The Fruits of Labor
Trisha Milner carried the bag of groceries up two flights of stairs to the small one-bedroom apartment she and her husband called home. When she walked through the front door, she saw Dave sitting at the kitchen table in his bathrobe, punching the keys of an old IBM Selectric typewriter.
"How's the book coming?" she asked, putting the groceries on the counter.
"Slowly," her husband replied and then crossed out the paragraph he had just written.
"It would go much faster if you had a computer."
"Yeah, and if you had a car, you wouldn't have to take the bus to work."
"I'm young; I can handle it."
Dave watched his wife put iceberg lettuce into a bowl and then add cucumber slices and tomatoes.
"What's for dinner?" he asked.
"Spaghetti," she replied, taking a jar of generic pasta sauce out of the brown paper bag.
The young man sighed. Somewhere people were sitting down to steak and lobster, sharing a bottle of wine and looking forward to ending their meal with a dessert. Sometimes he thought he ought to give up his dream of being a novelist and settle for a nine-to-five job that would afford the two of them a better life. It would be nice to have a house, a car, an occasional vacation and some money in the bank.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I sold a story," Dave announced as his wife put a pot of water on the stove to boil.
"Really? Which one?" Trisha asked excitedly.
"The one about the composer who is willing to sacrifice all he holds dear in order to write a successful opera."
"I like that one. Who bought it?"
"A new mystery magazine published in Canada—and they pay in cash, not in contributor's copies."
"We ought to go out and celebrate then," his wife suggested.
"They don't pay that much," he admitted. "About all we can afford in the way of a celebration is the dollar menu at McDonalds."
Trisha did not complain about their lack of money; she never did. She loved her husband, believed in his talent and knew he would succeed where so many others had failed. She had no doubt that he would be a bestselling author someday and that they would have all the creature comforts that went along with financial success. Until that time, she didn't mind working to support the both of them.
* * *
It was only a few months later that Trisha and Dave Milner took a giant leap forward toward achieving their cherished goals. Trisha was at work and Dave was busy typing away at his Selectric when the telephone rang.
"Is this David Milner?" a female voice asked.
"Yes," he replied impatiently, believing it was a telemarketer on the other end of the line.
"My name is Estelle Kidder. Have you ever heard of me?"
Was she kidding? Estelle Kidder was an agent that represented some of the most successful writers in America.
"Someone sent me a copy of your manuscript, Widow's Walk. I liked it."
The writer's heart pounded in anticipation of what the agent had to say.
"I'd like to sign you as a client."
Dave was speechless.
"Mr. Milner, are you there? Did you hear me? I said I'd like to sign you."
"I ... I heard you, Miss Kidder."
"If we're going to work together," the agent said with a laugh, "you should call me Estelle. We are going to work together, aren't we?"
"Yes. Of course. I'd love to work with you."
"Then why don't we meet for lunch and discuss the details? I'll be in Boston next Friday. Can you meet me at the Union Oyster House around one o'clock?"
"Sure," he said, hoping Estelle would pick up the tab but willing to put the meal on his already overworked credit card, if necessary.
"Good. I'll see you next week then."
The intervening days passed slowly for Dave. Excited as he was about being signed by one of the top agents in the business, he was unable to concentrate on his writing. When Friday finally arrived, he dressed with care in an outfit Trisha had picked out for him. Eager to attend the meeting, Dave put all his manuscripts, both completed and incomplete, in a second-hand briefcase and walked to the train station. He was in Boston by eleven where, with more than two hours to kill, he headed toward the Common and sat at a bench near the public garden.
As he was watching a group of tourists make their way to the swan boats, he spied an attractive young woman walking toward him. Her long, flaming red hair cascaded down her back, and the breeze blew it around her face. When she sat down on the bench, barely a foot away from him, he caught the scent of her perfume, and his senses reeled.
"Do you live here in Boston?" she asked.
"No," Dave replied. "I'm here on business. I live north of here, in a small town called Puritan Falls. And you?"
