Her phone started ringing at seven a.m. The first call was from Dr. Chuck Crenshaw, the doctor who headed the group of physicians staffing the ER at Centennial Hospital. “Sarah, I was out of town this weekend, and I didn’t hear about the fire at your place until last night. Are you okay?”
“Yes, thanks, Chuck.” She went on to explain about the minimal damage, deciding not to get into the emotional upheaval the event had caused. “I’m planning to work my shift as scheduled this evening.”
“Well, let me know if you need someone to cover for you. And if there’s anything any of us can do . . . ” He let the sentence hang unfinished, but Sarah knew what the thought behind it was.
“Thanks,” Sarah said, and ended the call.
If there was anything that could be done for Harry’s widow . . . If anyone could help out in this stressful time . . . If she needed . . . The sentiments were the same ones she’d heard eight months ago when her husband and daughter were snatched from her by the auto accident. She’d appreciated the gestures then. She appreciated them now, but they also served as a reminder of her loss. More than that, they marked a change in her, a change that doubtless others saw as well. What’s happened to me? A woman doctor’s supposed to be strong. An ER doctor has to be independent. I still function adequately in my professional role, but I’ve lost the edge I once had.
After she married Harry, Sarah had developed the habit of shedding her independence when she left the hospital. At work, she had to be decisive, in charge, always ready to take over. But when she got home, she relaxed. Here Sarah could be a wife and mother, part of a team, sharing responsibilities with her husband. Harry was a great husband and father, always there to help. After Jenny was born, Sarah didn’t have to be a supermom. In a manner of speaking, she’d learned to drop her cape at the door.
Now Sarah was finding it hard to dig out of the pit of despair the loss of her husband and daughter had put her in. She still managed to do her job in the ER. There she made tough decisions and acted on them, although perhaps not as effectively as before Harry’s death. But at home, in the midst of constant worry and uncertainty, she sometimes found the smallest decision too much for her. Her personal life was in tatters. Why couldn’t things be like they used to?
Why had God let this happen? When Harry and Jenny had been killed, Sarah’s first thought was that God had made a mistake. Why would He let the fatal crash take place? Why didn’t He intervene? Then, when the reality of her loss finally soaked in, Sarah tried to lean on her religion to help her through the troubled times. She’d heard and read all the sentiments when they came from others in times of distress. Lean on God, and He’ll uphold you. But that strength didn’t come. Instead, she found herself constantly asking God, “Why?”
Of course, God wasn’t the only target for her anger. She’d never told anyone about this, but there were times—many times—when she was angry with Harry. Oh, she knew he didn’t want to have that accident. He didn’t plan to die. Harry didn’t plan to take their daughter with him, leaving Sarah alone. But she couldn’t help being angry with him. Sometimes, in the dead of night, alone in her room, she’d find herself saying again and again, “Harry, why have you left me? Harry, why did you do this? Why?”
Her attendance at church yesterday marked the first time she’d sat through an entire service since she’d exited the building behind two coffins eight months ago. Was she ready to turn to God once more? Despite what everyone said about seeking Him in time of trouble, Sarah couldn’t bring herself to make that leap. Not yet.
When her phone rang again, it startled Sarah. She looked at the caller ID and sighed. It was Kyle. Good old Kyle. He’d been the first person she thought of when she needed help, and she was glad to have him around for support. But recently she’d come to suspect that his closeness had more behind it than willingness to help his friend’s widow.
“How are you doing, Sarah?” Kyle asked.
“I’m making it okay.” It occurred to Sarah that Kyle was acting just like Harry always had. He was trying to protect her. Kyle, you might have been my husband’s best friend, but stop trying to replace him . . . in any way.
Sarah took a quick sip of coffee and tried to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Thanks for recommending Tom Oliver. He and his crew did a nice job of restoration. The house is back to pretty much normal.” Except that I know someone’s been in it. Did he touch anything? Did he sneak up the stairs to Jenny’s room? Who was it? Why did he do it? And . . . will he come back?
Kyle’s voice brought her out of her musing. “Are you going to—”
“If you’re wondering if I’m going to work today, the answer is yes.” She took another swallow of coffee, half emptying the cup this time. “Look, Kyle. I appreciate your concern, but at this point I have to gather up the pieces of my life and move on. I imagine I’ll hear from Bill Larson before I head to work this afternoon. If I think I need a lawyer, I’ll give you a call.”
“I’m available anytime, Sarah.”
The third call didn’t come until mid-morning. “This is Bill Larson. How are you today?”
If one more person asks how I’m doing . . . “I’m surviving. And I’m glad you called. Yesterday I was talking with a man who reminded me that I was responsible for drawing the blood alcohol tests on his son and another teenager after they’d been involved in an accident. Apparently, one of the defense attorneys made the argument that I got the samples mixed up. I’m sure I didn’t, but I guess you were right. There are people who’ve come in contact with me through my emergency room duties who might have ill will toward me, if I can use an old-fashioned phrase.”
“One of the things I planned to do was go through ER records looking for the names of people like that,” Larson said. “Because of the privacy laws, I’d have to get a court order to do it. If you’d be willing to go through the records and give me that list, it would be a lot easier. Would you?”
Sarah didn’t waste a lot of time thinking about it. “If you think it might help, I’m ready. When do you want to start?”
* * *
Bill Larson had a pounding headache. It wasn’t that his eyes were tired from personally scanning hundreds of emergency room records. Sarah had done that, giving him names when she decided the person involved might have a grudge against her. But the repetitive task of writing down those names and contact information, consulting with her for details of her encounter with them, sitting in a stuffy medical records room under unforgiving fluorescent lights, squirming as he tried to find a comfortable position in an uncomfortable straight chair—that was enough to give anyone a headache.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Larson asked Sarah. He almost hoped she’d tell him she was ready to quit.
“There are a lot of things I’d rather be doing, but if this is what it takes to give you some leads, I’m willing.”
So he’d continued, jotting down names that might turn out to be Sarah’s “stalker.” Despite what appeared at first to be a hopeless task, Larson figured that good detective work—asking questions, looking for relationships, examining evidence, sifting through interviews—would eventually unmask the man.
Sarah looked up at the clock on the wall of the hospital record room. “I have to go to work pretty soon. Do you need some more names? If so, I can meet you here again tomorrow morning.”
Larson looked at the list of names he’d accumulated. “How far back in the records have we gone so far?”
“About a year. Think that’s enough?”
“Possibly. Let me make a note of the last date in the pile. Then I’ll start working on what we have. If I need your help again, I’ll give you a call.” He paused and looked directly at her. “And you know we’re also going to have to look into your personal life. I hope you—”
“Whatever