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  ADVANCE PRAISE

  “Frimmer sews together this unsettling family drama with both surgical precision and an abiding sense of love. Her medical fiction will strongly appeal to fans of Grey’s Anatomy and Kimmery Martin.” — Sandra Block author of What Happened That Night

  “Heather Frimmer’s gripping novel pulled me in from the first page. Better to Trust is a nuanced exploration of secrets, identity, and family. Told with equal parts insight and intrigue, the story reminds us that we never know what those closest to us may be carrying inside. This compelling blend of medicine and mystery will keep readers turning pages to the end.” — Saumya Dave, author of What A Happy Family

  “Heather Frimmer’s latest novel, Better to Trust, is an unforgettable story in which lives are literally at stake. Whether facing a critical operation, the potential destruction of an esteemed career or the conjunction of marriage with unresolved sexuality, a triumph of voices emerges—entangled yet somehow harmonic as a symphony. Frimmer’s richly hewn and deeply connected characters draw you in and stay with you long after the book is closed.” — Maureen Joyce Connolly, author of Little Lovely Things

  “Tense, insightful and full of heart, Heather Frimmer’s Better to Trust tackles complex themes of opioid addiction, sexuality, medical ethics and family ties. Populated with intriguing, multidimensional characters, it will keep you engrossed until the end.” — Daniela Petrova, author of Her Daughter’s Mother

  “Heather Frimmer’s second novel, Better to Trust, plunges readers into the lives of three connected characters: Alison, a woman dealing with a debilitating brain condition and questioning her sexuality, Grant, Alison’s neurosurgeon, who is secretly addicted to prescription pills, and Sadie, Grant’s troubled teenage daughter. I was immediately drawn in by Alison as she navigates her road to recovery after brain surgery. Each step in her struggle felt earned and real—I couldn’t help but root for her. At the same time, she must face her crumbling marriage and grapple with her evolving sexual identity. Her story is further complicated by Grant’s and Sadie’s narratives, and the ways they intersect. Frimmer has written an emotional page-turner that fans of women’s fiction will not be able to put down.” — Sarahlyn Bruck, author of Daytime Drama and Designer You

  “Better to Trust is a multi-faceted, captivating, unputdownable story. Frimmer weaves a narrative rich with insight into the issues plaguing modern teens and couples. Using her medical knowledge, Frimmer shines a light on the complex world of medical ethics, allowing the intensely intriguing plot to ignite.” — Galia Gichon, author of The Accidental Suffragist

  Better to Trust

  Heather Frimmer

  ©2021 Heather Frimmer

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-954332-03-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021936451

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  www.WyattMacKenzie.com

  To my family

  With all my love and gratitude

  Better to trust the man who is frequently in error than the one who is never in doubt.

  ERIC SEVAREID

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE: Alison

  CHAPTER TWO: Grant

  CHAPTER THREE: Sadie

  CHAPTER FOUR: Alison

  CHAPTER FIVE: Alison

  CHAPTER SIX: Grant

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Alison

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Grant

  CHAPTER NINE: Alison

  CHAPTER TEN: Sadie

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Alison

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Grant

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Sadie

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Alison

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Grant

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Alison

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Sadie

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Grant

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: Alison

  CHAPTER TWENTY: Grant

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Alison

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Sadie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Grant

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Alison

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Sadie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Grant

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Alison

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Sadie

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Grant

  CHAPTER THIRTY: Alison

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Grant

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Alison

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Sadie

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Alison

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Grant

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Alison

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Grant

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Alison

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: Grant

  CHAPTER FORTY: Alison

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: Sadie

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: Grant

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: Alison

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: Grant

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: Sadie

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: Grant

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: Grant

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: Alison

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: Grant

  CHAPTER FIFTY: Alison

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Questions

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alison

  June 3, 2019

  ALISON LEANED HER BODY WEIGHT on the walker, using all her strength to slide the damn thing forward with her left hand. Grunting with the effort, she advanced her left leg and dragged the dead weight of her right leg behind her.

  “Good job.” Svetlana pointed down the long corridor. “Soon we’ll make it to the end.” Alison found it odd that Svetlana used the word “we” all the time. She was trying to make it seem like they were in this thing together, on the same team working towards a common goal, but she wasn’t the invalid, Alison was.

  She stopped to breathe. The end of the hallway was only a few hundred feet away, but it seemed like miles, every step a slow torture. She’d made some progress since she’d transferred to Spaulding Rehab Center from the hospital two weeks ago, if dragging herself from her room to the next could be considered progress.

  “Let’s go.” Svetlana slid the walker forward. “We can do this. We’re not done yet for today.”

  “Okay,” Alison managed. She was a woman of few words these days. Her thoughts flowed fine, but the connection between her brain and her mouth was tenuous. She’d never even heard of aphasia before this whole thing happened. When she first heard the word, she’d pictured ambrosia, that sickeningly sweet fruit salad great aunt Frieda used to bring to family functions, but the more she learned about aphasia the more it became clear that the similarity ended with the sound of the words. Aphasia was not pink or fluffy or sweet.

