He decided when he got back to Sacramento and Grace, he would tell her the whole story. How his mom and dad died, pursuing their dreams. He smiled to himself, remembering his dad’s props closet and his mom’s wig collection. Another memory strummed his heartstrings: the time he came home on leave from Afghanistan and found two strangers sitting at the kitchen table. They were drinking coffee out of his parent’s favorite cups and addressing him as if they knew him well. He didn’t get it at first, the man in the black overcoat with the handlebar mustache flirting with the blond woman. How they loved to pretend! He almost laughed out loud recalling some of their get-ups. Instead, a chill raced up his spine, and he groaned, wondering which disguise they wore the day they portrayed Jess’s parents.
Skip turned to question, “You okay, buddy?”
Paul waved him on. “It’s nothing,” he assured his friend. “Happy we’re going home.”
CHAPTER 8
RED SHOES
G race lingered in the shower, mentally inventorying her pantry to decide what to make for dinner. She expected to hear from Sal soon and didn’t want to grocery shop until she knew how long the boy would be with her. Buns ate anything she fixed, but staples were running low, and she wanted to be sure he ate the best meals possible.
Their routine began to flow by the end of the first week. She dropped him off at school and saw clients until school let out at three. They would spend the afternoon doing homework, gardening, or running errands. Secretly, Grace longed for the day she would be addressed as Mom. She had envied Sal, always considering her lucky to have the boys. Now, she felt her heart break, thinking what it must be like for Sal to worry about losing it all to cancer.
Buns sat on a kitchen stool, staring into space. Grace interrupted his thoughts.
“You ready?”
“Yep, just need to get my backpack.”
“Look at you, all matching.”
“In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Aunt Grace, I like red.”
“I can see that. Red shirt, red shoes, red backpack—works for me.”
Her mind drifted to Paul. He was a red-kind-of-guy too. She sighed. He and Sal had been gone the same amount of time. She missed them both terribly. She missed Sal’s sass and Paul’s sweetness. He had a way of making her troubles melt like snow in July.
But does he miss you? He hasn’t called in days. Sal would’ve known what to do about Paul. Sal kept her on her toes and filled her days with benevolence. Please come back soon, she prayed, both of you.
* * *
Sylvia Mendoza came through the door, exasperated. “Am I late? I’m sorry. Parking stinks around here.”
“No worries. Come on back,” Grace said, taking the lead. “Sit. Get comfortable.”
“I circled at least ten minutes before someone pulled out.
Never seen it that crowded. Something going on?”
“Nothing I know of. You’re here now. Relax.”
“Okay.” Sylvia blew air from her lungs, took in a fresh breath, and let it go again. After the third or fourth time, Grace interrupted.
“What’s been going on since the last time we met?”
“I haven’t taken Xanax since my doctor put me on oxytocin, and I cut back on the Ambien to five milligrams.”
“Isn’t oxytocin a hormone they use on pregnant women?”
“I believe it is, but it was prescribed in a nose-spray form. It’s supposed to give me a feeling of well-being, help with my grief.”
“How is it working for you?”
“It’s been two days since my last cry.” Sylvia’s full lips spread wide. “Is there such a thing as a criers-anonymous group? I think I just qualified.”
“Not sure about criers anonymous, but there are many grief sup—” The sound of screeching tires and a loud bang from the street prompted both women to rush to the window.
Grace and Sylvia witnessed a crowd of people gather on the street below. A black Mustang was being swallowed by angry people yelling and shaking their fists. Two police officers parted the sea of people, revealing two pedestrians kneeling beside a small body.
“Oh, my God!” Sylvia turned her head and began to sob.
Grace stood glued to her spot. “No, it can’t be,” she whispered, willing the people to move six inches to the right so she could get a better view. Suddenly her hand flew over mouth to stifle a scream. She could see the small body wearing one red shoe—a few inches to the left lay a red backpack.
