The Secrets You Keep Read online

  The Secrets You Keep

  Delaney Foster

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, businesses, locals or events is entirely coincidental.

  © 2017 Delaney Foster

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design, editing, and formatting by Poole Publishing Services LLC

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To my trible. You make me brave.

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  Also by Delaney Foster:

  A Woman’s Touch

  A Man’s World

  The Perfect Gentleman

  Sin with Me

  Sin with Me: Penance

  CHAPTER ONE

  Grace

  The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do is watch my mother die. Or so I thought.

  As I spend another restless night, in the same room, watching my father fight for air through troubled sleep, I wonder if I can find the strength to do this all over again. Then I pray I won’t have to. I tell myself he’s going to be okay, even though I know in my heart it’s only a matter of time.

  My chair at the foot of the bed creaks as I adjust myself on the narrow seat. The once-sturdy wooden arms are now rickety and loose with wear. I’ve slept in this chair more nights than I care to admit over the past two years. I sit here again—one leg draped over the side, my head bobbing and lolling against a back that doesn’t quite reach high enough to be remotely comfortable—and I remember the night I moved it from its lonely corner in my father’s office into this bedroom. The weight of solid mahogany and polyester upholstery rested heavily on my shoulders. Or maybe it was the reason for the move that weighed me down. If I’d known when we made the purchase exactly what role that chair would play in my life, I’d have made sure it was more comfortable.

  “You don’t have to stand guard, Grace. I’m not going to run away,” my dad teases from beneath his pile of blankets. His voice is weak from the coughing fit that woke me from a much-needed nap.

  I’d been home a whole two hours after pulling a twelve-hour shift at the hospital when the monitor in my bedroom alerted me of his irregular breathing. At times like these, I wish I’d taken his home health nurse up on her offer to stay late so I can get some sleep. But thanks to my long hours at work, she spends enough time away from her family as it is. So, I’ll sit right here in this chair, whether he likes it or not.

  “I’m not standing guard. I happen to like this chair.”

  Running my fingertips across my eyelids right now is the equivalent to scratching them with sandpaper. I need at least ninety-five more hours of sleep. He starts to say something, but I interrupt him with an unexpected loud yawn.

  “Go to bed, Gracie. It was a little tickle. Nothing a glass of water won’t fix,” he says, dismissing the fact that he nearly coughed up a lung less than five minutes ago.

  “Sleep is overrated.” I smile as I stand to get him a fresh drink. He grabs my wrist just as I touch the glass on his nightstand. His grip is weak but firm.

  “I mean it, Princess. You have a great big world out there to save. You can’t do that on little to no sleep.”

  His endearment cuts right to my heart. Our history with my career choice hasn’t always been pleasant. My father used to be so strong, so full of pride. I look at him now, sunken cheeks, pale skin, and gray eyes lying beneath a pile of blankets to fight off an invisible chill, and my heart shatters to a million pieces onto the rich fibers of the wool rug under my feet. I peer into those gray eyes and see no less of a man today than I did two years ago, before he got sick and bound to a king-sized bed in a dimly lit room. He’s every bit as strong-willed and demanding as he ever was, and I’m still his little girl. So, I obey.

  My father is a stubborn man. After the third massive heart attack, his cardiologist politely and professionally informed us he wouldn’t survive a fourth. His heart just couldn’t take any more. There was too much damage. We left the hospital with yet another stent in yet another artery, and my father continued to run his company another whole year from the office inside the four walls of his home. I threw a fit, and he reasoned that technically he wasn’t going to work. Leave it to John Matthews to tune out bad news and do what he damn well pleases. He didn’t listen when they told him he had COPD. Stop smoking, they said. He laughed all the way to the cigar bar. Now he lies in bed with a machine on his nightstand to help him breathe when he can’t do it on his own. And here I sit, another night in an uncomfortable chair going through a pattern I’ve become all too familiar with: watching him sleep—praying he wakes up—reminding myself that I am strong enough to do this.

  I need to tell him I’m leaving, that he’s going to be alone but only for a little while. But my eyelids are heavy, and he’s drifting back to sleep. So, the talk will have to wait.

  I don’t know if it’s been three days, three hours, or three minutes since I crawled into bed when the doorbell startles me awake. I rub my eyes and try to focus. Another chime. For the love of sleep, I’m coming already. I slip the comforter off my legs and climb out of bed. Ding Ding Chime. I swear, if it’s those “Your soul is doomed” pamphlet pushers again…

  I glance at the windows as I pad across the hardwood floor of the living room. It’s dark out. I can’t believe I slept so long. I hope Dad is okay. I pop on my tiptoes, peeking through the peephole and spot my sister’s nine-year-old son, Lucas. He’s alone. Where is Natalie? The fact that she’s not standing next to him shouldn’t surprise me. This isn’t the first time he’s shown up at our house without her.

  “Hey kiddo, where’s your mom?” I ask, ruffling his hair and holding the door open so he can come in.

