A Life Without Water

by Marci Bolden

  The words broke her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her palms. Her shoulders shook as Katie’s voice echoed through her mind. She didn’t know how long she sat, sobbing, but when she lifted her face, John was gone.

  Carol had finished the wine. All the wine. She’d sat in the kitchen, staring at the urn she’d retrieved from the safe, drinking until she couldn’t even walk up the stairs. She’d collapsed on the sofa, cursing her stupidity as the room spun beneath her. She knew better. Her limit was two glasses. She’d surpassed that before John left. The rest went down just as fast and with just as little success at stopping the floodgate against the tears and memories from opening.

  Her eyes burned and her sinuses felt as if she’d poured cement into them. She hadn’t stopped crying until she passed out. The sound of her cell phone shrieking was like a hot poker searing through her brain. She reached for the phone that always charged on the nightstand beside her bed. Instead, she knocked over the empty bottle that sat on the clear glass-top coffee table Tobias had imported from Italy eight years ago.

  If he were alive, he’d have hissed at the sound of glass scratching over glass as she righted the bottle. He wouldn’t have said a word, but a sharp gasp would have been followed by a sigh of relief that the table hadn’t shattered. She’d told him having a glass table was a ridiculous idea, but he’d fallen in love with the style, and she’d fallen in love with his excitement as they’d stood in a shop in Tuscany.

  The memory flew from her mind like a bullet when her phone rang again. She blinked, realizing the sound was coming from the briefcase that still sat on the kitchen counter, and pushed herself to stand. Her head felt so heavy as she wobbled that she nearly fell back. Her stomach rolled, and she swallowed hard, taking a quick assessment of her body. The third shrill ring brought her back to reality.

  Checking the time on the smartwatch encircling her wrist as she moved, she had to force her eyes to focus to see where the digital hands were pointing.

  Six thirty a.m.

  She picked up her shaky pace. The last time she’d gotten a call this early in the morning, Tobias had been hit by a truck.

  Her heart dropped at the number on the screen. It was a local call so it couldn’t be about her mother in Florida. Or about Tobias’s family in St. Louis. There was no one else left. Still, panic gripped her heart. “Hello?”

  “This is Houston Methodist. Is this Carol Denman?”

  God, please. Not another one of these calls. She couldn’t take another of these calls. “Yes,” she barely managed.

  “Ma’am, Johnathan Bowman gave us your name as a point of contact. Do you know him?”

  “Yes.” Sinking onto the barstool she’d occupied the night before, she rubbed her fingertips against her closed eyelids. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought someone had filled them with sand while she’d been sleeping. Her eyes were dry, and the lids felt grainy against them. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s been admitted and is asking for you.”

  She darted her focus to where she’d knocked him out cold the night before. Oh, God. “Ad-admitted? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. All I know is that he’s asking for you.”

  “What room?”

  “Three twelve. You’re welcome to—”

  Ending the call, she cut off the invitation to visit her ex-husband. Her gaze again moved to the spot where he’d been unconscious. Oh, crap. What had she done?

  She slid off the stool, rushed to the couch, and slipped her feet into the heels that she’d kicked off at some point before passing out. Though appearances were usually at the top of her list—she used to tell Tobias she couldn’t act like she had herself together if she didn’t look like she had herself together—Carol grabbed her briefcase and hurried out the door without as much as a glance in a mirror.

  The morning traffic hadn’t started and the trip to the hospital was fairly quick. Her clicking heels echoed in her ears as she went straight to the elevator. As much as she hated John, she hadn’t meant to hurt him. Would never intentionally hurt him.

  Okay, maybe she thought about bashing his face in from time to time. And maybe punching him had felt really good. But she hadn’t meant to hurt him.

  The elevator stopped on the third floor, and she dashed by the nurses’ desk looking for signs to point her to room 312. In the corridor, the sounds of beeping machines and hushed voices surrounded her. Slowing, she listened to the sounds. Smelled the disinfectant. Felt death envelop her.

  Her body tensed as her stomach constricted and she brought a hand to her mouth to tamper the urge to vomit. This wasn’t a reaction to her overindulgence in wine. Her surroundings were more than she could handle. Reaching out until her palm rested on the cold wall, she closed her eyes and remained in control. The racing of her heart sent blood throbbing in her ears. After several inhalations, she opened her eyes, but she was no longer in the Houston Methodist corridor.

  Caroline stood in the emergency room at Miami Valley Hospital in Dayton staring at the door Katie had disappeared through. A man straddled her little body, counting as he pressed down on her chest while two other paramedics ran with the gurney, rushing her to a waiting doctor.

  As a pediatric nurse, she knew death. She knew death far too well. She’d seen death indiscriminately claim children. This one. That one. Cancer. A bike wreck. A tumble down the stairs. Death couldn’t take Katie. Katie couldn’t die. Katie wouldn’t die. No. She’d be okay. She had to be okay.

  Death would lose this time. This one time. Please, God, let death lose this time.

  After what seemed to be hours, Dr. Goodman came through the swinging doors. She had worked with him before. She knew him. Katie was in good hands with him. He never gave up on his patients. He would fight for her little girl until there was no fight left.