* * *
Home never looked better to Sal. She leaned into John and hit the garage-door opener. “You keep doing that, Sal, and we may end up in bed before you get to collect your son.”
“Promises, promises.”
“You’re playing with fire, baby.”
“I can feel the heat, big boy.”
John plucked Sal from the front seat like a delicate flower. He drew her into his arms, inhaled her scent, and kissed her gently. She returned his kiss and gazed into his eyes. “Put me down, John, before you hurt yourself.”
“Not a chance, baby. You struck the match.” He carried her into the house, down the hall, and into their bedroom. Before he laid her on the bed, he kissed her again, this time more urgently. Before their lips parted, Sal had her blouse undone and began unzipping John’s pants.
He took her to the bed and pulled her slacks over her thighs. She raised her hips, giving John the green light to remove her panties. She slipped out of her blouse and unhooked her bra while John stripped down to his boxers. “Sure you’re up for this?” he asked, kneeling on the edge of the bed.
“Have I ever refused you?”
“No, that’s why I’m asking now.”
“Come to me,” she said with open arms.
They clung to each other until their passion grew into a frenzy. John lifted Sal on top of him, afraid her frail body couldn’t hold his weight. “I love you,” he said, holding back tears.
“I know, ever since that day at camp.” She guided him inside of her, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. “I love you, John. Always have, always will.” She rocked him into oblivion.
“Faster,” he begged. She obliged, screaming his name.
“Oh, John. Oh, John. Ohh—”
When the phone rang. Sal’s hips ground to a halt. John gulped air. “Machine’s got it, babe. Don’t stop,” he groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“Shhh, I can’t hear.” Tiny bumps gathered on Sal’s skin.
“Sounds like the school, John.”
“What?” They listened to the principal’s words, unable to digest what he was saying.
Sal leaped out of bed to catch the phone.
“What do you mean he’s missing?” Sal paused to listen. “My son is not—” Sal rolled her eyes. John moved in closer. “My son is not—” She held the phone away from her face and pressed the speaker button. “I heard what you said, and I’m telling you… Brunswick is not a problem child!” John grabbed the phone.
“Listen, our son is not a trouble-maker! Now, what the hell is going on?”
The principal’s voice was soft but curt. “Your son, Brunswick, got into an altercation with another student. He hit the boy in the face and ran off. We called security immediately, but they weren’t able to catch up with him. We were hoping he came home.”
“No,” said John as his face paled. “No, he’s not here.”
“Let me check his room,” said Sal. “Maybe he came home while we were—” She smiled and whispered, “Maybe we didn’t hear him come in.” Sal grabbed her robe, wrapping it tightly around her small frame.
“Hold on. My wife is checking our son’s room.”
Sal was back quickly, her face ashen. “He’s not there.”
John hung up the phone and dressed. Sal untangled her pants, turning them right-side out. Her zipper stuck half-way up. “Of course! Grace! He didn’t know we were home; he would’ve called Grace. Right?”
John grunted. “Yeah,” tying his shoe.
&nbs
p; Sal slipped into flats, pulled a T-shirt over her head and ran downstairs, yelling back at John. I’ll call her from my cell. Let’s go!”
* * *
Grace pressed her face against the glass. She stepped backward, reeling from the sight of the small body lying in the street. She rushed Sylvia Mendoza out the door, locked up, and bolted down the hallway. She didn’t waste time waiting for the elevator; the stairs were faster.
She pushed her way through the crowd and knelt beside the boy. “Buns,” she said softly. “I’m here, baby. Auntie Grace is here. Wake up honey. Wake up for Auntie Grace.” The paramedic ripped the boy’s shirt open, applying leads to his chest with the speed of a Vegas, card dealer.
“Keep talking,” he said, raising his gaze to Grace. “How old is the boy?”
“Nine. Ten next month. His folks are away. He’s been staying with me. I dropped him off at school. Why is he—?” Her voice cracked. She sucked in a breath and held back tears. “Buns, sweetheart, wake up. You’re going to be fine. Stay with us, honey.”