  I peek out into the darkness just as a set of headlights backs out of the driveway. Thank God, my sister has good neighbors.

  Lucas’ face is so pale it’s almost transparent, and his eyes are locked on a vision one hundred miles away.

  I grab his shoulders and force him to face me. “Lucas? What’s going on, lovebug?”

  I’m trying not to let the panic that’s swarming around me show up in my voice. He finally glances up at me, and his eyes fill with tears. Oh no. Oh God. Please let my sister be okay.

  “Mom’s asleep. And I can’t get her to wake up.”

  No. I won’t let her do this to him… to us. I mentally defy her as if I even have a choice.

  His tiny voice shakes with fear as his words spill from his lips. “I tried. I even shook her.” He’s frantic, barely breathing, and tears stain his innocent cheeks. He ignores them as they continue to fal
l. “I yelled at her. I even poured a glass of water on her. She won’t wake up, Aunt Grace. She won’t wake up.”

  His voice gets louder with every syllable, and my heart is pounding and breaking all at once. I pull his little body against mine, holding him close as I rub the back of his hair. His sobs fill the quiet room. I don’t interrupt him. I just pull him closer. Where he’s safe. Where he’s loved.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grace

  I need to check on Natalie, but leaving Lucas alone right now isn’t an option. I glance at the digital clock on the stove. It’s ten-thirty at night. I doubt Annette is awake. She’s always been my favorite neighbor. She lost her husband just before cancer took my mom. Over the years, Annette has been known to graciously cook my father dinner when I have to take a night shift. And she always seems to know just the right time to show up at our door with a plate full of homemade cookies and a hot cup of coffee.

  I cradle Lucas’ head against my stomach, rubbing his hair and doing my best to calm him. My body instinctively rocks from side to side as I softly hum and shush him. His heaving sobs weaken to short hitches of breath, and I feel him relax against me.

  “Why don’t we get you something to drink? Are you hungry?” I say after what seems like days of silence.

  He nods his head but doesn’t pull away from me. I take a step back and squat down so that we’re eye-to-eye. I pray my smile hides my fear.

  “Okay then. You sit here.” I nod my head, indicating the white slip-covered sofa behind us. “And I’ll go make you a sandwich.”

  He smiles back. It’s weak, but it beats the faraway look of hopelessness I was greeted with just minutes ago.

  “Peanut butter and jelly?” I don’t have to ask. I know PB&J is his favorite. I’ve made it for him a dozen times before. His smile grows, and he nods again. “Good. I’ll be right back,” I assure him, because right now the thing he needs most is something he can be sure of.

  I grab my phone from the charger and dial, praying Annette is still awake. The soft, rhythmic sound of my father breathing is a welcome relief when I peek my head into his room. At least I don’t have to worry about him for the time being. Five minutes later, I’m dressed in jeans and a shirt, and Annette is at the front door with a book, a blanket, and a warm smile.

  “You’re an angel,” I tell her, as I wrap her in a hug.

  She tucks a stray hair behind my ear then looks over my shoulder at Lucas, who is engrossed in all things Disney as he chews his sandwich. His eyes never leave the television screen as he brings it up for another bite. Annette looks back at me, her eyes full of sympathy.

  “And you’re one of the strongest women I know,” she says, with the affection of a lifelong friend. “I just wish you didn’t have to do it all alone…”

  And there she goes trying to mend my broken heart again. She means well, but I have too many other things to do besides fight for something that can’t happen. I’m broken. And men don’t want broken.

  I let out a sigh, and she takes my hint. “Go. Do what you have to do. I’ll hold down the fort,” she says. Her dark brown eyes sparkle as she shoos me away with her hands.

  I grab my keys and purse, then give Lucas a kiss on the forehead. “Annette is going to sit with you and Gramps for a few while I go take care of something, okay?”

  When his big blue eyes find mine, they’re full of pain and wonder. “You’re going to check on my mom, aren’t you?”

  It’s not like I thought he wouldn’t be able to guess where I was going. Kids are intuitive. I’d hoped to get out of here without bringing back visions of his unconscious mother, but I guess when you see something like that, it’s kind of hard to forget.

  “Yes, Pumpkin. I am. I’m a doctor, remember? So, if she needs taking care of, I can help her.” I can’t. Deep down I know that. She needs more than I’m able to give.

  His eyes search mine for weakness, and I fight to keep it hidden. He has to believe I’m strong enough to fight for his mom when she’s not able to fight for herself.

  “Okay,” he says, finally.

  I breathe a smile, thankful I passed his unspoken test.

  “Dad’s had his meds and he should sleep through the night,” I inform Annette as I’m walking out the door. She nods and curls up in the oversized chair next to the sofa, pulling a fuzzy blanket over her lap. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I add.

  She waves her hands, dismissing the compliment as she opens the pages of her romance novel. The moment the door clicks behind me, the fear and dread I’ve been keeping at bay rushes over me like the winds of a hurricane. Emotions hold me hostage, nailing my feet to the ground. I don’t know if I can do this. A hundred visions of what I may find when I walk into Natalie’s house swim through my mind, and none of them are pleasant. Pull yourself together, Grace. Pick your feet up and move. Get in your car and drive. You have to do this. If not you, then who?

