Chapter Sixteen
Sara walked twice as far today as she did yesterday, with minimal help. There was no guy on the floor telling her which foot to move. No wheelchair following her with every step. Donovan told me she’s improving quickly. He said if this keeps up, she may only be here another week or two. I’m not sure why I feel like that’s not necessarily a good thing. Two weeks. She has two weeks to get used to the idea of going home with a stranger.
“How are her oxygen levels?” I ask the nurse when she does her rounds.
“Good,” she says. “I have every reason to believe the doctor will remove the trach today.”
When the nurse helps Sara to the bathroom, Sara requires little help. Over the course of only one day, she’s graduated from using a walker to simply having a belt tied around her waist for support as someone walks beside her. She takes slow, careful steps, but does it all on her own. Before she disappears around the corner in the bathroom, she shoots me a smirk. One that tells me she’s proud of herself.
I’m glad to see her in such a good mood. Two days ago, when Joelle called me, they were worried about her falling into depression. I’ve seen little evidence of that.
Donovan has her do more painting before lunch. She’s making incredible improvements with her fine motor skills.
I decide to sneak out and run some errands during her sessions with the cognitive and speech therapists. I promised the woman a burger, and she’s going to get one. And since Oliver is coming for dinner, probably with some hideous bean and tofu crap, lunch is our only option.
~ ~ ~
When I return a few hours later, I have two bags with me.
Sara is sitting in a chair, looking through the pile of pictures Oliver brought her yesterday. Pictures of them. She puts down one of them and looks longingly out the window.
I find it hard not to stare at her. Apparently, she got the trach out while I was gone. She’s now free of all tubes and wires. She has a small bandage where it once was. I wonder if she’s worried about the scar it will leave. But I know she’ll still be just as beautiful.
I shake my head, knowing it’s wrong of me to think such thoughts.
Sara gazing out the window reminds me what a nice day it is today.
“How about we blow this popsicle stand and go have lunch outside?” I ask when I walk into the room.
“Yes,” she says excitedly.
I put down the bags on her bed. “But first, you have a very important decision to make, Sara.”
“What?” she asks apprehensively.
I pull out the two shirts I bought. “Nighthawks or Royals?”
She looks more than a little relieved, and I wonder what she thought I was going to ask her.
“I noticed your clothes are a bit baggy. So until we can get more meat on those bones, I thought you might be more comfortable in something that fits better.” I pull another shirt out of the bag. An FDNY shirt. “I brought this one, too. Just so you’d have choices.”
She studies all of them and then looks at me with soft, grateful eyes.
“I’m sorry if you don’t like baseball,” I say. “Or standard-issue FDNY shirts. But these are the only things I could think of to get you. Because I don’t do girl clothes.”
She laughs. “They’re perfect.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Can I have all of them?”
I hold them out to her. “They’re yours.”
Her finger traces the logo on one of the baseball shirts.
“Maybe we could watch a game together,” I ask. “I think there’s one on later this afternoon if you’re interested.”
“That would be nice,” she says. “Thank you, Denver.”
When she says my name, something inside me shifts. She’s never said my name before. And I realize I may like the way it sounds coming off her lips a little too much.
“You must be happy to have gotten the trach out,” I say.
“I am.”
“You look …” I remember who she is and who she’s with and realize I shouldn’t finish the sentence.
She reaches up and touches the bandage self-consciously. “I look what?”
I wonder if she thought I was going to say she looks bad or ugly or sick. I wasn’t going to say any of those things. I was going to say she looks beautiful. But I don’t.
“You look great, Sara.” I pick up one of the pictures of her and Oliver. “I wonder where this was taken,” I say. “It looks like maybe the Swiss Alps. You sure did a lot of traveling.”
“I don’t remember,” she says sadly.
“I know you don’t. It’s okay, Sara. It’s not your fault.” I put down the picture. “Do you realize you’ve spoken more words in the last thirty seconds than in the last week?”
I pick up another picture. This one I recognize as being taken in their apartment. “Your apartment is pretty great,” I say. “Especially your studio.”
She looks over at the paint supplies in the corner. “I wish I could see it.”
“Maybe you can,” Donovan says, coming into the room with a wheelchair. “Sorry, I have a habit of eavesdropping and I heard Denver say you should go outside. So, here’s your ride, young lady.”
“What do you mean she can see it?” I ask.
“We like our patients to acclimate back into their normal lives before leaving. Often, we will go on field trips. I think taking Sara to see her apartment would be a good first outing.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Sure, why not?” he says. “We’ll have to coordinate with your fiancé, of course.”
Sara looks over at me. “Will you come?”
I look at Donovan and he shrugs.
“I guess,” I say. “I mean, if Oliver doesn’t mind.”
Donovan helps Sara into the wheelchair. “It’s not Oliver’s decision,” he says. “It’s Sara’s.”