The paramedics lifted Buns onto a backboard, secured his neck, and tightened the straps around his chest, thighs, and ankles. “You can ride in the back with me. It’s okay to hold his hand. Keep talking to him. We want him to hear your voice.”
“Can I call his mother? Buns? I’m calling Mom. She’ll be here in no time.” Grace reached into her pocket, withdrew her phone, and was about to dial when it rang in her hand. “Sal! Is John with you?”
“What’s wrong. Is it Buns?”
“Let me speak to John.”
Sal moaned. John ripped the phone from her hand.
“Talk to me, Grace. Is Buns okay?”
“Meet me at Sutter General ER. Drive carefully. I’ll explain when you get there.”
* * *
Paul deplaned at Sacramento International Airport. He walked Skip to his Jeep, said his goodbyes, and hopped in his truck. In twenty minutes, he’d be near his future bride. He looked forward to ending his day on a happy note. He hoped she’d forgive him for his lack of attention while he was away. He knew she’d understand once he shared the truth, but he wasn’t sure how much he was willing to tell. Until he had proof that the disfigured man was Jess, he wouldn’t be able to close the book. Not yet.
He stopped at home, showered, and changed his clothes. He flipped open his cell and dialed Grace. When he got her message cue, he didn’t get discouraged. Instead, he drove to the nearest florist and purchased three-dozen, red roses. Next, he drove to her office. He hummed as the elevator delivered him to Grace’s floor. He rounded the corner with love on his mind.
Paul stood at Grace’s office door, twisting the knob. It didn’t budge. He peered through the frosted glass, expecting to see movement. He put his ear to the glass. Nothing. One light illuminated the hallway leading to the front desk. Maybe she’s with a client. He slid down the wall and placed the roses between his knees. He checked his watch: 3:23. Most appointments ended on the hour. He closed his eyes. And waited.
At 4:45, he rose and went home.
* * *
Sal’s eyes flashed. “Where is he, Grace? Where’s my son!” John followed close behind, trying to calm his distraught wife.
“I don’t know what happened for sure. I dropped him off at school. I heard this crash. There he was lying in the street. Someone said he ran against the light. The paramedic said he might’ve been crying. He had tear stains on his cheeks.”
“The school called us. We’d just got home.” Sal lowered her eyes. John picked up the slack.
“The principal said Buns slugged some kid in the chops. Did he tell you he was having problems?”
“Some bullies were giving him a bad time, but I thought the matter was resolved.”
The fire in Sal’s eyes ignited, sending sparks at Grace. “How was it resolved, Grace? Did you speak to the principal? Call his teacher? Write a note?”
“Why are you attacking me? Buns and I have been doing fine. He had a little trouble. We talked about it. I spoke with the boy who was giving him grief. As far as I knew, all was well.”
John intervened. “It doesn’t work that easy, Grace. You have to sit on these kids. Those little punks hassling him—they don’t give up.”
“I’m sorry. Everything seemed— I’m sorry.” Grace threw her arms around Sal. Sal shrugged her away. She linked her arm in John’s.
“Let’s go, John. I want to see my son.”
John’s apologetic smile didn’t take the sting from his words. “Go home, Grace. We’ll call you.” Sal brushed past Grace, leaving her standing in the middle of the hall.
Grace’s reserve turned to mush. Her body began to tremble before tears fell from her eyes. Someone spoke. The voice sounded far away. Grace wanted to scream.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
Grace blinked. “I’m fine,” she replied whisper-like as the watery figure came into focus.
* * *
John pulled the curtain aside, allowing Sal to enter the small cubicle first. Buns lay on the gurney, tubes snaking from his nose and both arms. His head and lower torso were packed in stiff foam. Machines ticked and beeped. A nurse stood nearby, preparing syringes.
“We’re the parents.” John’s voice sounded too small for his large frame.
