Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [18]
Hurt flashed in Sam’s eyes. “It wasn’t about the sex for me, but when I tried to suggest moving our relationship to another level, you shot it down. You never gave us a chance.” He turned and crossed the yard to where his car was parked.
I shut the door and leaned against it. I would not second-guess breaking up with Sam. Alzheimer’s was not only sucking away my mother but also claiming my life. I had nothing left to give.
I closed my eyes.
Chapter Five
A terrible silence filled the tomb. I was completely alone. Don’t panic. Above all, don’t panic. I tried to lift my hand but couldn’t. I opened my mouth and screamed for help yet no sound came out. I was buried alive with no one to save me. I had to get out. I had to live.
I jerked awake and took a long shuddering breath. I was in my bedroom. I sat up and ran my fingers through damp, tangled waves of hair. The bitching headache I’d had earlier was only an annoying throb. Now I remembered. Carling had insisted that I lie down for awhile. I must have fallen asleep. I checked the clock on the bedside table. Four o’clock.
Injury downtime was over; I had pressing questions about my client’s case that required answers. The Whitmans had apologized profusely for not telling me about their first baby’s death. Brian’s explanation was that they had been too distraught over Rebecca’s loss. I’d let the omission slide for now, but we did need a heart-to-heart conference.
After heading into the bathroom, I tossed back another aspirin, pulled my hair into a loose ponytail and checked myself in the mirror.
Still a little pale but with my redhead’s fair complexion, that state was chronic. And recently so were the dark shadows under my eyes. Because Mom had drilled me about public appearances since I was a small child, I applied mascara and blush before slicking on my favorite shade of peach lipstick.
I studied the results and nodded. Better. At least I was presentable.
“What are you doing?” Carling’s reflection appeared in the mirror. She folded her arms and glared.
“Putting on some makeup so Mother won’t go ballistic.” I turned around and leaned against the counter. I kept my tone nonchalant. “You know how she is. Even when she doesn’t recognize me, she’ll rag me about wearing lipstick.”
Carling grinned. “When I first arrived, she lectured me about not wearing a dress.”
“A common complaint.” Mom had never accepted the more casual Floridian attire. Growing up she drove me to school decked out in a dress, hose and high heels while other mothers had been in T-shirts and shorts.
Carling gave a nod toward the living room. “Sophie’s here.”
Sophie was the most recent addition to my strained budget. I paid the good-natured Hispanic woman to watch my mother while I worked. She prepared meals and helped me with the cleaning. A godsend, Mom had taken to her despite her increasing paranoia about strangers.
“How’s the movie going?” asked Carling.
“Only a few more weeks left of taking her to the recording studio.” Mom had been approached by an old friend about voicing a minor character in an upcoming animated film. She’d been ecstatic. All her life she’d dreamed of being in the movies but had never been able to make the transition from stage to film.
The gig sounded ideal. All she had to do was record her lines at a Miami studio. When the cast had been announced, Mom had been in the local media spotlight and she’d gloried in the attention.
Then she’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. After speaking with the doctor, I discussed the situation with Mom’s friend. He’d agreed to let her go forward, but for Mom’s sake no word of her condition had been leaked to the press.
“She’s amazing, Carling. The technicians think she’s cute when she messes up their names or forgets who they are entirely. However, the moment the recording begins, she nails her lines.”
“You spend hours rehearsing with her.”
I shrugged. “True, but it’s like deep down there