Staying Alive Read online

  Staying Alive

  Vera Lafleur

  Cover design by Cynthia Ormseth

  Orca GRFX

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2014 Vera Lafleur

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1503183203

  ISBN-13: 9781503183209

  For Ted, our children and their spouses and five wonderful grandchildren

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  Atlanta, Georgia

  2009

  I hadn’t asked for this assignment but after thinking about it awhile, I decided it had interesting possibilities. Not that I had much choice. Stan, my boss, was sold on the subject and he’s like a dog with a bone when he gets an idea he likes. He’s the editor of our monthly regional magazine, Around Atlanta, and although hard news it is not, my job as staff writer for the magazine was one I wanted to keep.

  What Stan wanted me to do was interview several immigrant families, newly minted Americans, he called them, and write an in-depth article about how they were coping with life in their new country.

  “It’s timely, and if you do it right, it should be thought provoking.”

  “Wow, Stan, thanks for the confidence!”

  He grinned at me. “You’re welcome. Oh, and Claire, make sure they’re legal.”

  “What immigrant family will let me write about them if they’re not legal?”

  “Good point,” he conceded. “I’ve given you a leg up on that. Called someone I know at Immigration and got a list of possibilities for you. All these people were recently granted citizenship and all have agreed they can be contacted. Ruth has their names and addresses.”

  “Thanks, boss,” I said, backing out the door and heading for the secretary’s desk.

  Ruth was on the phone but she knew what I wanted, handing over Stan’s list without pausing in her conversation with her daughter. They were discussing Ruth’s rebellious teenage granddaughter, a subject I knew was a sore point with both women. Ruth had typed Stan’s hand-written note for which I was grateful, his handwriting being notoriously awful.

  Back in my cubicle, I studied the list. There were ten families named but I knew those were only possibilities. Three different families should be enough, especially since Stan wanted an in-depth look at each of them.

  The countries of origin were also listed. For starters, I circled three that seemed divergent enough for contrast—Honduras, Kuwait and Japan. I guessed they all spoke English. I’d read someplace that was a requirement for citizenship.

  No telephone numbers were listed but maybe knocking on doors was best anyway. I didn’t expect a cold call to get me an immediate interview, but I’d get a first impression, enough to know whether an interview was something I wanted to pursue. If I struck out, I’d simply choose another name.

  The family from Kuwait had an address in Ansley Park and the Honduran family near the Hartsfield airport. The Japanese family lived in an apartment in Loring Heights which was the closest to our office in Midtown. A good place to start.

  Fifteen minutes later I was driving along their street looking for building D. I found it in a complex of six building high-rises set back from the street. Building D, like the other five, was a beige brick structure bordered by a fringe of green grass and surrounded by grey asphalt marked off for parking. Several ornamental shrubs strategically placed around the building softened the look.

  The family I was here to see was named Inusuka. They lived on the second floor, apartment 206. I rode the elevator to the second floor and rang their doorbell. No answer. I knocked forcefully on the door and it swung open under my hand. This was not what I expected.

  “Mr. Inusuka,” I called loudly. “Mrs. Inusuka. Is anyone home?”

  I took a step inside the living room and looked around. Pale blue walls, a splash of color from a large impressionist painting, nice furniture. On the floor, a pair of jean clad legs half hidden behind the couch. I stood transfixed for a moment and then stumbled across the hardwood floor toward the figure. A spill of blond hair, a woman’s face, battered and bloody.

  A man suddenly vaulted from behind the couch and lurched toward me. Tall and muscular with disheveled brown hair, his face a mask of fury, his upright arms holding an iron pipe, swinging, swinging—

  “Claire, Claire O’Connell. Wake up, Claire. You’re going to be all right. Open your eyes.”

  Not all right. Eyes heavy.

  “Wake up, Claire. Open your eyes.”

  Don’t want to.

  “Open your eyes, Claire. You’re in Recovery.”

  Recovery from what?

  “Your family is anxious to see you. They’ve been waiting for hours.”

  White cap, white dress.

  “Good girl. You’re awake. You’re in the hospital, Claire, but you’ll be fine.”

  The truth was I was not fine, but I was also not dead, which I’m sure is what that man in apartment 206D intended when he saw me bending over the woman he’d just clubbed to death.

  He hadn’t put the same energy into his attack on me. He was able to get in several good licks, but the sound of a police siren caused him to flee before he could finish the job. It was only a traffic cop chasing a speeder, but that siren probably saved my life. His hurried attack on me was more like frantic scrapes, the threads of the pipe raking across my scalp, taking skin and hair in painful strips. Somehow, I had managed to remain conscious long enough to call 911 on my cell.