"I live in New Jersey. I'm here to visit family."
They talked for more than an hour, mostly about tourist attractions in Boston, and then Dave, not wanting to be late for his luncheon meeting, said goodbye and wished her a pleasant stay in the city. As he walked away, he turned around once and caught her intently staring at him with her dazzling green eyes. He gave her an awkward wave and hurried out of the park.
* * *
Dave and Estelle Kidder arrived at the Union Oyster House within moments of each other. Because the agent was a well-known customer at the restaurant, they were immediately shown to a table, despite the number of people waiting to be seated.
"You really know how to part the waves," the writer laughed.
"When you become famous, you'll do the same," Estelle replied.
Once the server took their order, Dave immediately began talking business.
"I've brought a number of my manuscripts, if you'd like to read them."
"Just send them to my office. My secretary will see to them."
Dave's smile faded. He had hoped the agent would be anxious to see his work.
"I know you can write," Estelle said, as though she had read his mind.
There was an unspoken but in her voice, and Dave Milner's stomach clenched with dread. Had she changed her mind about representing him?
"Let me be frank," Estelle began.
The invisible hand that held his insides tightened its grip.
"There are countless people out there who can write, people who might have as much talent as Hemingway and Fitzgerald, as much imagination as Stephen King and J.K. Rowling. But it takes more than talent and imagination to succeed in today's competitive marketplace. What I want to know is whether you are prepared to give one-hundred percent to your craft."
"I am," Dave quickly assured her.
"You must be willing to make sacrifices for your career. I don't represent prima donnas. I won't have a client who cancels book signings to attend his kid's Little League game."
"I don't have any children."
"Let me make it perfectly clear: my personal life will never take precedence over your career, and neither will yours."
"You've been straightforward with me," Dave said. "Let me be equally honest. I've dreamed of being a writer from the time I sat on my mother's lap as a child and listened to her read me fairy tales. If there's a chance of my fulfilling that dream, I swear I won't let anything stand in my way."
The agent's eyebrows arched.
"Not even your wife?"
"Trisha is very supportive of my career. In fact, she's my biggest fan."
Estelle silently stared into Dave's eyes. Uncomfortable by her steady gaze, he wanted to look away but felt she would think the worse of him. Finally, as though she had made a difficult decision, her eyes dropped to her Gucci briefcase.
"I've brought the standard contract for you to sign," she explained, handing him a large manila envelope. "You can have your lawyer look at it and contact me if there are any questions."
"That won't be necessary," Dave assured her. "I can sign right now."
"Don't you think you ought to at least read it over?"
"If you're to be my agent, I'll be trusting you with my career and my future. I might as well start by trusting that this contract will benefit us both."
Estelle had an enigmatic smile on her face as she watched him take a ballpoint pen and sign his name on the dotted line. There was something fresh and endearing about him, she decided, and concluded that it ought to be an easy job selling him to the American readers.
* * *
From that momentous Friday when her husband signed with Estelle Kidder, Trisha Milner noticed a marked change in his personality. For one thing, both his self-confidence and ambition soared. For another, he threw himself into his writing, to the exclusion of all else in his life. Consequently, the couple's relationship soon began to deteriorate. Even when they were together, Dave barely looked up from his work to acknowledge her presence.
The young wife stoically bore her loneliness in silence. She had vowed to love her husband in good times and bad, and she would never break that vow. Her patience seemed to pay off when one night Dave announced that the two of them would be going away for a few days.
"Can we afford it?" she asked.
"Estelle invited us to stay at her place for the weekend."
Trisha's eagerness was somewhat dampened by the fact that the trip would not be a romantic tryst for two, but being included in her husband's plans still pleased her.
Shortly after breakfast on Saturday morning, a chauffeur-driven car arrived at the Milners' apartment to take them to Estelle's house. It was nearly a four-hour drive from Puritan Falls to the agent's country estate in Connecticut.
"Wow!" was all Trisha could manage to say when she got out of the car and stared up at the more than two-hundred-year-old colonial home.
