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  ELECTIVE PROCEDURES

  ALSO BY MERRY JONES

  THE ELLE HARRISON SERIES

  The Trouble with Charlie

  HARPER JENNINGS THRILLERS

  Outside Eden

  Winter Break

  Behind the Walls

  Summer Session

  ZOE HAYES MYSTERIES

  The Borrowed and Blue Murders

  The Deadly Neighbors

  The River Killings

  The Nanny Murders

  HUMOR

  America’s Dumbest Dates

  If She Weren’t My Best Friend, I’d Kill Her

  Please Don’t Kiss Me at the Bus Stop

  I Love Her, But …

  I Love Him, But …

  NONFICTION

  Birthmothers:

  Women Who Relinquished Babies for Adoption Tell Their Stories

  Stepmothers:

  Keeping It Together with Your Husband and His Kids

  ELECTIVE PROCEDURES

  A Novel

  Merry Jones

  Copyright © 2014 by Merry Jones

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-60809-116-4

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing, Longboat Key, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  To Robin, Baille, and Neely

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my excellent agent, Rebecca Strauss at DeFiore and Company; amazing editor Patricia Gussin at Oceanview Publishing; the terrific team at Oceanview: Bob Gussin, David Ivester, Frank Troncale, George Foster, Susan Hayes, and Emily Baar; fellow Philadelphia Liars Club members: Jonathan Maberry, Gregory Frost, Don Lafferty, Jon McGoran, Kelly Simmons, Marie Lamba, Keith Strunk, Solomon Jones, Dennis Tafoya, Keith DeCandido, Stephen Susco, Chuck Wendig, Cordelia Frances Biddle, Janice Bashman, Kathryn Craft, Karen Quinones Miller; Mexico travel mates Nancy and Dennis Delman and Robin Jones; first reader and best husband ever, Robin, and encouraging friends and family, especially Baille and Neely.

  ELECTIVE PROCEDURES

  December 6, Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  I kept repeating those three words, a singsong mantra to steady myself and get through time, pushing through seconds and minutes until it would be afterward and this nightmare would be over.

  Don’t look down.

  But I didn’t have to look; I knew what was beneath me. I could picture what was lying six stories down on the concrete beside the kidney-shaped swimming pool, near the mouth of the alligator waterslide. Under the glowing light of sunrise, I imagined a widening crimson puddle. A clump of arms and legs. A shattered bone protruding through flesh. Tangled hair matted into a cracked skull.

  Don’t look down, I said again, and I didn’t. Instead, I aimed my eyes straight ahead, focusing not on the brick wall in front of me, but on the air surrounding my head. I stared into it, straining to see my aura, looking for stains, for splotches of darkness. Was it possible to see your own aura? Was there even such a thing? If there was, I couldn’t see it, saw only inches of emptiness between me and the bricks, and, at the periphery of my vision, the railing. For the briefest moment I had a lapse. I almost turned my head, almost looked down at my hand. Don’t look, I chanted. Don’t look. Looking would mean moving my head. And if I moved it—if I moved anything at all, I’d disrupt my balance and slip, and then, with a thud, there would be two blobs of bones planted beside the pool.

  A pelican dive-bombed past me, the rush of air nearly knocking me over. I held my breath, holding steady. I called out again, hoping someone would wake up, but no one came. So I told myself to stay steady and think of other things. Other times. I stared at the wall and repeated: Don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down.

  Girls’ night was always on Thursday. So that meant it had to have been a Thursday, what, sixteen days ago? A soiled paper napkin had been fluttering along the sidewalk alongside us, dropping to the concrete and lifting off again, escorting Becky and me down South Street on a blustery November evening. I smelled onions frying at Jim’s Steaks and the rawness of oncoming night.