  But as she looked into his eyes, she knew.

  Oh, no. No. Not Katie. Not my Katie.

  “Don’t,” she’d whispered. “Please don’t say it.”

  “I’m sorry. We did all we could.”

  Arms wrapped around her as she screamed and her knees gave out. She thought they belonged to John, but she wasn’t sure. She’d never know for certain. Someone caught her before she hit the cracked linoleum, but they couldn’t stop the sound erupting from her chest. She screamed until her throat was raw.

  She didn’t stop until a nurse stuck a needle in her arm and injected a sedative to calm her. She’d done that to other mothers before. The ones who had become hysterical and couldn’t control themselves. Mothers whose children had died. Mothers who had lost everything.

  She was one of those women now. The newest member of an elite club no woman ever wanted to join.

  Eventually, she calmed. Went numb. Not from the shot, but from the shock as she and John were led to the small room where Katie was stretched on a bed. Her little lips had turned dark purple from lack of oxygen. Caroline was reminded of how the dye in the grape popsicles Katie liked left her lips looking much the same color.

  Brushing her hand over Katie’s hair, she blinked, forcing her tears back. “Wake up, baby,” she whispered, knowing she wouldn’t. “Look at Mommy. Katie. Please. Look at me.”

  She didn’t. She never would again.

  A sob swelled in Caroline’s chest, and she scooped Katie into her arms. Hugging her tight, memorizing the feel of her baby limp in her arms, inhaling the chemical scent that clung to her hair, kissing the forehead that was far too cold.

  “Ma’am,” a woman said gently, pulling Carol from the memory. “Are you okay?”

  She glanced around, taking in the hospital. She swallowed before nodding. Only she wasn’t okay. The acid in her stomach threatened to burn its way up her throat. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Can I get you some water?”

  “No,” she muttered. “I’m okay.”

  “You look a little pale. Should we find you a seat?”

  “No. Really. I’m okay. Thank you.”


  The woman seemed hesitant to leave. “Come to the nurses’ station if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  The nurse walked away, and Carol forced what remained of the memory from her mind. She wasn’t going to think about that day. Not now. Not ever again.

  She found John’s room and tiptoed to the bed. He appeared fine. Like he was sleeping. He was breathing on his own. The IV in his arm was hooked to a bag of simple saline, steadily dripping into his vein. Nothing seemed to indicate what was wrong with him.

  Easing into a chair next to the bed, she inched the uncomfortable metal frame closer. He looked younger now that he was resting. The crease between his brow had become permanent, though less pronounced than when he’d been staring at her the day before. With his piercing blue eyes closed, his presence wasn’t nearly as intrusive on her soul. She could sit back and see him, really see him, and let the sharp edge of her anger dull. Not completely—enough to not hate him with the passion of a thousand burning suns. Maybe nine hundred and ninety-nine.

  She smirked at her assessment. That sounded to her like something John would have said years ago. She hated when parts of him snuck up on her, as they tended to from time to time over the last twenty years. She supposed that was inevitable after sharing her life with him for so long. Did parts of her stick to him? Did he ever think something and then realize it was her voice creeping up into his mind?

  She bit her lip hard—the way she did when she didn’t want her emotions to get out of her control—not willing to acknowledge that there could still be parts of Caroline alive inside the darkest depths of her, hiding in the corners of her mind as if they’d been waiting for John to shine light on them. She’d worked hard to put that part of herself to rest. That part was weak and scared and easily persuaded to go against her own instincts.

  She rubbed her thumb over the surface of her nail, distracted by a small chip in the acrylic overlay. Scratching at it with her thumbnail, she debated whether she should stay until John woke up or leave a note on the bedside table to let him know she’d checked on him. By the time she decided she needed to stay at least long enough to speak to his doctor, Carol had picked a perfectly good oval-tipped French manicure off two fingernails.

  She needed John’s physician to tell her that John was okay; then she’d leave. She had a life, after all. A schedule to keep. Work to be done. The meetings that had been canceled the previous afternoon had been rescheduled. Cancelling a second time would be completely unprofessional. She sure as hell couldn’t go into the office wearing the same suit as the day before. The thought made her consider that she hadn’t even checked herself before leaving the house. She moved gingerly toward the bathroom to soften the sound of her damned high heels. Flipping the light on, she cursed as the florescent bulb flickered before illuminating the room in a whitewash that stole the color from her face.

  Using her fingers, she did her best to comb through the strands that were lying in various directions, overlapping in places they shouldn’t. By the time she was done, most were back in place. Her face was still sticky from sleep, so she ran the water until the temperature was cool enough to shock the remaining sleep from her system, but warm enough not to be painful. She splashed water over her face several times before patting herself dry with a towel.

  Tossing the bleached terrycloth onto the counter, she frowned at her reflection. She still looked out of sorts. Out of control. Emotional. That was the word. She looked emotional. The observation struck a nerve deep inside her and she physically flinched before turning away from the mirror. She was standing directly outside the bathroom when the door leading to the hallway opened. The man who entered wasn’t wearing the typical white coat, but he did have a stethoscope draped around his neck.