  “I’m really proud of you. We’ve been putting in the effort and it shows.” Svetlana said, as if doing two hours of physical therapy a day had been Alison’s choice. There was a time when doing a two-hour work-out at the gym was one of her greatest joys, when running a faster mile or setting a new personal bench press record gave her a sense of accomplishment, the natural high lingering long after she arrived home. Now, she dreaded these therapy sessions, knowing the effort it would take to move just a few feet.

  “Al…alright,” Alison stammered. She would like to tell Svetlana that some days she’d rather give up before they’d even started, but this was the best she could do. Since learning about her condition, she had become a self-made expert on aphasia. Trapped with her thoughts, she’d spent hours on her iPad reading books and research papers, personal memo
irs from people who’ve had strokes or bleeds or tumors and lived to tell their stories, articles from speech and occupational therapists about how to rehabilitate after these devastating events. The YouTube videos of patients with aphasia were horrible to watch, but she couldn’t make herself look away.

  She felt thankful she didn’t have the fluent type of aphasia. Those unfortunate souls spouted endless streams of gibberish. They seemed to know exactly what they wanted to say, but the words changed on the trip from their brains to their mouths, the train tracks crisscrossing over each other so that the messages come out mangled and unintelligible. The rails in Alison’s brain, on the other hand, were straight but severely damaged. Occasionally, a train finished the journey: “okay” and “alright” had the greatest chance of reaching their destination; but many of them crashed and burned. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make the words come out.

  “I have an idea,” Svetlana said, stopping at a row of chairs along the wall. “We’re going to learn how to stand up from a chair.”

  “Nnnnn … now?” Alison wondered why Svetlana introduced new challenges near the end of their sessions when Alison already felt depleted.

  Svetlana helped Alison maneuver the walker in front of a chair and motioned for her to take a seat. “Yes, now. This skill will come in handy, especially once you get home.”

  Alison collapsed into the chair and exhaled, grateful for the brief respite. She considered telling Svetlana she wasn’t up for any new tricks right now, but she knew the woman wouldn’t take no for an answer. When Grant had said Svetlana was the best physical therapist in town, he must have known she would be a good fit: tough, aggressive, and no nonsense. “No” wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  Svetlana lined the walker up in front of Alison and took a seat next to her. “Okay, we’re going to lean forward, hold onto the walker and bend your knees,” she said, demonstrating the posture.

  Alison tried to maneuver her body into that position, but it didn’t feel right. Before her surgery, her body had always done exactly what she’d asked, but now, even the simplest things were a struggle.

  “Lean more and bend deeper.” Svetlana adjusted Alison’s arms and legs with her hands. “Now we’re going to put weight on the walker and press up through the bottom of our feet.”

  Though Alison could picture what Svetlana described, making her body follow suit was another story. She leaned forward and pressed as hard as she could through her left arm and the bottom of her feet, trying to engage her quads. Her legs burned and fought against her. She gave one last push and suddenly she was almost there. When she was nearly standing, Alison began teetering to the left. Instead of keeping her eyes up as Svetlana always instructed, she looked down at the floor, trying to regain her balance.

  “Amazing job,” Svetlana said, taking hold of Alison’s left arm and guiding her back to the chair.

  “Fe … fell.” Alison managed.

  “You didn’t fall,” Svetlana held her hand out for a fist bump. “You stood up. It’s not going to be perfect the first time. We’ll work more on this tomorrow.”

  As Alison’s hand met Svetlana’s, she felt relieved that the session was almost over, but also proud of her determination and accomplishment. She’d harnessed the power within her and almost stood without help, something she’d never thought possible. It had taken all the effort she could muster, but she’d put her mind to it and done the work.

  The floor clerk stopped next to them. “Mrs. Jacobs has a visitor,” she said.

  “She’s not supposed to have guests during therapy,” Svetlana said. Alison wondered who it could be. Her husband, Michael, always visited right after work, so he wasn’t due for at least a half hour.

  “She said it’s important.”

  Svetlana helped Alison up and guided the walker into a turn. “Okay. Give us a few minutes.”

  With lots of lifting and shimmying, Svetlana settled Alison back into bed. She propped Alison’s right leg onto a pillow and raised the back of the bed to a comfortable angle. After Svetlana left, Alison heard Cynthia’s voice in the hall, making small talk with the clerk about the recent early summer heat wave. Leave it to her sister to talk to anyone—the cashier at Whole Foods, her massage therapist, the exterminator—anyone willing to lavish her with attention. Alison wondered why Cynthia was here today. She hadn’t bothered visiting since well before Alison was transferred here.

  “Hello,” Cynthia came in and planted a kiss on Alison’s cheek. “It’s so good to see you.” She looked like she’d been crying, her eyelids pink and puffy. Probably overreacting to something or other. Classic Cynthia, Alison thought. Alison was the one in rehab, not Cynthia. Grant had operated on Alison’s brain, not Cynthia’s, so if anyone had a reason to cry, it was her, not her histrionic sister.