True to his profession, her husband found the correct words to express what they were both feeling: "It must be nice to have money."
The front door opened and out came Estelle, dressed in a designer dress that made the outfit Trisha bought on clearance at Kohl's look like a reject from a Kmart blue light special.
"David! I'm so glad you're here! My guests are dying to meet the man destined to write the next great novel. And you must be Trisha," Estelle added, kissing her client's wife on the cheek. "How proud you must be of your husband."
"Yes, I am."
Surprisingly, Dave, who had come from the same humble beginnings as his wife, fit right in with Estelle's wealthy friends. Indeed, he was behaving as though he were already one of them. Trisha, on the other hand, grew more uncomfortable as each moment passed.
"You poor thing. All this shop talk must be boring you," Estelle said, when she noticed Trisha had not uttered a word all through lunch. "Why don't you go down to the pool and have a swim while we discuss business?"
Trisha felt like a child being sent to her room so that the parents could talk about adult matters.
"I'm afraid I didn't bring my bathing suit," she replied stiffly.
"No problem. I keep a selection of styles and sizes in the pool house. I'm sure you'll find one out there that will fit you."
"Yes, honey," Dave added. "Enjoy yourself while we're working."
It was clear that Trisha's presence was not wanted, a fact that hurt deeply.
"Well, if you don't need me ...."
Her husband did not bother to reply. He was too deep in conversation with his agent and her lawyer to waste time on his wife.
Later that evening, when Trisha dressed for dinner—thankfully, an informal affair—she felt the first twinge of sunburn on her shoulders.
A fitting end to a disappointing day, she thought.
Still, she forced herself to wear a smile when she went downstairs.
Determined to show her husband that she could hold her own with his literary friends, Trisha decided to initiate a conversation with his agent.
"What a lovely house you have," she announced.
"Thank you," Estelle replied. "You and Dave ought to think about moving into this neighborhood. I'm sure you'd both love it here."
"I doubt we could afford the taxes on such a place, much less a mortgage."
"If I get Dave the deal I'm working on at Doubleday, you'll have plenty of money."
"Even if our finances were to drastically improve, we couldn't leave Puritan Falls. It's our home."
"Actually, it's been my lifelong dream to live in Manhattan," Dave declared, "but I wouldn't mind having a place like this in Connecticut."
Trisha was surprised by her husband's desire to live in New York. Why hadn't he ever spoken of such a dream before? What else was there about him that she didn't know?
* * *
Three weeks later, Trisha was enjoying a cup of coffee while doing a crossword puzzle at her kitchen table when the telephone rang.
"Hello, Trisha," the voice on the other line replied when she answered. "This is Estelle Kidder. May I speak to Dave?"
"I'll get him."
Neither woman made an attempt at conversation.
"Dave! It's for you."
"No kidding?" he asked excitedly after listening to his agent speak for several minutes. "That's great. Why don't I go over there tomorrow and take a look at it? ... Three o'clock? That's fine with me. I'll see you then."
"Good news?" Trisha asked.
"A house in Estelle's neighborhood has just come on the market. I'm going to Connecticut tomorrow to have a look at it."
"What? You can't be serious! Those houses must cost millions!"
"The advance on my book will cover the down payment, and Doubleday assures me that the royalties will ...."
"Wait a minute. Are you telling me you got that deal with Doubleday?"
"Yeah. I signed the contract last Wednesday while you were at work."
"And you didn't bother telling me?"
"I wanted to surprise you," he said sheepishly.
"Well, you succeeded," she replied angrily. "Consider me surprised!"
"I would think you'd be happy for me—for us."
"You know I want you to be successful, but I don't understand why I didn't even know about the Doubleday deal until your agent let it slip at the dinner party. And now you've signed a contract, and I don't find out until a week later."
"I don't see why you're upset because I didn't include you in my business dealings with my agent. I don't ask about the details of your job, do I?"