  The police have identified the murdered woman as Geneva Wesley. That was her apartment the man invaded. Well, we both invaded, actually. The Japanese family I was looking for live in apartment 206B, not D as Ruth interpreted from Stan’s scribble. That’s a mistake they’re both still apologizing for, although I’ve told them repeatedly it was an understandable error and nobody’s fault.

  When I was finally able to leave the hospital, Detective John Owens, the young officer assigned to the case, had me look through book after book of mug shots to no avail. The police are also circulating an artist’s drawing of the man based on my description, but he’s still out there somewhere.

  Meanwhile, I was languishing at home on sick leave enjoying the ministrations of my father, Edwin O’Connell, and my fiancé, Brad Whitney.

  My father and Brad had been beside themselves worrying about me at the hospital and at home, two weeks later, they were still taking turns hovering over me until I shooed them away.

  “I’m fine,” I t
old them, repeating the hospital nurse’s litany. I neglected to tell them that I was sometimes dizzy on standing and that the multiple cuts on my scalp felt like they’d been stitched together with baling wire.

  One of my problems is vanity. My head was covered with so many cuts and scrapes that my shoulder length auburn hair was cut short at the hospital and shaved where stitches were needed. The effect of patches of dark hair surrounding bald areas looked so ridiculous I told them to shave it all off and now my entire head is covered with an ugly half inch of stubble. As I look in the hand mirror on my bedside table I see a short-haired porcupine.

  I returned the mirror to the table as my father knocked on the door and stuck his head inside. “Claire, honey, what can I fix you for lunch?”

  “Go home, Dad. I can fix my own lunch.”

  “I know you can, but I want to feel like I’m helping. Let your old Dad pretend he’s needed.”

  “You know I need you, Dad, but so does Annabel. You’ve not been married long, remember?”

  “Annabel has my attention whenever it’s warranted, but right now she’s busy in her shop and everything there is under control. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Okay,” I told him, knowing he’d cajole me until I gave him something to do. “I’d like a small bowl of soup and half a ham sandwich.”

  “Coming up,” he said jauntily, leaving the room. Slim and full of energy, my father was a paragon of helpfulness and good will. I was grateful that he and Annabel were happily married; it was a long-awaited match.

  My new stepmother had been a widow for many years and my own parents divorced when I was very young. I grew up in California with my mother. After I graduated from college, she married a retired industrialist from Arizona and I came to live with my father in his Atlanta apartment. Since his marriage to Annabel, who has a house in Decatur, the apartment became all mine.

  Living alone was a luxury I was enjoying until my run in with a maniac and his iron pipe. I’d never lived all by myself before. First there was my mother, then my father, and in another year or so Brad and I will be married. Sure, coming home to an empty apartment can be lonely at times, but not having to worry about someone else’s schedule or sensitivities is a nice change of pace for a while.

  Pampering has its benefits too, but I decided it was time I declared my independence. Climbing out of bed, I shucked my pajamas, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went into the kitchen. My father was at the stove ladling steaming soup into a bowl.

  “I decided to join the living,” I told him.

  “Glad to have you. Sure you’re up to it?”

  I took a seat at the table. “My invalid status is over.”

  He sat the soup in front of me and then brought over the half sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

  “Brad can’t be here for another hour or so, but I should get to work. Think you can manage by yourself for a little while?”

  “Of course, Dad.”

  “I could call and tell them I’ll be late again but Clint’s been covering for me, and—”

  “Go, Dad, go. I’m fine.”

  His job at the Ford dealership usually began in early afternoon and lasted into the evening hours. He left, finally, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The telephone rang before I could finish my lunch. That was probably my mother. She’d called every day since Dad had informed her of my “incident.”

  But it was Stan, also anxious about the state of my health which I informed him was improving every day. I wasn’t sure if he was calling out of guilt or fishing for when I’d be getting back to work. Of course, there was also the possibility that he really did want to know how I was doing.

  That call over, I managed to finish my sandwich and the now cooled soup before the phone rang again. This time it was Detective Owens, the lead officer assigned to the Wesley murder investigation. He duly asked how I was feeling and then wanted to know if I’d remembered anything more about my attacker. He said they’d eliminated the dead woman’s ex-husband and her current boyfriend as possible suspects. I got the impression they didn’t have much more to go on.

  Finishing the conversation, I brought my dirty dishes to the sink and managed to wash and stack them on the drain before the phone rang again. As expected, the call this time was from my mother and also as expected, she had the same questions about my health to which I gave the same stock answers. And no, there was absolutely no need for her to come to Atlanta.

  By the time Brad arrived I was tired talking about the state of my health so I told him I was feeling fine before he had a chance to ask.

  “In that case, how about us going rollerblading in Piedmont Park?”