  “Been a … while,” Alison managed.

  “I know.” Cynthia took a seat. “We’ve had a lot going on at home. Trying to get everything sorted out. There’s been so much going on. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Where … where?”

  “Sadie? I left her home to do homework. Maybe she’ll come next time.”

  “No.” Alison would have loved to see her fifteen-year-old niece, but that wasn’t what she’d been trying to ask. She was wondering why Grant hadn’t come today. It was a Monday, so he must be at work, but he’d been coming with Cynthia whenever he could.

  “We’ve had some changes in the family that I want to fill you in on. And I’d rather you hear about it from me than finding out some other way.” Cynthia’s voice sounded shaky.

  “I … don’t.”

  “I know it sounds vague, but I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’m just not sure the best way to say it without making you upset.”

  All this talking in circles meant Cynthia was hiding something. Maybe her news would explain why Grant hadn’t come with her. Could he be sick? So many of their friends had received unexpected diagnoses—cancer, multiple sclerosis, heart disease—but Grant seemed so strong, somehow above the fray. Alison prayed that Sadie was alright. She couldn’t bear it if something bad was going on with her.

  “Okay,” Cynthia continued, “I should just tell you. We’re always honest with each other. I don’t know why this is so hard for me.”

  “What?” Alison widened her eyes, trying to tell Cynthia to come out with it already. She could handle whatever her sister had to say.

  “There was an article,” Cynthia took a deep breath, “in the Newton Reporter … it’s about Grant.”

  An article about Grant didn’t seem like earth-shattering news. He was always being written up for something or other related to his job, but the look on Cynthia’s face told Alison this article was different.

  “I didn’t know anything was wrong,” Cynthia went on. “I thought he had everything under control.”

  Alison had no idea what Cynthia was talking about, but she could tell by the pitch of Cynthia’s voice and the terrified look on her face that whatever was going on was a big deal.

  “I can’t imagine what this could do to his career.” Cynthia covered her face with her hands.

  “What …?” Alison had no clue what was going on.

  “Please, Alison. I need this to stay between us,” Cynthia pleaded. “For the sake of Grant’s career, I need you to lay low.”

  Alison’s husband, Michael, entered the room holding a newspaper. “Alison, you have to see this,” he said, stopping short when he noticed Cynthia at the bedside.

  “What is this all about?” Michael asked, holding the paper in the air. “Did Grant do something wrong?”

  Cynthia stood up. “I can explain. It isn’t how it looks. He’s a good surgeon.”

  “Does this have anything to do with what happened to Alison?” Michael waved the newspaper at Cynthia. Alison wished he would hand it to her so she could figure out what they were talking about. She needed to see the article for herself.

  Cynthia sat back down and started sobbi
ng. “I feel like our family is falling apart.”

  Michael slapped the newspaper onto the bed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Is there more you’re not telling us?”

  Alison had never seen him so worked up before. She picked up the paper with her left hand and scanned the headlines on the front page, one of them jumping out at her. She read the first few sentences.

  LOCAL NEUROSURGEON SLAMMED WITH LAWSUIT

  By Julia Barker

  Renowned neurosurgeon, Grant Kaplan, 44, of Newton was formally served with a lawsuit on January 23rd of this year. The plaintiff, Jeffrey Stone, 35, of nearby Lincoln, has completely lost hearing in his left ear since he underwent surgery last year for an acoustic neuroma, a benign brain tumor. The two parties are currently in the discovery phase of the case.

  “It’s all too much,” Cynthia sobbed. “I don’t know what to say, how to make things right.”

  Alison’s stomach clenched. She didn’t know the full story, but she could tell this was no run of the mill legal suit. There was something Cynthia wasn’t sharing and she couldn’t help wondering if it had to something do with her surgery.

  “I hate to say it, but something seems rotten in Denmark,” Michael said.

  Cynthia wailed and tried to approach Michael for a hug.

  “I think we need some time,” Michael stepped back. “I suggest you leave us alone for now.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grant

  February 5, 2019

  Four Months Earlier

  GRANT FASTENED THE TITANIUM COVERS over the three burr-holes he had drilled in the skull and pulled the scalp flap back into place. The patient had tripped on the curb while walking his dog, landing headfirst on the cement. He relished the sound of the pneumatic drill as it tunneled through the bone, the sharp pop as the scalpel pierced the dura, and the familiar smell of bone dust in the air, the brain slowly returning to its rightful place against the inner table of the skull. These patients usually awoke from anesthesia feeling much more themselves, their neurologic exams noticeably improved, and their families appreciative of his skill and talent. It was a mindless procedure, but it was nice to have a quick win once in a while. Most of his surgeries, aneurysm clippings and AVM resections, were much more complicated and lasted several hours. It often took days or even weeks to see any improvements, if the patients were so lucky. Even though he was one of the nation’s experts on the treatment of vascular malformations, he had to psych himself up before scrubbing in for those cases.