  No one. If not me, then no one.

  With my eyes closed, I take in a deep breath and reclaim my emotions. Then, as her broken little boy sits on my sofa, eating peanut butter and watching innocent television shows, I head out toward the Grove to find my sister.

  ***

  A man’s voice seeps through the crack in the half-open front door. I stop before moving farther, straining to dissect the conversation, curious who Natalie could be talking to at this hour of the night. At the same time, I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s alive and awake. And not alone. His deep voice starts talking about discounts and safe driving, and I realize the voice is coming from her television.

  I place a palm flat against the door, slowly push it open, and walk inside. I don’t know what I expected to find when I entered her home. A horrific display of overturned furniture and blood-spattered walls, I guess. Really, Grace? This isn’t a horror movie. It’s your sister for fuck’s sake. Other than the television being on with no audience, nothing is out of place. The burlap throw pillows are placed neatly in the corners of her Pottery Barn sectional sofa. There are no dirty dishes in her kitchen sink, and her white ceramic, owl-shaped Scentsy warmer fills her home with the aroma of a freshly baked apple pie.

  On the outside, my sister is the perfect candidate for the PTA. She works for an established ophthalmologist, lives in a modern house in a decent neighborhood, and attends Lucas’ soccer games every Saturday morning. But behind the mask is an unhealthy addiction to pills. After our mother died, I took on the responsibility of taking care of Dad, and Natalie completely disconnected from reality. She would sleep for days. When we did manage to get her out of bed, she was void, lifeless, and lethargic. A dim shade of gray, a soul trapped in the shadows. Her doctor started her on SSRIs. When Prozac didn’t do the trick, they moved her up to a tricyclic, which she quickly found worked much faster when she mixed it with Demerol. That’s when I knew she had a problem.

  Sometimes I think being a single mom and keeping up appearances in a city where appearances are everything is what fuels her need for an escape. When Natalie is on, she’s on like nobody’s business. But when her depression kicks in, and she falls off… Well, we end up here. With Lucas ringing our doorbell because she hasn’t bothered to come home, and me scouring the dark corners of night clubs until I find her looking for her next fix.

  She’s right where I assume Lucas found her, sprawled across her bed on top of the dark gray comforter. Face down, arms flailing over one side, hair soaking wet from her son’s failed attempt at waking her, she’s like something straight off a tragic documentary. She didn’t even take her shoes off. Good God, Nat. What have you done to yourself? Don’t you even care what you’re doing to Lucas?

  I want to be angry with her. I am angry with her. She’s been given a precious gift most women fight their whole lives to receive and still end up without. She has a child, and she treats him as an inconvenience, a reason to pity herself. I don’t even like to think about the countless arguments I’ve had with God over His poor judgement. The sim
ple thought of it brings back a familiar pain in my stomach—a pain I’ll never forget as long as I live.

  Her wrist is limp as I take it between my fingers and check for a pulse. All I can see is Lucas’ little face when I opened the front door and pulled him into my arms. He was so scared, yet so hopeful. Like he was counting on me to fix his mother. I’m not a superhero, little man. But I want to be. I want to be his superhero. Someone needs to be.

  I press gently on her wrist. Thank God. I throw my head back, eyes closed, and heave the burst of air I’d been holding captive in my lungs. The faint thwump swishes beneath my fingertips. It’s there. Barely.

  Now what? I have to get her to a hospital. I don’t know what all she took or how much of it she had. I don’t know how long she’s been like this. An hour at least. Probably longer. All kinds of things could be going on inside her body right now. The drugs could be messing with her central nervous system. Or worse. Shit. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my baggy jeans and start to dial 911, but quickly hit the home button and go to my contacts instead. Having an ambulance show up at her front door would attract unwanted attention and leave questions Natalie would be stuck answering every time she stepped outside to check her mail. No. That wouldn’t be good.

  “St. Anthony’s Hospital,” the cheerful female voice says after the third ring.

  “Dr. McCallister, please. This is Dr. Matthews.” I whisper a chant under my breath as the admissions clerk puts me on hold. Please be on call. Please be on call.

  “Toxicology, this is Dr. McCallister.”

  Thank you.

  “Karen, hi. It’s Grace. Listen, I need a favor…”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grace

  I’ve been an attending physician at St. Anthony’s for three years. From the moment I first volunteered with the hospital’s non-profit division, I knew this is where I wanted to be. Perhaps it’s because I specialize in neonatal and this place is smack dab in the middle of one of the poorest areas of Miami. Money should never decide if a newborn baby lives or dies, so I accepted the offer. So far, I’ve been fortunate enough to land mostly day shifts. But I’ve also learned that at night, this neighborhood couldn’t care less who you are or how many babies you’ve saved. I’ve seen things on my drive home that most people only witness on the six o’clock news from the comforts of their living room.