  Of course, I didn’t dare shiver now. Didn’t dare move. I kept still, muscles aching and taut as I concentrated on keeping balanced. Balanced. It sounded like eating a diet of yogurt, vegetables, and whole grains. Maybe if I’d eaten more granola, I’d be better balanced now. Maybe. Or maybe being balanced meant measuring out equal parts and counterparts—like impulsiveness and self-restraint. Sanity and craziness. Working and playing. Sleeping and being awake. Rising and falling. Stop, I scolded myself. Don’t think about falling. Just balance.

  I hung on, and there was the paper napkin again, floating beside Becky and me on South Street. Two weeks and two days ago. We were in no hurry. We passed tattoo parlors, coffee shops, pizza places, shoe boutiques, and then Becky stopped beside an orange neon sign: READINGS $10. She peered through the storefront window, then turned to me with an impish smirk.

  I knew that smirk, had seen it before. It had led to singles bars and spa days. All-night department store sales. Weekend cruises, online dating sites. Casinos and Zumba lessons. The smirk was like a neon sign warning: brace yourself.

  “Elle, you up for this?”

  No way. I was barely up for dinner, had come out only under duress. In the months since Charlie’s death, I hadn’t been doing much of anything. For a few months, I’d dragged myself to work and managed to feign energetic cheeriness for my class of second graders, but by the end of each school day, my face had ached from smiling and my body from pretending. I’d come home content to wallow quietly within the walls of my Fair-mount townhouse until, finally, I’d taken a leave of absence so I could spend my days staring at Law and Order reruns. My friends, however, had been relentless. They didn’t understand that losing a husband, even a lying-cheating-inheritance-stealing one whom I’d been about to divorce, had taken its toll. They didn’t comprehend the grieving process or how long it might take, and Jen had endearingly begun to call me DD, short for Debbie Downer. They insisted that I “move on,” which included, but was not limited to, going out with them weekly for “girls’ night” dinners.

  That Thursday evening, Becky and I were on the way to one such girls’ night with half an hour to spare. When she asked about the fortune-teller, I thought she was joking. The place looked sleazy and dark, and everyone knew that fortune-telling was a scam. But Becky started for the door.

  “I’ve never had my fortune told, have you?”

  I hadn’t, no. And I wasn’t about to. I was having enough trouble with the past and present, didn’t need to take on the future. I hung back, but she tugged at my sleeve.

  “Come on, Elle. What’s the harm? It’s only ten bucks. I’ll treat—maybe she’ll tell me if I’ll meet a guy.”

  “Really?” Meeting guys had never been a problem for Becky. She was curvy, spunky, short, and soft, and men were drawn to her like sleepyheads to pillows. If anything, she needed help keeping men away.


  “You know what I mean. Not just any guy. The Guy. A keeper. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  And so, reluctantly, I’d let Becky drag me through a small entryway into an overheated, dimly lit sitting area separated from the rest of a large rose-colored room by a pair of drooping crimson curtains. Crosses and images of Jesus hung on the walls. A couple of upholstered chairs with flattened-out cushions backed against the window. Beyond them two folding chairs faced a small cloth-covered card table. The place smelled of roasting meat. Somewhere behind the curtains, a baby cried. I couldn’t breathe.

  I looked at Becky and stepped back toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  But a young woman rushed through the curtains, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, yapping at someone over her shoulder in a language I couldn’t understand.

  “Welcome, ladies. I am Madam Therese. You’d like readings?” She smiled, glancing from Becky to me. “What kind? Tea leaves? Tarot?”

  Becky shrugged. “I don’t know—”

  “It’s okay. No problem. I can offer you choices. The cards are twenty dollars. Tea is twenty-five.”

  Becky pointed to the window. “But the sign says ten dollars.”

  Madam Therese hesitated, shoved her hair off her face with the back of her hand. “Okay, yes. The sign is for short readings. Palms. We can start with it, and then we’ll see. You can upgrade. You understand? Who will be first?” She’d held her hand out for Becky’s money.

  Becky handed her a twenty.