"What about this house?" she asked, changing the subject. "You told Estelle you're going tomorrow to look at it, and you know I work tomorrow."
"I'm not going to make any decisions. I just want to check the place out. If I think it's a good deal, we'll both go back next weekend and look at it."
Although she still harbored a lingering resentment toward her husband, Trisha decided to make peace with him. Despite everything, she loved him and wanted him to be happy.
After touring the house the following weekend, Trisha had a long list of objections, not the least of which was the exorbitant price tag.
"Why don't we start with a smaller place and work our way up to a mansion like this? We don't need five bedrooms and a three-car garage. We don't even have a car!"
"We will soon. I ordered a Mercedes on Monday."
Another decision he had made without telling her! It was getting to be a habit with him.
"Why don't we just stay in Massachusetts until you can save up for that place in New York you say you always wanted?"
"I don't get it!" Dave yelled. "Most women would be overjoyed at moving into such a nice house, but not you."
"I just don't want us to get in over our heads. You're a good writer, but that's no guarantee your book will be a bestseller."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"You know I believe in you ...."
Dave was not interested in what his wife had to say. He took his newly purchased iPhone out of his jacket pocket and called the realtor who was handling the listing for the Connecticut home.
"This is Dave Milner," he said. "I've decided to make an offer on the house."
Trisha walked to the bedroom for a good cry. It hadn't escaped her notice that even in his choice of wording to the real estate agent he had excluded her from the decision to purchase the house.
* * *
Trisha's new life in Connecticut was drastically different from the one she had known in Puritan Falls. For the first time since she was seventeen years old, she did not have a job, not even a part-time one. Of course, the house was large enough to keep her busy with housekeeping, but like all the residents of the upscale neighborhood, the Milners had a maid to do the cleaning.
"I think I might get a job," she told Dave one evening at dinner. "Now that everything is unpacked and the redecorating is complete, I have nothing to do all day."
"I have a better idea," he said with an increasingly rare smile. "Why don't we have a baby?"
"Do you mean it?"
Tears filled her eyes. She had feared her marriage was unraveling and that it was only a matter of time before Dave mentioned the word divorce. Yet now he was talking about starting a family.
"Of course I mean it. You said you wanted kids someday. Now we can afford one."
Trisha jumped from her seat, ran to her husband and kissed him on the lips.
"Oh, Dave, you don't know how happy you've made me! I want more than anything for us to start a family."
With the prospect of motherhood on the horizon, Trisha's outlook brightened considerably, and she became more outgoing. She began socializing with her neighbors and soon joined the local coffee klatch. Like her, none of her newfound friends worked, and all had husbands who were wealthy and successful in their chosen fields, be it law, medicine, business or the arts. Two of the women were pregnant, three had small children and two others, like Trisha, were new to the neighborhood and anxious to start a family.
It was as September was drawing to a close that Trisha announced to her friends over cake and coffee that she was pregnant.
"Who's your obstetrician?" one childless friend asked. "Just in case I need one in the near future."
"Dr. John Mabie."
"Does your husband know about him?" asked one of the women who already had children.
"Not yet. Dave's on a book-signing tour, and I haven't been able to tell him the good news. Why? Have you heard anything bad about Dr. Mabie?"
"No. It's just that Dr. Sennett delivers all the babies born in our neighborhood."
"Well, I like Dr. Mabie. I'm comfortable with him."
"I'm just saying you should discuss your choice of doctor with your husband before making any definite plans."
Trisha bristled. Dave didn't consult her when it came to decisions affecting his career; she didn't see why she had to consult him when it came to selecting an obstetrician.
* * *
"What do you mean you've cancelled my doctor's appointment?" Trisha cried when she learned Dave had phoned Dr. Mabie.
"It's our child, not just yours. I want it to have the best possible prenatal care. I've asked Dr. Sennett to stop by after dinner."
"Are you serious? An obstetrician who makes house calls?"
"Sennett is one of the best doctors in Connecticut, if not all New England, and he lives right here in the neighborhood. Ask your friends. They'll tell you what a good doctor he is."