Donovan puts the bag of food in Sara’s lap and motions for me to step behind the wheelchair.
“You’re not coming?” I ask.
“You are capable of pushing a wheelchair, no?”
I laugh. “Of course.”
“No getting up out of your wheels, okay, honey?” he says. “Call me if you need any help. But somehow, I think you’ll be in good hands with the fireman. Have a good lunch, you two.”
I push her outside into the courtyard. It’s a sunny, temperate July day. Not too hot. Not too humid. A perfect day to eat outside. I find a table that I can push her up to, and then I pull out a chair for myself before emptying the bag.
Sara’s eyes go wide as I pull out three cheeseburgers, two fries, and a couple of milkshakes. I put her shake in front of her. “Chocolate,” I say. “Just what you ordered.”
Then I hand her a straw. I don’t bother to take it out of the wrapper. I make her do it.
She looks at the straw in her hand. “Oliver would unwrap it for me.”
“I’m not Oliver.”
Her lips turn up into a smile. “No, you’re not. You make me do everything myself.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of rehabilitation?”
“Yes,” she says, looking off into the distance. “Some people get that more than others.”
“He’s trying, Sara. Look at it from his standpoint. You’re not the same person you were before. He’s trying to get you to remember the pieces of your life together. He’s loved you for a year.”
“I don’t know him,” she says, carefully putting the straw into her milkshake.
I want to tell her she doesn’t know me, either, but I don’t. Because deep down, I feel like we do know each other.
“Everyone is telling me about my life,” she says. “It’s like watching a movie or reading a book. I’m being told a story. Except that I’m being asked to believe that the person in the story is me. It’s all so unbelievable. My paintings. My apartment. My travels. My”—she looks away—“fiancé.”
I nod encouragingly. I’ve never heard her speak so much
. Donovan told me she’d talk when she had something to say. Apparently, she’s got a lot to say.
“The last thing I remember is going on a road trip with my friend, Lydia. We were joined at the hip. She’s my best friend. Or was,” she says sadly. “Joelle told me we had a falling out.”
I listen intently as she tells me about her friend. About her childhood. About her parents. It’s like a faucet has turned on and her life is pouring out of her.
She picks at her food. “Why does nobody else come to visit me?” she asks. “Does the place forbid it?”
“Lydia came to visit you in the hospital,” I tell her. “She’s the one who told me about your love of cheeseburgers. And the Beach Boys.”
“Joelle told me that, too. She told me a lot of things. Like how you saved me.”
“I’d say it was a collaborative effort from my whole company.”
“I don’t remember it,” she says. “I don’t remember anything about the accident. My first memory is waking up here at the rehab center. Joelle told me I was awake before then. She even told me I said a few words. But I don’t remember.”
“It’s probably for the best that you don’t remember the accident,” I say.
She puts down her burger and places her hand on mine. “But then how do I remember you?”
I shrug. “Your subconscious, maybe? I talked to you a lot when you were sleeping.”
“Joelle told me that, too. She told me you sat with me every day, all day. Why? We didn’t know each other before, right? Why did you sit with me? And why are you here with me now?”
“It’s a long story, Sara.”
She finally removes her hand from on top of mine when she takes another bite of food. I think about how long I would have kept my hand under hers. I wouldn’t have moved. I would have kept it there forever. I try to ignore what it felt like to have her touch me. Because these feelings I’m having, they’re wrong.
She nods to her wheelchair and then our surroundings. “I’ve got time, Denver. I may not have much else, but I have time.”
I spend the next twenty minutes telling her about my parents. Their accident. My aversion to car crashes. It’s all the things I told her while she was sleeping. The things I haven’t told anyone else. Not even Reverend Feldworth.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she says.
“I’m sorry about yours.”
“We’re a lot alike, you and me. Except that you seem to have a lot of people in your life. Your sister. Your friends. Your coworkers. Why don’t I have any people, Denver? I guess I can understand why Lydia doesn’t visit me, but what about my other friends?”
I look down at the table, not sure what to say.
“Oh, my God. Do I not have any friends?”
“You were different before, Sara.”
“How was I different?”
“I can only tell you what I’ve been told. Joelle and Lydia, they said that after your parents died, you had a tough time of it.”
“Of course I did.”
“They said you pushed everyone away. They said you poured yourself into your paintings. And eventually, when you started to paint for other people and become successful, you became … uh, you became …”
I don’t have the courage to tell her.
“I became a bitch,” she says.
“I’m sorry.”
She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. “Why has nobody else bothered to tell me this? Joelle dances around the subject every time I ask. And Oliver, well, he doesn’t talk about our past that much. He shows me pictures and tells me about some of the places we’ve been, but he doesn’t get personal. I think he’s afraid he might scare me if he gets too personal.”
She studies the remains of her cheeseburger. Then her eyes meet mine. “Do you like him?” she asks. “Do you trust him?”