“I’m getting your boy ready for tests the doctor ordered. We have his head, hips, and back stabilized. We’ll be running him through an integrated PET-CT scan to determine how much spinal and neurological damage there is. Go ahead and talk to him. It’s good for him to know you’re here. Even though he’s out, recent studies show people can sometimes hear even if they are in a catatonic or coma state.”
Sal’s breath hitched in her throat. John tightened his grip on her shoulders. She freed herself from his hold and bent over her son. She leaned close to his ear and cooed loving words. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and inched his way through the small space, examining the high-tech equipment until Dr. Shultz entered the room.
After introductions and handshakes, the doctor explained, “Your son sustained substantial head trauma. We figured that when the car struck him, he flew at least ten feet. His left femur is fractured at the growth plate, indicating the point of impact. We’re waiting to hear from Dr. Joy, an excellent orthopedic surgeon who is a miracle worker with kids who’ve incurred injuries like this. We don’t suspect any visceral bleeding. His abdomen is soft, but his vital signs indicate brain swelling. We want to rule out any spinal injury. We haven’t been able to wake him which is common with swelling. Keep talking to him. I’ll check back later.” The doctor scribbled instructions on Bun’s chart, stashed the chart outside the door, and left.
After John had pulled up a vinyl chair for Sal and himself, they held hands and prayed.
* * *
Grace slumped over her steering wheel and sobbed. “Please, God, you took Garret and Wilde. Please don’t take this boy.” When her tears dried, she felt for her phone in her pocket. I need him. “Please be there.”
Paul spit watermelon seeds into a bowl and strode across the kitchen for his phone. “Hey, been thinking about you, chér,” he purred. “I stopped by your office. Where are you?”
“At the hospital. Bun’s was struck by a car this morning.”
“No, I’m so sorry. What can I do? Which hospital? You okay? I can be there in five minutes.”
“Yes, please come,” she sobbed. “God, Paul, if anything happens to him—”
“I’m on my way.”
Grace ended the call and leaned back against the headrest. She closed her eyes, willing her energy towards the sleeping boy. She mentally surrounded him in white light, then, as if he were a spinning cylinder, she began running red and gold up and down his ethereal body.
Her phone, vibrating on the dash, broke her concentration. She glanced at the number. Private Caller. No number appeared. She hesitated but didn’t want to ignore the call if it were was someone with information about Buns. “Hello, this is Grace Simms.�
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>click<
* * *
Paul circled the parking lot until he spotted Grace’s car. His heart raced with anticipation. Never had he felt anyone’s sorrow the way he felt Grace’s. The ache in her voice transcended to his heart, chipping off a little piece with each word. He knew how much she loved the boy and how serious she took her obligations. He cursed Jess once again for disrupting his life. He should’ve been here for her.
“Hey, chér.” He opened the car door gently and scooped her into his arms. Mascara smudged her tear stained face, her eyes were filled with pain. “What is it?”
Grace threw her phone on the seat. “Another hang-up.” She drew him into the car and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Don’t ever leave me again, Paul. Bad things happen when you leave.”
“I’m here now, sweetheart. I’m here.” He held her close, wrapping his arms tight around her slender body, securing what threatened to escape—her sanity. Too many losses for one person to bear in such a short time. “Did the person say—?”
“No, he hung-up.” She looked at her phone, expecting it to ring again. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s him. I know it is.”
“Who chér?”
“Jess.”
Paul remained cool. “What makes you say that?”
“I feel the evil in his silence.” Her eyes held his in conviction before she lowered her gaze. “One day, he’ll close the gap. I can assure you that he’ll never leave me alone.”
“He’d stop if he were dead.”
“What?” Her head snapped up, her eyes became steel bits, drilling holes in his reserve. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“I have so much to tell you, Grace, I don’t know where to start. My fear is that once you hear what I have to say, you’ll—I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Paul, this isn’t the right time.” Her ire raised another notch, “I think you’d better get out of my car.”
The Black Dress Page 7