“Does David boat?” Miles took a bite of his quesadilla, though Paula knew it must be cold by now.
“He’s not much of an outdoorsman, though I’ve gotten him out on Jenny Lake a time or two.”
Miles had met David a few days ago when he’d visited. He’d taken her and David to Gibson’s one night. She was a nervous wreck, but the men hit it off.
“In his defense, though,” Paula said, “he more than makes up for lack of adventure with his expertise in the stocks, bonds, and real-estate department.”
“I thought he seemed like a very intelligent man. Savvy and business minded. The two of you are a good match.”
“We think so.”
“He seemed to like Chicago,” Miles said.
“Oh, he did. He didn’t want to leave.” It was true, though the real reason was that he hated leaving her.
“I’m assuming if you were offered the anchor job, he would move here.”
“Of course.” The words stuck like a brick in her throat.
She was relieved when Cindy struck up a conversation with Miles.
There was nothing “of course” about David moving to Chicago. They hadn’t even discussed it, and Paula had no idea what would happen if she were offered the job.
David had worked for years to build a clientele and reputation in Jackson. And now that he owned JH Realty, he was as rooted there as a hundred-year-old oak tree. Could she ask him to give that up for her?
Suddenly she wondered what in the world she was doing. She was chasing her own dream, but it was a dream that could take her further than ever from the man she loved. If she got the job, one of them would have to be sacrificed, and Paula wondered which one that would be. Of course, the way things stood right now, it was a decision she may never have to make.
Later that night as Paula lay across her bed scanning her notes on the Morgan story, she felt like she needed her head examined. Why was she beating this story to death? All the other media had realized the story suffered from lead fatigue and dropped it. She’d never clung to a dead horse before. What was so different about this one?
Was it fear of disappointing the Morgans? Was it the need to see the story she’d broken brought to a conclusion? Or was it the deep, underlying need to atone for the abortion?
Maybe it was time to put this story to bed and move on with her life. There were other stories to be told, and this one seemed to have no ending, happy or not. Maybe she should be pouring her extra time into finding new stories.
She closed the notebook and slid her tape recorder aside, then rolled over onto her back. Miles had been thrilled when the story had broken, but now Darrick was in the limelight with his stories on the Cubs player who was caught using steroids and a man who was using his business as a money-laundering operation. Darrick was breaking all the big stories, and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it.
Maybe Miles was one of those people who constantly expected to be surprised and impressed. He’d certainly been both when she broke the Morgan story, but those feelings had faded.
She was still working the beat, but her assignments were lame most of the time. Darrick was getting all the big stuff, and there was only so much she could do with a ribbon cutting or a neighborhood house fire.
Maybe it was time to give it up. Not just the Morgan story, but the whole notion that she had a chance at the anchor position. Darrick and the others had been there longer. Paula was new at investigative reporting, and her only anchoring experience was in a town smaller than the smallest Chicago suburb.
She knew she did a good job with the stories she was given, but how could she compete with Darrick when he was assigned the big stuff? Maybe she should just finish her temporary assignment and prepare to pack it up at the end. She could move back to Jackson Hole and live happily ever after with David.
She rolled over and buried her face in the cradle of her arms. Being with David would be wonderful. But the thought of living in Jackson was so stifling, she felt claustrophobic. How could she go back to the town walled in on all sides by tall buttes? Back to the place where everybody knew her name . . . and her business? Back to the place where she would watch tourists come and go and wish she could go with them?
No. She didn’t want to go back there. She was made for the city. Coming to Chicago had proved that to her. Back in Jackson she was a misfit, but here in Chicago she was surrounded by people just like her. People with energy and purpose. People who wanted to go somewhere in life, and today wasn’t soon enough.
She sat up and smoothed her rumpled clothes. She wasn’t a quitter. She couldn’t believe she’d been ready to give up. If David knew, he’d be as shocked as she was.
There was a way to get that anchor chair, and she would find it. She consulted her notebook and the index cards lined up at the bottom of the bed. Had she exhausted every possible lead?
Yes. Except for the nurse who’d passed away. And the nurse who was terminally ill. Maybe there was a way to reach Louise Garner without having a run-in with her protective son. The one time Paula had talked to the woman on the phone, she’d seemed cooperative.
Maybe Louise didn’t have any answers at all, but Paula had to try again. She retrieved her purse and located the scrap of paper with Louise’s number.
Paula checked the clock and saw it was just past eight. Not too late to call. She picked up the bedroom extension and dialed the number. Before she knew what she was doing, she said a quick prayer that the woman’s son wouldn’t answer.
It rang three times before it was picked up. The voice sounded like an older woman but was too energetic to be Louise.
“May I speak with Louise, please?” Paula held her breath, hoping the woman wouldn’t ask who she was.
“Just a minute.”
Ah, progress. Maybe the son wasn’t home. She heard the rustling sound of the phone being handled, then felt a moment’s panic. She hadn’t even prepared questions for Mrs. Garner. It wasn’t like her to be so unprepared, but now she was getting the woman on the phone, and it may be her last chance to get an interview.
Where were the questions for the NICU nurses? She shuffled through her notebook, hoping to find them fast.
