Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,66

down her cheeks, slipping into the lines of her smile. “I love bags. How did you know?”

David beamed as he moved beside her, wiping first one cheek and then the other. “Lucky guess.”

Ashley and I both looked at the pale tiled floor to hide our grins, and when we returned our gazes to Diane and David, they were kissing like a couple of high school kids.

“I feel sick.” Ashley slapped a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t fool me.

Hope sparkled in her gaze. Real hope. The kind of hope I’d been afraid she’d lost for good.

“I’m sorry I was such an idiot when you were first admitted,” David said softly to Diane. “I was scared.”

I hooked my arm through Ashley’s and pulled her tight against my side. She was looking up at the ceiling, apparently unable to stomach such a public display of affection from her parents. But, no matter how far up she tipped her chin, she couldn’t hide the smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

A bubble of warmth burst inside me, spreading outward to my fingers and my toes.

Diane and David and Ashley were on the mend. Sure, it had taken a crisis to set the change into motion, but wasn’t that often the case?

Who knew, maybe the bun in the oven knew exactly what he or she was doing.

I never saw Dr. Platt again. He didn’t say goodbye, and he wasn’t at the nursing station as we left.

Part of me still wanted some sort of admission from the man, some sign he had a heart beneath his robotic exterior. But the man had never said anything that wasn’t negative during that awful time in my life five years earlier. Why should now be any different?

After all, life wasn’t a Hollywood movie and not every ending provided closure. Sometimes an asshole was just an asshole, and sometimes a doctor who didn’t believe in miracles was just a doctor who didn’t believe in miracles.

I watched as David and Ashley bracketed Diane’s wheelchair as her nurse pushed her toward the lobby.

Dr. Platt might not believe in miracles, but I did.

And maybe that was all that mattered.

o0o

“Life must be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.”

-Soren Kierkegaard

NINETEEN

“HJR HEKHJ UW HJR XLHHRE OP HJLH ZUK LDVLZP BMUV HJR EOTJH HJOMT HU QU. HJR JLEQ YLEH OP QUOMT OH.”

-TRM. MUEXLM PFJVLENBUWW

I’d gone straight home after leaving the hospital and spent much of the day reliving the argument with my brother. I’d written another column, this one about acting like a jerk and not being woman enough to admit it.

I’d never heard anything after I’d emailed my last letter to the editor, so writing this one probably served no purpose. The process was cathartic, just the same.

I’d just pushed Send on my email when the doorbell rang.

I welcomed the interruption, yet surprise slid through me at the sight of a smiling Number Thirty-Six standing on my front step.

“It’s a beautiful evening. I thought maybe you and Poindexter might like to stop over for coffee.”

I pressed my lips together, raking a hand through hair. Was this guy for real?

I shook my head. “What part of ‘don’t touch the stuff’ is tripping you up?”

Even as I said the words, I realized the house still reeked of the pot I’d made while writing.

Number Thirty-Six grinned--a great, crooked grin that made it clear he saw right through me. “The part where I don’t believe you.”

I shrugged.

A vertical line formed between his brows. “How about walking? Do you walk?”

“Of course I walk,” I answered defensively.

What kind of question was that? But then it hit me. He’d tricked me. And I’d fallen for it.

“I mean--” I stammered a bit, trying to figure a way to back-pedal out of my answer.

Number Thirty-Six didn’t give me time to say another word. He brushed past me, headed for the back door with a decidedly smug gleam in his eyes. “Great. I’ll grab Poindexter and we’ll go.”

Number Thirty-Six opened the back door and Poindexter bounded inside, headed straight for the front door as if the two of them had done this a thousand times before.

I stood, rooted to the spot as Number Thirty-Six brushed past me, looping Poindexter’s leash over his shoulder.

I pointed. “Aren’t you going to put that on--”

“Doesn’t need it.” He shook his head and grinned. “Watch and learn.”

I glowered at him, not in the mood to have the fact he’d turned my obedience-school-drop-out mutt into Super Dog rubbed in my face. I followed anyway, pulling the front