in gold, olive, and rust, all hand-painted in Tuscany, Darcy had explained when Deborah had admired them on an earlier visit.
Darcy sat at a hexagonal table built into the breakfast nook. She wore a large cotton sweater over a pair of tights, and had her bad foot resting on the seat of the adjacent chair. The table was strewn with papers.
“How’s the book coming?” Deborah asked, regarding the papers with a smile as she set her bag on the table.
“Slow,” Darcy said and proceeded to blame her ankle for distraction, her arthritis specialist for unresponsiveness, and her absent husband for disinterest.
Deborah knew scapegoating when she heard it. Moreover, she didn’t have to look at Darcy’s ankle to see the immediate problem, though she did an appropriate amount of prodding. “No break,” she concluded, as she had known she would. “Just your arthritis kicking up.”
“So bad?”
Gently, Deborah said, “You’ve gained more weight.”
Darcy gave a dismissive headshake. “I’m holding steady.”
Denial was right up there with scapegoating. Taking a direct approach, Deborah peered under the table. “Is that a bag of chips on the floor behind you?”
“They’re low fat.”
“They’re still chips,” Deborah said. “We’ve talked about this. You’re a beautiful woman who is carrying around fifty pounds too much weight.”
“Not fifty. Maybe thirty.”
Deborah didn’t argue. Darcy had been thirty pounds overweight when she had last been to the office, but that was two years ago. Seeing a specialist was a convenient excuse not to have to face one’s own doctor’s unforgiving scale.
“Here’s the thing,” Deborah said, gentle again. “Arthritis is a real disease. We know you have it. The medication you take helps, but you have to do your part, too. Think of carrying a fifty-pound weight around in your arms all day. Think of the extra stress that puts on your ankles.”
“I really don’t eat very much,” Darcy said with feeling.
“Maybe not, but what you do eat is bad for you, and you don’t exercise.”
“How can I exercise, if I can’t walk?”
“Take some of the weight off, and you will be able to walk. Set yourself up in the den, Darcy. Working here in the kitchen is too convenient for snacking. Start slowly. Walk up and down stairs three times a day, or to the mailbox and back. I’m not asking you to run a marathon.”
“You shouldn’t,” Darcy advised. “Fast is not always good. I heard about your accident.”
Deborah was taken off guard. “My accident?”
“Speed does it every time.”
Deborah might have informed her that speed had not been involved, but it was the wrong direction to take. “We were talking about your weight, Darcy. You can blame arthritis, or your husband, or Dr. Habib, or me. But you’re the only one who can change your life.”
“I can’t cure arthritis.”
“No, but you can make it easier to live with. Have you given more thought to taking a job outside your home?” They had talked about that at length last time Deborah had visited.
“If I do that, I’ll never finish my book.”
“You could work part-time.”
“Dean earns more than enough.”
“I know that. But you need to be busier than you are, particularly when he’s gone.”
“How can I work if I can’t walk?” Darcy asked, and Deborah grew impatient. Taking a pad from her bag, she wrote down a name and number.
“This woman is a physical therapist. She’s the best. Give her a call.” She returned the pad to her bag.
“Does she come to the house?”
“I don’t think so. You may just have to go there,” Deborah said with a perverse satisfaction that had vanished by the time she left the house. Like so many of her patients, Darcy LeMay had issues that went beyond the physical. Loneliness was one; boredom, denial, and low self-esteem were others. On a normal day, Deborah might have spent more time addressing them. But there was nothing normal about today.
She had barely returned to the office when the school nurse called to say that Grace had thrown up in the girls’ bathroom and needed to be picked up. How could Deborah refuse? She knew that Grace would have already taken the biology exam, and yes, she would miss the rest of the day’s classes, plus track, but if Deborah’s own stomach lurched at the thought of the accident, she could imagine how Grace felt.
The girl’s face was pale, her forehead warm. Deborah was helping her off the cot in the nurse’s office when the woman said, “We heard about the accident. I’m sure the talk didn’t help Grace.”
Deborah nodded, but didn’t want to discuss it in front of her daughter. Once in the car, Grace put her head back and closed her eyes.
Deborah started driving. “Was the test bad?”
“The test wasn’t the problem.”
“How’d they find out about the accident?”
“There was an announcement in homeroom.”
“Saying that it was our car that hit him?”
Grace said nothing, but Deborah could piece together the answer. The school wouldn’t have said it, but Mack Tully would have told Marty Stevens, who told his kids, who told the kids on their school bus, who told all the kids on the steps of the school. And that wasn’t counting the phone calls Shelley Wyeth would have made en route from the bakery to work. Even Darcy LeMay, who lived in another town, had heard about the accident. Gossip was that way, spreading with the frightening speed of a virulent flu.
“Are they asking you questions?”
“They don’t have to. I hear them anyway.”
“It was an accident,” Deborah said, as much to herself as to Grace.
The girl opened her eyes. “What if they take your license away?”
“They won’t.”
“What if they charge you with something?”
“They won’t.”
“Did they tell you that at the police station?”
“I haven’t been yet. I’m going there after I drop you home.” Her daughter’s expression flickered. “And no, you can’t come.”
Grace closed her eyes again. This time, Deborah let her be.
The Leyland police department was housed next to Town