She had already asked her friends, and they all sang Sennett's praises, but .... Maybe she was being too sensitive. Perhaps her hormones were working overtime. Yet it seemed to her that the women's responses were rehearsed, as though they were reading from a script.
Suddenly Trisha saw herself as Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby, being forced to see the illustrious Dr. Sapirstein instead of Dr. Hill.
"Wait a minute!" she told herself. "This isn't a horror story. I'm not carrying the child of Satan who will be snatched out of my womb and handed over to a witches' coven."
Her notions seemed even more absurd when she met Dr. Sennett after dinner later that night. Rather than an ambitious male witch, the highly regarded obstetrician resembled the grandfatherly Kris Kringle, straight out of Miracle on 34th Street.
"I have delivered hundreds of babies, my dear," Dr. Sennett proudly declared when Trish mentioned her pregnancy. "In fact, I brought every child in this neighborhood into the world. Forgive me if I take too much pride in my accomplishments, but I have no children of my own. Alas, my poor wife died at a young age, and I never remarried."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you, but there is no need for sympathy. I have had consolations: my patients, my friends, my home."
After having met him, Trisha had to admit she liked the old man, and she felt just as comfortable with him as she did with Dr. Mabie. In the end, it was not her assessment of either obstetrician that affected her decision, nor was it the advice of her friends or the opinion of her husband. Her only thought was for her child. She knew how socially conscious the world was, and she feared there might be a stigma attached to being the only child in the neighborhood not delivered by Dr. Sennett.
* * *
One day when Trisha went to Dr. Sennett's office for her monthly check-up, Kerry O'Hagan, his nurse, informed her that the doctor had been called to the hospital to perform an emergency Caesarian section.
"I can reschedule you for next week," she offered, "or, if you prefer, you can save yourself the drive and come back this afternoon."
"That sounds like a good idea. Do you have any suggestions where I can get something to eat for lunch?"
"Well, there's the coffee shop in the hospital," Kerry replied, "but the food is like all hospital food—nutritious but not very tasty. Then there's a hamburger place one block over. They've got excellent food."
After stopping at a grocery store to pick up some items for dinner, Trisha drove to the restaurant the nurse had told her about. When she walked through the entrance, she was surprised to see Kerry sitting alone at a table for two.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Trisha asked.
"Not at all. I'd love to have the company."
While eating, the two women chatted about Trisha's pregnancy and Kerry's children.
"You live near Dr. Sennett, don't you?" the nurse asked.
"In the same neighborhood. He tells me he delivers all the babies in that area."
A troubled look came over the nurse's face.
"Yes. It's odd, but those women ... oh, never mind."
"No, what were you going to say? What about those women?"
"I don't mean to alarm you, but it seems that women from your neighborhood have a tendency to miscarry. I asked the doctor about it once, but he insists it's only a coincidence and that I might be reading too many Stephen King novels."
"I have coffee with my neighbors several times a week," Trisha said, "and no one has mentioned a miscarriage to me."
The nurse was eager to end the conversation.
"See, the doctor must be right. It's all in my imagination. How's your hamburger? Didn't I tell you the food here is terrific?"
* * *
"Where's Sue?" Trisha asked when she walked into her neighbor's house and noticed one of the group was missing.
"Oh, the poor thing," her neighbor said.
"What's wrong?"
"She lost her baby—a miscarriage."
"But she was doing so well."
"It was an accident. She slipped on a wet tile floor and fell."
"Tell me," Trisha prompted, "has anyone else in this development had a miscarriage?"
"Yes. Despite our modern medical care, women still lose babies. It's not as uncommon as people like to believe. But let's not talk about such a depressing subject. Would you like a slice of crumb cake with your coffee?"
Before Trisha could reply, the front door opened and in walked a beautiful woman with dazzling green eyes and flaming red hair, worn long and down her back.