“Hello?”
She recognized the feeble voice from the last time she talked to Louise on the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Garner. This is Paula Landin-Cohen from WMAQ. We spoke on the phone just after Christmas.”
Paula thought she heard a soft sigh and feared she was about to lose Mrs. Garner. “I’m very sorry to bother you with this when you’re so ill. But the story I’m covering is about a very special family who needs answers. I was hoping you’d be willing to help. I won’t take much of your time.”
Her fingers rifled frantically through the notebook. Where were those questions? She reached the end of the notebook and started back through. If only she had her detailed notes from the computer. But those files were long gone.
Mrs. Garner had been quiet too long. “Mrs. Garner? Are you there?”
The woman cleared her throat. “I’m here.”
There was some quality in her voice that Paula couldn’t quite peg. Sadness? Resolve? “Would you be willing to answer a few questions, Mrs. Garner? The Morgan family would really appreciate your cooperation.”
“I’ve wanted to talk long before now, but my son . . . well, he’s just trying to look out for me.”
Excitement stirred in Paula’s blood. Did this mean Louise Garner knew something? Or was she just saying she’d been willing all along to cooperate with an interview?
“I understand. He only loves you and wants the best for you. But I promise I won’t be a bother. I just want to ask some questions.” Paula’s hands were shaking, and she was nearly ready to rip out the pages of her notebook. Where were those questions?
“My son is away right now at a work thing. It’s a good time.”
Ah, thank you! Paula wasn’t sure who the gratitude went to, but she was thrilled she had called at the perfect t
ime. She spied a set of questions and nearly sent up a whoop of relief when she saw they were the right ones.
“He’s out of town and won’t be back until Monday,” the weak voice continued. “Can you come over tomorrow morning? Say, around nine o’clock?”
Part of Paula was thrilled that she wanted to interview in person, but another part was afraid something would go wrong or Mrs. Garner would change her mind. “Would you rather just talk now, over the phone? I know you must not be feeling up to company.”
“No, dear, I think it would be best if you came here.”
The woman’s tone was strong.
So the emotional quality I heard before was resolve, Paula thought. Did it mean anything significant?
“And please,” Mrs. Garner was saying, “no cameras.”
“Of course. Is it OK if I tape-record?”
A pause. “That would be fine. I’ll see you in the morning then.”
After Paula hung up, she felt like jumping on the bed. Maybe her instincts were wrong, but there was something in Mrs. Garner’s voice that hinted the ill nurse knew something.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Paula hitched her bag higher on her shoulder as she climbed the uneven porch steps. A heavy-duty railing, the kind disabled people use, had been installed along the steps. When she reached the top of the steps, she knocked on the edge of the aluminum screen door.
The door opened and a young woman held it open to her. She looked barely old enough to be out of college, and her orange-brown hair looked like a Sun-In mishap from the ’80s.
“You’re the reporter here to see Louise, right?”
“Yes. Paula Landin-Cohen.”
“Come on in. She’s waiting for you in her room.”
Paula followed the girl through a tiny living room that seemed even tinier with all the knickknacks that cluttered every surface. Pictures and plates competed for wall space with shelves that held more of the same. A closer look revealed a windmill theme throughout the room.
Paula smiled to herself. David would call this house a dusting nightmare.
Louise Garner’s bedroom appeared to be an addition, or perhaps it had once been a back porch. It was located just off the kitchen, and its floor rolled slightly downhill toward a window.
The girl gestured for Paula to go in. “Louise, that reporter is here.”
A woman lay as still as death on a hospital bed that took up half the room. Her short, gray hair was spiked out at odd angles, making Paula think no one had fixed it in days.
“Louise?” the girl called.
Paula moved toward the bed, wondering why the woman didn’t wake. She didn’t like the possible answer that sprung to her mind.
The girl stepped around her. “Louise?” She laid her hand gently on the woman’s shoulder. “Louise, you asked me to wake you up when that reporter arrived.”
Louise’s head moved as her lashes fluttered open. Paula began breathing again.
“She’s here?” Louise’s eyes fell on Paula, and her lips turned upward. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stay awake these days.” She looked at the girl. “Laurie, can you help me sit up?”
The girl did as asked, then turned to leave the room. “Let me know if you need anything else, Louise. Your water’s fresh.” She shut the door—an old, five-panel, white one—behind her.
Paula introduced herself to Louise. The woman was younger than Paula had imagined—perhaps only in her late fifties. Though her eyes were puffy and her face sunken at the cheekbones, her skin was almost devoid of wrinkles.
“I must look a mess.” Louise tried to pat her disarrayed hair into a semblance of order, but it did no good.
“You know,” Paula said, “short, choppy hair is all the rage right now anyway.”
Louise laughed heartily, then coughed. Paula spied a thermos with a straw on the bedside table. She handed it to Louise, who took a sip before handing it back to Paula.
“Thank you,” Louise said in a weak voice.
Paula wasn’t sure what to say next. It seemed insensitive to plunge right into the interview when the woman was clearly very ill. So she said first, “I’m sorry about your illness.”