  “Carol Denman, I presume?” He extended his hand as the door silently closed behind him. “I’m Dr. Collins. Johnathan’s admitting physician. How are you holding up?”

  She shook his hand out of obligation, but had no interest in being social at the moment. “How is John?” she asked, keeping her voice soft to match his so neither disturbed the patient.

  He gestured toward the bed but didn’t break eye contact with her. “He’s resting now, as you can see. What can you tell me about his medical history?”

  “Not much. I…I don’t know him well. What can you tell me about his current medical condition?”

  Silence.

  Damn it. Pressing her lips together, she glanced at the bed. Bad news. Definitely bad news. Whatever had sent John to the hospital was more serious than a punch to the face. Somehow, that didn’t alleviate her concerns as much as she’d hoped.

  “Has he mentioned his health to you?” Collins asked.

  “No. Before he showed up at my office yesterday, I hadn’t seen him in over twenty years.”

  “Do you have any idea if he’s been ill?”

  “He didn’t say.” Yet somehow that made his unexpected visit more logical. John did very little without reason and strong motivation. If he were ill, that would likely prompt him to seek out the peace he’d told her he needed.

  “Do you know who we can contact to find out?” Dr. Collins asked, disrupting her thoughts. “I’d really like to review his medical records to treat him properly.”

  She shrugged. “He’s a detective in Dayton, Ohio, but I don’t know much more than that.”

  “Okay.” He looked to where John was still sleeping. “I’ll get someone on making a few calls for me to see if we can find out more. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but please don’t disturb him. I want him to get as much rest as possible until I have more information.”

  “Of course.”

  The doctor left her standing where she’d been when he entered, and she swallowed hard as she turned her focus back to John. His cell phone was on the bedside table. After only a moment of internal debate, she picked it up. Running her finger over the screen caused a number pad to come up. Password protected. She didn’t even think twice before punching in Katie’s birthday—0605.

  The phone unlocked. John was nothing if not predictable.

  She opened his contacts list and scrolled through the names, searching for one that was familiar. Ah. Bert Janowski. He’d been John’s partner when she’d met him. She and Bert had been friendly enough. He might remember her, which would make the conversation a bit less awkward. She hoped.

  After pressing the little phone icon next to his name, she waited for the call to connect.

  “Whadda ya want, ya bastard?” a gravelly voice on the other end of the line demanded.

  “Bert? You may not remember me. I’m John’s ex-wife.”

  “Caroline?”

  She grinned. Hearing that name come from John was like a match lighting her nerves afire, but Bert saying the name she hadn’t used in years had a sentimental feeling to it. She hadn’t lied when she told John that Caroline, and all that she’d hated about the person she was then, died with Katie. The few people whom she still talked to from her past, her mother included, had agreed to call her Carol. She needed, for her own sanity, to cut all ties with the past, and Caroline. For some reason, her given name on Bert’s lips didn’t sting as much. “Yes. It’s Caroline.” God, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d said that name aloud.

  “Holy hell. How are you, girl?”

  She faced the bed. “I’m good, but something’s happened to John. He’s in the hospital—he’s okay—but the doctor needs his medical records. Do you happen to know whom I should tell him to call?”

  A heavy sigh sounded through the phone. “I don’t know who his doctor is, but he goes to a clinic by the department. I can get the name and text it to you.”

  “That would be great. Thank you. What about his wife?”

  “Wife? No, John never got remarried.”

  Looking at the wedding ring on his hand, she started to protest, but then she recognized the simple band as his half of the set they had bought before they’d exchanged vows. It wa
s an exact replica of hers. She’d tossed hers out two decades ago. John’s was still on his finger.

  “You’re with him, then?” Bert asked.

  She hesitated. “He gave the hospital my name. They called me. I’m only here until they can sort this out. I’m not staying.”

  “He’s sick, Caroline. Real sick. As soon as he found out, he made it his mission to find you. He wanted to make peace with you before…you know…the end.”

  Her heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. “The end? What’s wrong with him?”

  “He started acting strange a few months ago. He’d get real agitated or forget something that he shouldn’t forget. The captain made him go to the doctor. He didn’t want to, but we were all getting worried, you know. As soon as he got his test results, he started talking about you and how he had to find you—”

  “Bert. What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s got a tumor. In his brain. There isn’t anything they can do about it.”

  Her breath caught. Well. That explained a lot about the last eighteen hours.

  Three

  If the smell of the hospital took Carol back to Katie’s death, hearing the machines reminded her of Tobias’s. He’d died by the time she’d gotten to him. Not technically. The machines kept him alive until she could fly his family in to say goodbye. But he was already gone. As a nurse, she’d been around death enough to know the moment she’d walked into the room that he’d never recover.

  She didn’t have that sense about John. John would wake up. He’d say her name.

  The last time she heard Tobias say her name was when he’d tried to nudge her from bed to go running with him. She’d rolled over, pulled the covers up, and told him to go without her—she wanted a few more minutes of sleep. She hadn’t even opened her eyes to look at him one last time. He had kissed her head through the blankets, swatted her behind, and told her she was lazy. Then he was gone.