"Oh, here's the newest member of our little group," the neighbor announced. "This is Maeve Leary; she just moved here from New Jersey."
When the redhead was introduced to Trisha, her green eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're Dave Milner's wife, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am. Why? Have you met my husband?"
"Only briefly, but I'm familiar with his name. You see, my cousin is his agent."
"So you're from New Jersey. What brings you to Connecticut?" Trisha inquired.
"I'm a professor of Native American studies, and I'm taking a sabbatical to write a book on folklore of the eastern tribes. I'm here to research several legends concerning the Pequot."
"Will your cousin represent you?"
"More than likely, yes. She is one of the best agents in the business, but I'm sure you already know that."
There was something about the accomplished Maeve Leary that put Trisha off. It was more than a simple case of a beautiful woman making a plain one feel inferior. There was something duplicitous about the redhead, and Trisha felt threatened by her.
"With Estelle behind you, your book ought to be a success."
"If only it were that easy," Maeve laughed. "Success isn't a gift. It must be earned with great sacrifice. The Lenni Lenape believed that Horitt Manitto, the Great Spirit, had an evil subordinate known as Manunckus Manitto. The Lenape made sacrifice to Manunckus Manitto by giving him the first fruits of their labor: when they went fishing, the first fish caught were burned in a sacrificial fire. The same applied to the first fruit grown on a tree and the first animal killed on a hunt."
Trisha was about to make light of the matter by asking if Maeve planned on burning her first manuscript on a sacrificial fire, but she held her tongue when she saw the anguished look on her neighbor's face.
* * *
With Maeve Leary in the group, Trisha began looking for reasons not to attend the coffee klatches. Her pregnancy made it easy; she could always say she wasn't feeling well. When the changing season brought falling snow, she used the weather as an excuse.
Solitude, coupled with the dreariness of a New England winter, would dishearten most people, but, thankfully, Dave didn't have any book signings scheduled until the spring. Trisha would at least have her husband's company, even if he did spend the majority of his time working on his next novel.
"It'll be so nice when the baby gets here," she mused. "I can sit in the rocking chair in front of the fireplace and sing him or her to sleep."
With a child, her life would have purpose again, and she wouldn't feel so lonely.
While she was lost in her thoughts, she heard Dave open the hall closet door and take out his coat.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I have to talk to Estelle about the deadline for my new book."
"Can't you call her on the phone?"
"I want to walk over there. I'm hoping the cold air will clear my head."
"Will you be long?"
"I don't know," Dave said, rolling his eyes with annoyance.
He hated when his wife nagged at him.
Her husband was gone only a few minutes when Trisha heard a soft knocking at the back door. It was Sue, the young woman who had recently suffered a miscarriage. Trisha was shocked by her neighbor's bedraggled appearance, as she stood shivering on the back steps.
"Come on in; it must be freezing outside! Where's your coat?"
"I didn't have time to get it. I've been watching your house. I had to wait until your husband left and when mine wasn't looking."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
Sue broke down in tears.
"They killed my baby!"
"Who killed your baby? What are you saying?"
"They did: my husband and Dr. Sennett."
"Please calm down," Trisha said, trying to soothe her distraught friend. "Why would your husband and your doctor want to kill your baby?"
"For money, success, fame."
"I know you're upset, but you're not making any sense."
"Believe what you will, but I had to come here and warn you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to live with myself."
"Warn me about what?" Trisha asked, fighting down a growing sense of dread.
"You're next."
"No. This is crazy! I won't listen to any more of your ravings."
"Do you really think your husband is that good a writer that he can afford all this after only one book?"
"What does Dave have to do with anything? He would never let anyone hurt our baby."
"I didn't want to believe my husband would hurt ours either," Sue cried, "but he did. I overheard him talking to Estelle Kidder and Dr. Sennett, some nonsense about the first fruits of his labors, and that night I miscarried. Dr. Sennett came to the house and gave me a shot to put me to sleep, but before I dozed off I saw my husband put the fetus in the fireplace. I wasn't dreaming! It really happened!"