  I pretended to give his suggestion some thought. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” I told him finally.

  He laughed and drew me to him and kissed me, then tweaked the scarf I’d tied around my porcupine head.

  “You’re beautiful,” he told me, “with or without hair. It will grow back. Stop agonizing over it.”

  “Easy for you to say. Now I know how a poodle feels after it’s been groomed.”

  “Poodles don’t have beautiful green eyes.”

  “Is that my compensation for baldness?”

  “One of many.” He pulled me to him again. “God, Claire, I was so worried when you were in the hospital.”

  “You worried for nothing,” I whispered. “I have a very hard head.”

  “Yes, you do. But I love you anyway.”

  My eyes misted and I clung to him as he led me to the couch.

  “Mom sends her best wishes,” he said, settling down beside me. “She said she’d like us to come for a visit.”

  “Not until I can get rid of this,” I said, touching the scarf around my head.

  Brad’s parents divorced almost two years ago and his mother immediately married a much younger man. They’re living in Manhattan. Brad said the new husband is a painter of abstract art. I remember his father had called the man an opportunist, among other things. At the time, of course, Mr. Whitney was still smarting over his wife leaving him.

  Whatever the truth, the sad fact was that we were both children of divorce, not a very good role model for our own marriage. But I loved Brad dearly and I knew he loved me too. I couldn’t imagine our marriage ending in divorce. We were friends first, good friends, before we fell in love. That surely must be a good omen.

  Good omen, bad omen, is there any such thing? Was the fate of Mr. Whitney’s marriage a precursor to his own fate? Two months ago he was killed by a hit and run driver while crossing a street in downtown Atlanta. His death was shocking and painful to me and even more so to Brad. He and his father hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but in the last months before his death they’d become very close. I knew he was still mourning his father and trying not to show it for my benefit.

  He draped his arm around my shoulders. “When you’re better, and have more hair, we’ll visit Mom and hubby in New York. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  Brad shook his head. “Cameron Markos, Mrs. Erik Markos; it’s hard for me to think of Mom with that name.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he’s from around here,” I said.

  He laughed. “His ancestors are Greek, according to Mother. They didn’t come at the same time as the Mayflower, but they’ve been here awhile—a few generations, anyway. And I understand his family is loaded. He inherited a bundle when his father died. To hear him talk, you’d think he was related to the Onassis clan. My mother has found someone who doesn’t mind flaunting his wealth.”

  “Good news for your mother.”

  “Part of his charm, I’m sure.” Brad gave a resigned sigh. “Don’t get me wrong; I love my mother, but she does enjoy the good life.”

  “Not an unreasonable desire,” I pointed out.

  He shrugged sheepishly. “Guess I’m not being fair to either Mom or Erik. I’ve only met her husband once—well twice, actually. But the second time was at Dad’s funer
al, so I don’t think that counts.” He was silent for a moment before adding, “You met them only briefly at the funeral, so we’re both due a real visit. If nothing else, it’ll be an opportunity for us to see a couple of Broadway shows and take in the sights.”

  “We’ll do it,” I said, “only later.”

  “Right.” He pulled me closer and began kissing me. “You’re still feeling fine?”

  “A little shaky from all this kissing.”

  “Your Dad said he’d be back around nine-thirty. Then he’ll expect me to go home.”

  “So?”

  “So doesn’t he have a new wife to go home to himself?”

  “Yes, he does. The simple solution is for both of you to go home.”

  “Or—I could stay here with you tonight.”

  “You know Dad would never stand for that.”

  “Aren’t you a fully grown adult?”

  I laughed. “Not really. Not in Dad’s eyes. And I don’t want to hurt him, Brad.”

  He leaned his head back against the couch. “There’s another solution that I’ve suggested time and time again.” He reached for my left hand with its sparkle of diamond. “Another ring goes with that one, you know. Why don’t we just get married?”

  “Tonight?”

  “No, not tonight. But a Justice of the Peace could do it quickly.”

  “My father wouldn’t forgive that either, and my mother would have a stroke. She’s looking forward to a white dress and all the trimmings.”

  Brad groaned.

  “I’ve been trying to lower her expectations. Maybe a small garden wedding after you graduate. I thought we’d already decided to wait.”

  Brad is a graduate student at Emory. He was a practicing attorney for a couple of years at his father’s firm but was so unhappy there that he decided to change careers. His goal is a PhD in history and a teaching position at the college level. When he told me his plans, I knew instantly he’d made the right decision. Brad has never been the button-down lawyer type. Tall, with brown hair and eyes and a comfortably handsome face, he projects a kind of casual, rumpled look. He’s also bright and funny with a laid-back irreverent streak and a smile that melts my heart.