  “Good, this is for two.”

  “No—not me.” I shook my head, but Madam Therese whisked the cash into her skirt pocket and disappeared behind the curtains.

  “Becky, I’m not doing this—”

  “Relax. It’s no big deal.”

  “Get your change. She owes you ten dollars.”

  Becky put up a hand, refusing to hear more. Behind the curtains, Madam Therese spoke to someone unseen in her foreign tongue. A man grumbled and the baby’s wails faded. In a moment, she returned, her hair tied back, revealing dramatic cheekbones and large bangle earrings. The bracelets on her arms jingled when she moved. The scent of jasmine mixed with that of meat.

  “For ten dollars, you get a five-minute reading. After, if you want more, we’ll keep going. You pay just a little more, you understand?” Madam Therese smiled and lit a candle, made the sign of the cross. She took a seat, motioned for Becky to sit across from her, reached for her hand.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I sat on one of the cushioned chairs, watching the woman study Becky’s palm. I felt uneasy, as if I shouldn’t be there.

  “You will have three children close together, but not for a while yet,” Madam Therese smiled. “At least one boy. I see him shining in your aura.” She looked at Becky. “Your lifeline is long, healthy. And your love line is long, also. But so far, you haven’t been lucky, I am right?”

  Becky glanced at me, gave an embarrassed giggle.

  “But see, the line gets wider here. More steady. So, not long from now, you will meet a man and fall in love. Not just in love. Deeply in love, you understand me?”

  Deeply in love? I understood her. A raw hollowness gnawed my gut. Why was it that, even though he’d been dead for thirteen months, even though I’d thrown him out and had been in the middle of divorcing him, everything reminded me of Charlie? I turned away, looking out past the neon sign at South Street. And, of course, there we were, Charlie and me, strolling past shops, his arm around my shoulder. Where were we going? Out for coffee? For a drink? I saw him lean over and kiss my forehead, felt the brush of his lips. But abruptly, a delivery truck pulled up, cutting off my view. Wiping the image away.

  Becky turned to me, beaming. “Elle. Did you hear that?”

  Oops. No, I hadn’t.

  “I’m getting married soon.”

  Really. Should I buy a dress?

  “Actually, I see many men around you. But this man—this special one you are waiting for, he is different. He is not the man you expect. Understand me? He might be—how I should say it? Someone you never thought about loving.”

  “Why, is he a criminal? He’s not a drug dealer, is he?” She blinked. “Or wait—is he hideous?”

  Madam Therese looked up. Her eyebrows were thick and black. Perfectly symmetrical. “These things I cannot tell you. Only that he is unlike the others.” Her gaze returned to Becky’s hand. “Also, you will travel very soon. You have plans?”

  Becky shrugged. “No.”

  “Well, you will make some. You will go someplace warm. I see water. Maybe someplace by the sea.” She released Becky’s hand. “You want more reading? Because this was five minutes. For ten more dollars, I can tell you more.”

  Becky paused. Was she considering it?

  I interrupted. “Becky, you already gave her twenty. She already has the extra ten.”

  “No. That’s for you.” Becky stood. “Your turn, Elle.”

  Madam Therese persisted. “Okay. But when you return from your trip, you will come back to see me again, you understand? I will tell you more.” Madam Therese turned to me, gestured for me to join her.

  I didn’t move.

  “Go on.” Becky took the seat beside me.

  Madam Therese bent her head. Her bracelets jangled when she crossed herself again. She looked at me with tired eyes. “Come. Sit.”

  I stood, took a seat at the table.

  Madam Therese took my hand, stared at it. Her brows furrowed and her back stiffened. She met my eyes. Hers were dark and deep, like bottomless holes. “You want to hear the truth? All of it?”

  Despite my doubts about palm reading, my heart lurched. Why was she asking me that? What did she see? “Why not? Is it bad?”

  “Bad? Life isn’t good or bad. It’s a balance.”

