The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [9]
She looked past Dr. Larch to see her husband of eleven months standing in the doorway, looking rather pale, his thick eyebrows drawn together, his arms crossed over his chest. Such a nice-looking man he was, all big and solid, his hair light and wavy, lots of hair, not bald like Dr. Larch. He wore aviator glasses, which looked really cool, and now she watched him push them back up, an endearing habit—at least that’s what she’d thought when she’d first met him.
“Lily?”
“Yes,” she said and wished he’d stay in the doorway. Dr. Larch straightened and turned to him. “Dr. Frasier, as I told you, your wife will be fine, once she recovers from the surgery. However, she does need to rest. I suggest that you visit for only a few minutes.”
“I am very tired, Tennyson,” she said and hated the small shudder in her voice. “Perhaps we could speak later?”
“Oh, no,” he said. And then he waited, saying nothing more until Dr. Larch left the room, fingering his stethoscope. He looked nervous. Lily wondered why. Tennyson closed the door, paused yet again, studying her, then, finally, he walked to stand beside her bed. He gently eased her hand out from under the covers, something she wished he wouldn’t do, rubbed his fingers over her palm for several moments before saying in a sad, soft voice, “Why did you do it, Lily? Why?”
He made it sound like it was all over for her. No, she was being ridiculous. She said, “I don’t know that I did anything, Tennyson. You see, I have no memory at all of the accident.”
He waved away her words. He had strong hands, confident hands. “I know and I’m sorry about that. Look, Lily, maybe it was an accident, maybe somehow you lost control and drove the Explorer into the redwood. One of the nurses told me that the Forest Service has someone on the spot to see how badly the tree is injured.”
“Dr. Rossetti already told me. Poor tree.”
“It isn’t funny, Lily. Now, you’re going to be here for at least another two or three days, until they’re sure your body is functioning well again. I would like you to speak with Dr. Rossetti. He’s a new man with quite an excellent reputation.”
“I’ve already seen him. I don’t wish to see him again, Tennyson.”
His voice changed now, became even softer, more gentle, and she knew she would normally have wanted to cry, to fold into herself, to have him reassure her, tell her the bogeyman wouldn’t come back, but not now. It was probably the morphine making her feel slightly euphoric, slightly disconnected. But she also felt rather strong, perhaps even on the arrogant side, and that, of course, was an illusion to beat all illusions.
“Since you don’t remember anything, Lily, you’ve got to admit that it wouldn’t hurt to cover all the bases. I really want you to see him.”
“I don’t like him, Tennyson. How can I speak to someone I don’t like?”
“You will see him, Lily, or I’m afraid we’ll have to consider an institution.”
“Oh? We will consider an institution? What sort of institution?” Why wasn’t she afraid of that word that brought a wealth of dreadful images with it? But she wasn’t afraid. She was looking at him positively bright-eyed. She loved morphine. She was tiring; she could feel the vagueness trying to close her down, eating away at the focus in her brain, but for this moment, maybe even the next, too, she could deal with anything.
He squeezed her hand. “I’m a doctor, Lily, a psychiatrist, as is Dr. Rossetti. You know it isn’t ethical for me to treat you myself.”
“You prescribed the Elavil.”
“That’s different. That’s a very common drug for depression. No, I couldn’t speak with you like Dr. Rossetti can. But you must know that I want what is best for you. I love you and I’ve prayed you were getting better. One day at a time, I kept telling myself. And there were some days when I knew you were healing, but I was wrong. Yes, you really must see Dr. Rossetti or I’m afraid I will have