend you. I don’t make empty threats, Mr. Kikowitz. You’re suspended for two days beginning immediately. And that includes Friday’s game.”
“But we’re playing Bradleton on Friday!”
“It might have been helpful to remember that before you baited Simon Williams into a fight. Straighten up, Jason. Any more suspensions and you risk your graduation.” As Kikowitz took a breath to launch an argument, Margot stood up and called out past Heather to the school secretary, “Please call Mrs. Kikowitz and inform her Jason is to leave immediately and why.” She pulled some forms out of her desk and handed them to Jason. “I know you drive to school, so I suggest you go straight home. These must be signed by both your parents before you can return on Monday. What you do next could decide your whole year, Jason. I’d take some time to think about that if I were you.”
Jason stood and kicked back his chair. He stared daggers into Heather’s eyes as he stomped past. “Gonna defend your little handicap project, are you?”
“No,” Heather said, her voice a lot calmer than she felt. “I think he did that all on his own, thanks.” She’d never wanted to call a student the slew of names that flew through her head right now. How did someone so young get so mean? For all his saber rattling, Jason wouldn’t last two weeks facing all the challenges Simon or Max endured. Someone needed to take that boy down a peg before his arrogance ruined his future.
And Candace. How could Candace go and betray Simon after promising Max she wouldn’t? Max’s brilliant solution was falling apart right in front of her and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to stop it. There were only three periods left in the day, but that was more than enough time for word to spread about Simon’s “babysitter.” This was a disaster.
The nurse’s office door opened, and Simon emerged, a series of bandages on one cheek and a few more on his right hand. His shirt had a rip in one shoulder and blood on the collar. He looked as dark and angry as Heather had ever seen him.
“Simon.” Margot’s tone held the cool, soft edge of a principal about to do something she hated. “In my office, please.”
Heather made to follow him, but Margot put her hand out. “No. I think you’d better sit this one out.”
Heather left the office, walked calmly to the faculty washroom, locked herself in the last stall and cried.