  Yes, she’d definitely used that word. Had it been a warning? An omen? Had she said it intentionally?

  I hung onto the railing, tried to stay balanced. To remember everything she’d said. I saw her dark skirt and white sweater, her black eyeliner. Her rings. I smelled the roasting meat and the jasmine. Felt her coarse fingers holding my hand.

  In a jolt, she sat back. “Who has died?” She looked from Becky to me.

  Becky blinked at me.

  “A spirit is with us. It isn’t resting.”

  Becky’s eyes widened. “Oh God, maybe it’s Charlie. Her husband died—”

  “Becky, please—”

  “Okay, I understand.” Madam Therese touched her forehead, frowned. Concentrated again. “Okay, listen. I will tell you only some, you understand? But not all. What would be the point?”

  Lord. Was it too terrible to say aloud?

  “So.” She looked just above my head. “Your aura—the energy that surrounds you. It is stained.”

  Becky whispered, “What?”

  My aura was stained? How? I pictured a halo blotched with spilled wine—or with my second graders’ colored markers.

  “The stains are blood.”

  Oh. Wrong both times.

  “And also darkness.” Madam Therese’s voice was hoarse, throaty. “I see around you a cloud. A cloud of death—yes.”

  What? I felt a chill, said nothing.

  Becky said, “Oh God.”

  “This cloud means you must be cautious. The dead—their spirits are drawn to you. Some of them are harmless. But others—” she met my eyes, “surely, you already know this.”

  Knew what? Were dead people out to get me? I looked around. Was Charlie there? But Charlie wouldn’t hurt me. So was it some other dead person? I saw only Becky and Madam Therese. Nobody else.

  “If you are wise, you will protect yourself.”

  From what? The dead? How could I do that?

  “You are stronger than you think. This is why they come to you. You have the gift.”

  She let go of my hand. “So, do you have questions for me? Things you want to know?”

  Questions? Seriously? I was surrounded by hostile dead people, death clouds, bloodstain
s and darkness. What questions could I possibly have? “No. I just came here with my friend.”

  “Listen, then: You will also travel, like your friend. You also will meet a man. But be aware: this cloud—the darkness goes where you go. It surrounds you. Be careful because the dead are drawn to this darkness; to them it is a beacon. They will find you. You understand this. You know this to be true.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. She let out a breath. “And so, the five-minutes time is up. I am happy to go on, if you want me to.”

  Want her to? God no. I let out a breath. “That’s okay. I’m good.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Thank you” didn’t cover it.

  “Okay, no problem. You will come back to me again. Another day.” Madam Therese turned to the curtain, called a name. Stood.

  A lanky man with gelled hair stepped out from behind the curtain. They exchanged words I couldn’t understand, and he ushered us to the door in a hurry as if we were bothering him. Or as if we’d brought with us a cloud of death.

  At the time, I’d dismissed the reading. It was hogwash. There was no such thing as a bloodstained aura. And it was absurd to think that the dead were drawn to me.

  But two weeks and two days later, clinging to a balcony six stories above the ground, I reconsidered Madam Therese’s predictions. I called out again and grasped the railing, struggled to balance and closed my eyes, reminding myself not to look down at the concrete. Picturing the lifeless body of the woman I’d just failed to save.

  Closing my eyes wasn’t the best idea. Charlie showed up again, this time in my den with my kitchen knife in his back. I saw not just Charlie in that terrible moment, but also all the other terrible moments that had ensued—the deaths and the twisted secrets came together in a montage—no, in a stark mosaic. A kaleidoscope made from shards of terrible memories.

  “Elle!”

  I opened my eyes. The kaleidoscope shattered, fell away. The sunrise greeted me, along with Becky, Jen, and Susan frantically reaching across the railing, jabbering and tugging at me. Had they heard me yell for help? When had they gotten there? They pawed at me, nearly knocking me over.