"I don't believe it; I can't believe it."
"You must! You've got to save your baby. Your husband is meeting with Dr. Sennett right now."
Sue could have lost her mind after losing her child, but Trisha didn't want to take the chance that she might be right. With her child's safety at stake, Trisha had to give her friend the benefit of the doubt.
"I've got to pack some things," she said.
"There's no time. You've got to leave now," Sue urged. "Dave could come home any moment."
Trisha took her winter coat and boots out of the hall closet and got her purse from the living room.
"If you need anything—clothes, food, money, whatever—just call me," Sue instructed.
Trembling from both fear and the cold, Trisha got into her car and drove away. When she reached the stop sign at the intersection with Main Street, she put her foot on the brake. The pedal went to the floor, but the car never slowed. Her last thought before the collision was that Sue had been right.
* * *
The patient stared at the unfamiliar surroundings.
"Where am I?"
"You're at Good Shepherd," the nurse replied, her eyes wide with surprise. "Are you feeling all right? Do you know who you are?"
"Of course, I do. My name is Trisha Marie Milner. I was born on November 1, 1984 in Puritan Falls, Massachusetts."
"This is wonderful!" the nurse exclaimed and then ran out into the hall. "Dr. Sutphen, the patient has regained consciousness!"
"My baby?" Trisha asked when the doctor walked into her room. "Is my baby okay?"
"I'm afraid you lost your child," the doctor answered. "You had a miscarriage. The loss, followed by the death of your friend, Susan Patterson, drove you to attempt suicide."
"What? Sue isn't dead. I spoke to her before the accident."
"Sue died five years ago, as did your unborn child."
"Five years?" Trisha echoed with disbelief.
"This is the first time you've been lucid since you tried to kill yourself."
"You've got it wrong. My baby was still alive when I said goodbye to Sue, got in the car and drove away. There was something wrong with the brakes; that's what caused the accident."
"Your husband tells it differently. He says that when you learned of your friend's death, just a few days after you miscarried, you got into your car and sped away. He went after you, but you were bent on killing yourself. You drove right out onto a busy street without stopping. Thankfully neither you nor anyone else was killed."
"But that's not how it happened!"
"There were other witnesses: your husband's agent and a college professor were with him at the time of the accident, as was your obstetrician, Dr. Sennett, a well-known and highly respected physician. They all corroborate your husband's story."
Of course they did! They were all in on it. But Trisha dare not voice her opinion, for if she did Dr. Sutphen would doubt her sanity.
"Does my husband come to visit me?" she asked.
"He did at first, but then ...."
"What? Has something happened to him?"
"After the accident, you went into a coma. That's why they sent you to this long term care facility. The doctors had little hope that you would come out of it, so your husband .... Look, there's no easy way to tell you this, so I'll just come out and say it: your husband divorced you and remarried."
"I don't suppose you know who he married?" Trisha asked.
"Yes, I do. Both your ex-husband and Maeve Leary are well-known authors whose names are frequently on the bestseller lists."
Trisha turned her head toward the wall and fought back her tears.
So they're celebrities, she thought bitterly. They probably have everything they've ever wanted and no doubt think they'll enjoy the fruits of their evil labors. Unfortunately for them, I didn't die after they tinkered with the brakes on my car, nor will I let them go unpunished for killing my baby. I'll make them all pay: Estelle, Maeve, Dr. Sennett and especially Dave.
"Doctor Sutphen?" she called sweetly as the physician was walking out of the room.
"Yes?"
"Would you do me a favor? Please promise me you won't tell my husband about my recovery. I don't want to ruin his happiness."
"If that's what you wish, I'll instruct the staff not to contact him. And," he added, "after a few days of observation, I'll see about getting you discharged. There's no reason why you need to be in a nursing facility."
"Thank you."
Trisha drifted off to a peaceful sleep, knowing that when she left Good Shepherd, her life would have purpose again.
Salem likes fruit. It's labor he's not fond of.