Louise waved her hand. “I’ve lived a good life. Not quite as long as I would’ve liked, but those are the breaks.”
Paula noted the photos that were scattered around the room on numerous surfaces. In them were younger versions of Louise and a man, presumably Louise’s husband. “You seem to have traveled a lot.”
“Oh, yes. When we were younger, my husband and I traveled all over the United States in a camper for a year. He was my second husband, and even though I had three children from my first, Lewis raised them as his own. He was a good man. Two of my children have moved away and are raising my grandchildren, so I only have the one son who lives here. He takes good care of me, that boy does.” She tucked her lips downward. “That’s the one you’ve spoken with on the phone.” She bit her lip and looked away. “But you didn’t come to talk about my family. You came to get answers.”
Louise sounded as if she had answers, and that excited Paula more than anything. She reached into her bag and pulled out the tape recorder. “Here we go.” She pushed Record and set the device on the bedside table where it would pick up both of their voices.
“I know you said you have questions for me,” Louise said. “But would it be too much of a bother if I told my story straight out?”
Her story. So she must know what happened to the Morgans’ child. A surge of excitement passed through Paula. “Whatever is most comfortable for you.”
Louise nodded, then peered across the room to where a collage of pictures hung on the plaster wall.
“Three years ago, as you know, I was a nurse in the NICU at Chicago General. I loved my job, working with those babies, but sometimes it was more painful than I thought I could bear. When we’d lose an infant, I would often go home and cry my heart out. I think it would have been easier if I could have just detached from the babies. Provided for their care and no more. A supervisor once warned me I got too attached to the babies, but I suppose that’s just the way I’m made.”
Louise shifted, her gaze drifting past the gauzy, white curtains. “But I’m getting off the subject, aren’t I?” She wet her lips. “Five years ago my son was involved in a car accident that left him severely injured. Unfortunately he had no health insurance at the time and no way to pay for the surgeries and rehabilitation. My husband—he passed away two years ago—was on disability at the time, and we didn’t have anything extra. So I took on a second job.”
She stopped to cough, and Paula handed her the drink again.
Louise continued. “I needed to work someplace close to the hospital, and I was trying to stay in the field of nursing so I could make decent money. I finally got a job working for Dr. Miller, an ob-gyn who performed quite a few abortions.” She swallowed hard. “It’s not a job I would have taken if I’d had another opportunity. But it was so convenient and close to my other job. I figured it was only for a year or so until my son got on his feet again.”
Paula checked to be sure the tape was running. She didn’t want to miss any of this.
Louise shifted in bed and pulled the afghan up to her waist. “Everything went OK for the first couple of months—other than my being worn out, of course. I wasn’t used to working two jobs. And I realized through the months that Dr. Miller often fudged a bit when it came to late-term abortions. Sometimes the ‘medical necessity’ was ambiguous, and I sometimes felt he performed late-term abortions when there was no anomaly with the fetus and the mother’s life wasn’t truly in jeopardy.
“Dr. Miller paid me well, though, and the people were nice to work with.” She stared out the window for a minute. “There were times, though, that it felt so odd.”
She paused for so long, seemingly lost in thought, that Paula asked, “What seemed odd, Mrs. Garner?”
“Oh, you can call me Louise, dear.” Her eyes
flitted by Paula before staring again out the window into the backyard. “When I say it felt odd, I’m talking about my purpose at each of the jobs. My role in the NICU was to assist in helping the babies live. My other job was to assist in stopping the life from growing.”
Paula’s stomach tightened painfully. Perhaps Louise believed an abortion took a life. If that were the case, she shouldn’t have taken the job at all.
“Oh, I didn’t have anything against the women I assisted. I knew they were doing what they thought was best, and I was glad to help them. I wouldn’t say I felt guilty about what I did. I’d always felt abortion was a woman’s choice.” She spared a glance at Paula. “I’m sorry—I’m rambling again. If I do it again, just nudge me like a broken record.”
Paula smiled, then watched Louise as she smoothed her hair again, tugging at the growth along the side of her neck.
“The day of June twelfth is one I remember very well.”
It was a day Paula remembered well, too, though she wished she could abolish it from the calendar. She stuffed the thought deep inside and focused on Louise’s words.
“It started out quite normally. The last procedure of the day was an abortion of a twenty-one-week pregnancy. After that I was scheduled to start the second shift in the NICU. I was feeling very tired as I often did that year, what with two jobs. My son was here at home recovering from surgery after surgery. It was a difficult time for us.”
Paula wondered what all this had to do with the Morgans’ baby. She was on edge and anxious and wished Louise didn’t ramble so much. She eyed her bag and wished she could pull out the questions she’d planned to ask. But that was unfair to Louise. Maybe the woman was lonely and needed someone to listen.
“Anyway, the abortion seemed to be going normally at first. I went through it somewhat on autopilot until—something went terribly wrong.”
Louise’s sparse brows constricted. “As Dr. Miller extracted the fetus, he went still. I turned just in time to see it. Nancy, the other nurse, was checking the patient’s vitals. Dr. Miller, his eyes the size of quarters, was staring, transfixed, at the fetus. I looked into his hands and saw what had frightened him so.”