“I don’t know him any better than you do at this point,” I say. “I know it’s hard for you. It’s hard for both of you. But I think you need to give it a chance. I like Donovan’s suggestion that you see your apartment. I think it will help.”
“Do you have a girlfriend, Denver?”
“Girlfriend? No. I date sometimes. I took out a nurse from the hospital the other night.”
She nods her head. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad you have people.”
“You have people, too, Sara. We’re all pulling for you to make a full recovery. And you’re doing great.”
“Full recovery,” she muses over the words. “The doctors don’t think I’ll ever get my memory back. Did you know that?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry.”
“But what if … what if I don’t want it back, Denver. What if everything I’ve found out about myself is not the person I want to be?”
“Whether you get your memory back or not, it’s up to you to be the kind of person you want to be,” I say. “For the record, I don’t think you’re a bitch and I can’t imagine you ever being one.”
She stares at me. She stares at me long and hard. She stares at me with those eyes I remember in the mirror. Those eyes that were scared and unsure.
“For the record,” she says, “I’m happy it was you who saved me.”
Chapter Seventeen
The two dead bodies in the front seat of the car have me thinking about my parents.
“There’s a note,” Bass says from the other side of the garage that’s now been fully aired out of exhaust fumes.
A few of us walk over and read it, knowing not to touch it or pick it up since the police will want it as evidence.
“Damn,” Steve says. “She had stage four cancer.” He looks over at the car. “They wanted to go together. On their terms.”
I can’t help but stare at the husband and wife. They’re holding hands and their heads are leaning against each other’s. They look older than my parents were. In their sixties, maybe. And they look completely at peace.
I’ve often wondered if my parents were glad they both died in that accident. What if one of them had lived? Would they have been able to carry on? I guess they would have, for the sake of Aspen and me, but would their existence have been meaningful after losing the love of their life?
It’s strange, the feeling I get looking at the bodies in the car. For the first time in almost six years, I feel a sense of relief that they were together when they died. That they have each other now—wherever they are.
All the way back to the station, I think of Sara and what would have happened if she had died in her accident. How sad it would have been at her funeral with only a few people bothering to show up. Would Oliver have wished he had been in the car, too? Or would he have gotten over her and gotten on with his life?
When I was younger, I thought I was in love with Kendall, and I was upset by our breakup, but now I realize that what really upset me is that she didn’t stick by my side. I wasn’t upset about losing the love of my life, because that’s not what she was. Even after two years with her, I knew I could never have with her what my parents had with each other. But let’s face it—when I was labeled a criminal, not many women would give me the time of day, let alone go out with me. Staying with Kendall was the easy thing to do. And when she left, I had no one.
I know all too well what it’s like not to have anyone. And I think Sara feels like that now. Yes, she has Joelle, but Joelle seems to visit her more out of obligation than anything else. Although I do sense a friendship budding between them, which makes me happy.
She has Oliver, too. But at this point, she’s not sure she even wants him. I’m hoping when she sees her apartment later today, she will begin to accept her life with him.
Four days ago, when Donovan first brought up going on a field trip to her apartment, I thought she’d be more excited. But the more we talked about it, the more she seemed scared at the thought of it.
Something happened that day we ate lunch in the courtyard. Something that made me feel guilty.
Oliver loves her. He may not be the most
sentimental guy in the world, and he may not show up and sit with her as much as he should, but I can tell he’s trying. He’s trying hard to get her to fall in love with him.
He even stopped bringing her that vegan crap. The night he showed up with a full steak dinner for her, was the night I decided he really does have her best interests at heart. Something shifted in him that day—the same day Sara and I sat in the courtyard. It’s like he sensed something had happened. Maybe he finally realized that Sara has choices, and that one of those choices is whether to be with him or not.
During breakfast, an official-looking man carrying a briefcase walks through the bay doors at the firehouse. “Brett Cash?” he asks, glancing around at all of us.
Brett stands up. “That’s me.”
The man walks over to him and hands him an envelope. “You’ve been served,” he says before turning and walking out as quickly as he came in.
Brett walks over to the couch and sits down, staring at the envelope as he turns it over and over in his hands.
“Not opening it isn’t going to make it go away, brother,” Cameron says, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
Brett just shakes his head, like he can’t believe it’s happening, even though he knew it was coming.
“Come on, guys,” Bass says, standing up. “Let’s give Cash a minute.”
We all go out into the garage and let Brett open the letter that we know means the demise of his marriage.
“I just hope she doesn’t go after Leo,” J.D. says.
“He claims she doesn’t want him,” Steve says.
“That would kill him,” Bass says. “Especially since she’s in California now.”
We busy ourselves with rig inspections for a while. Then Cameron looks at his watch. “How long do we have to give him?”
Some of the guys from the next shift start to show up, so we take that as our cue to go back inside.
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 43