Against The Odds

“So I tell Carl, ‘It must be a coincidence. There’s no way that woman in the paper is my cousin, because she’d have called me, right off.’”

You didn’t face a force of nature lying down. Hope wriggled as upright as she could get. Only a small whimper got past her clenched teeth.

“Oh, don’t you try to make me all sorry for you, missy. You should have called.” Jesse’s words were tough, but she eased pillows behind her cousin, then straightened the sheets, threw away used tissues, and dropped her nosegay of daisies and delphiniums in the water pitcher on the lap tray.

“Jess, they only took out the morphine drip this morning. I couldn’t remember my own name before that, much less your number.”

“I’m on speed dial, and you know it.” She humphed, but the corners of her lips relaxed a bit. “Thank God our mothers have passed on, because they’d be having fits to see you now.”

Hope winced, imagining those doll-like twin dynamos descending on her. “Thanks for reminding me that things could be worse.”

Hope had always wondered if her father died young to escape his wife’s small, but mighty grip on his life. Hope had wanted to escape, too, after she’d completed commuter college in her Portland suburb. She’d never have made it, if not for Jesse’s help. Hope had loved her mother, but she was...exacting. Anything within Vivian Sanderson’s sphere had to be rearranged to her satisfaction. Lives included.

But growing up with rigorous direction wasn’t the hardest part. Her mother didn’t let go until you not only did things her way, but felt less intelligent if you didn’t believe it was for the best. Her mother whispered in her mind. How can you face company without lipstick on, at least?

For the first time in a long time, Hope ignored her.

Jesse pulled up a plastic guest chair, sat, crossed her legs and leaned in. “Enough small talk. Tell me.”

Hope had been lying listening to hospital sounds for hours, thinking. But she could make no more sense of things now, than she had on morphine. It was as if, in surgery, they’d taken her old life along with her spleen. The more minutes ticked by, the more anxious she’d become. Her life may not have been titillating, but it was hers. She felt torn from her sheltered harbor, adrift in a huge, heaving sea of choices.

And Hope Sanderson wasn’t used to choices.

She reached for the water glass, and knocked it over.

Jesse mopped it up, her eyes reflecting Hope’s own worry. “You’re upset. Talk to me.”

She not only owed Jesse, she trusted her. But how could Hope explain something she couldn’t wrap her own head around? “I think I’m possessed.”

Jesse patted her hand. “No, we exorcised your mother when you moved here, remember?”

Hope snorted a laugh, then grabbed her stomach when it felt as if her guts were going to fall out. “Thanks, I needed that, Jess.”

Jesse took her hand. “Just talk. Don’t worry how it comes out.”

Hope scoured her mind, searching for words to explain her feelings. “It’s like my life has become a dress in the back of my closet from high school. It’s not only out of fashion, I’ve outgrown it. It’s too tight, and too short and—” she shrugged “—not me anymore.”

“How so?”

“Andrew, you know, my boss—”

“The one who clearly has a crush on you?”

“Yes. In the couple of days I was out of it, he changed from a hot dish to a cold fish.”

“Hon, don’t know how to break it to you, but he was always a cold fish.” Jess gave her a canny smile. “You could do so much better than sushi. It sounds to me like you woke up in more ways than one.”

“But I didn’t ask to!” It came out louder and way more desperate than she’d meant. “It’s more than Andrew. I can’t go back to the bank. I can’t go back to my apartment. When I think about it, I break into a cold sweat.”

“Sweetie, you’ve been through a horrible experience. The memories of that night are going to take time to get over.”

“The memories may fade, sure, but when I picture myself going back to life as usual, I get depressed, then panicky.” She squeezed her cousin’s hand. “Am I going crazy?”

“Oh, hon, you know what I think?” Jesse’s eyes went soft. “I think the Hope your mother created died in that shoot-out.” She reached up and petted her cousin’s hair. “You get to decide who this new person is. How many people get that chance?”

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9b231d9d-71ed-5718-b578-7caa0bd22548)

BEAR TOOK THE sweepers into Santa Maria slow. His classic Harley-Davidson Fat Boy rode great on the straights, but the raked front end got squirrely through the turns, especially at high speeds. The sun’s heat tattooed his arms, but the salt breeze off the ocean buffeted his beard. The road whispered a siren’s song of freedom. There was a great cliff-hanging burger shack outside Big Sur. Maybe...he shoved the daydream aside.

You have to go through this to be free.

His leather gloves tightened over his knuckles. He forced the bike to lean in the turn to the crowded parking lot of Marian Regional Medical. No motorcycle parking here. He finally found an open space, pulled in, shut down the engine and lowered the side stand. He threw his leg over and studied the white Spanish-style facade as he unbuckled his skullcap helmet. He’d rather be rolling asphalt in a Vegas summer than walk into that group. But since that wasn’t an option the parole board would accept, he dropped his helmet into the leather side bag and headed for the door.

The old man at the information desk directed him down a series of rat-maze hallways that echoed his boot-falls. Outside the door, he took a deep breath and forced himself to turn the knob.

The room was small and windowless. The yellow paint was probably chosen to be cheery, but in the fluorescent lights, looked nauseous. Five of the six plastic chairs pulled into a cozy circle were occupied. Four of the attendees looked up at him with various shades of alarm.

He forced his face muscles to relax. He didn’t mean to scare people, but between his size, the ponytail, wild beard and heavy brows hooding his eyes, his natural look came off as crazed. And that was okay; it kept people out of his face. And his life.

Only one didn’t flinch. A small soft coffee-skinned woman with long black hair checked her watch. “You are late.” She had a light, floating, East Indian accent.

“Yeah.” He wasn’t saying he was sorry, when he wasn’t. It wasn’t as if he had to get a passing grade for this thing. He just had to attend. He slouched to the only open chair beside her, slid it a foot back from the circle and sat.

“Well.” She uncrossed her legs. “We were getting started. My name is Bina Rani, and I’m a family psychologist with the hospital. This is a new group, and an unconventional one at that, so let me detail how all this works, so you’re not apprehensive.”

He let the blah-blah flow around him as he checked out his classmates. He glanced to his left. At least he wouldn’t be the only guy in the group... The twentysomething kid was lean to the point of stringy. Legs crossed like a girl, he twirled a lock of limp strawberry blond hair on one finger. When he saw Bear watching, he dropped him a wink.

Lovely.

Bear didn’t have anything against being gay. Live and let live. But he didn’t like having it shoved in his face either.

He moved on to a large mousy woman, squirming in her chair as if trying to make herself smaller. Lifeless hair and baggy clothes, she had the flat, not-too-bright stare of a soap opera addict.

Directly across the circle sat a guy with his nose smashed flat, and a worm of red scar tissue bordering a trench-like depression running from his forehead, across his pancake nose, through his upper lip. The scar distorted one eyelid, making him look constantly surprised. Noticing Bear’s stare, the guy looked away.

Bear looked to the last chair beside the Rani woman. His breath reversed, sucking in so fast he choked. He coughed into his fist, but couldn’t look away. Shoulder length white-blond hair framed ice-blue eyes. His angel’s eyes. He felt his blood throbbing at his throat. He heard it in his ears. The resemblance sucker punched him, then rolled him along in a shock wave.

Watching him, her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs.

No, not your angel.

His artist’s eye compared the differences: her jaw was broader, her face not as heart-shaped. Though small, she was built more sturdy than willowy, and there was no balm of peace in this woman’s eyes. Quite the opposite.

“Douglas... Hello, Douglas.”

Bina Rani’s stare didn’t penetrate his agitation any more than her calling his name.

What does it mean, meeting a woman who resembles— “What?”