Michael saw him. Parked behind his big desk next door. If he had any doubts that Peter sensed something was up, they’re gone now.
A rap and Bev steps into the office. She makes room for the box on the desk, then backs away, almost to the door, grasping the handle behind her. Michael strangles his laptop with its power cord, rams it into the box and starts tossing file folders in on top.
“How’s Finn?” Bev says, quietly.
“Not good.” From the credenza behind the desk, he grabs a framed photograph of himself and Mia taken at last year’s Christmas party and stuffs it into the box. Throws in a stapler, a small gold clock—a gift from the staff, some celebration or another. He’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be looking for, what Mia had said they would need. Documents signed by Peter? It was Friday night, and now it’s what, Friday again? In between one and the next, his son managed to lose his goddamn hand.
And last night with Mia. Christ. After a few decades together you do what you do to spice things up, but that was something else altogether. Tense, agitated, he’d watched her drying herself off, the towel slipping back and forth between her legs. Six inches shorter and a good fifty pounds lighter; Michael knows the numbers, understands the perversity of the math. But last night he saw opportunity in the differential and his cock had stiffened. Mia’s foot up on the tub, the dark gleam between her thighs, her sex so open to him.
“How can I help?” Bev asks.
“You can’t.” He scoops some folders from the floor and tosses them into the box. He doesn’t know where any of the pertinent paperwork is. Never has. Never will. That was never his job. He plays his tongue along his bottom lip, cut on the inside from Mia slapping him. If he’s unsure about the rest of it, he knows she enjoyed that part. One hard slap for fucking things up with Peter, for falling asleep on Finn.
In the end, it had been easy to control her. Easy to pin her arms and force her legs apart and fuck her right there where they’d landed on the bathroom floor. He isn’t sure what she’d been thinking, only knows that she’d responded, that she’d been wet when he thrust inside. And afterwards, she hadn’t seemed upset, just quiet and slightly shocked, like him.
“I’ll get things organized if you want to work out of the house for a while.”
“I’m not working out of the house.” Michael grabs the box. “Pack up the rest of the files. The shareholder agreement. The incorporation documents. All of it. Have it sent to my place.” Mia can figure it out at home.
Bev is still holding tight to the door handle. “Can you please— We’re all so wor—”
“Just open it,” he says, and she steps aside.
—
OTHER THAN JESS, Frankie’s the first one to come to the hospital, and the last time I saw her she’d been on her knees in front of me. Other than a lot of snow, her hair is probably the last thing I touched with that hand. So even though I’m keeping my arm perfectly still under the sheet, I can tell she’s nervous. Fiddling with her phone and kind of rambling about the big melt at Orford, making jokes about global warming wrecking the ski season, LOL.
I’m sorry. I just kind of blurt it out. About what happened at Eli’s, I say. In the laundry—
Finn. Seriously. Forget it. I’m sorry. And her cheeks go all blotchy and red.
I feel super shitty about—
Finn don’t. Just, just…don’t. I was drunk. You were drunk. And high.
Yeah, and high, she says, and for the first time she sounds sort of mad.
It was…it was a completely fucked-up night. Obviously.
Obviously. Don’t worry about it, she says. It was stupid. It was nothing.
You sure?
Yes. Can we just not talk about it anymore? It’s so awkward. Frankie throws her phone into her giant purse and starts rustling around inside.
Sorry, I say, again. I feel like shit about it.
Her hand goes still in her purse. I left right after, she says. With Tristan and Brooke. I thought you left, too.
Everyone thought I left. I should have left.
I should have made sure you were okay. I should have walked you home.
It wasn’t your fault. What happened had nothing to do with you.
I still feel terrible about it. Everyone feels terrible.
It was my fault. It was all me. I was stupid.
She pulls a pack of gum out of her bag, takes a piece, offers me one. I shake my head—don’t want to deal with the wrapper one-handed.
Eli asked me to go to a movie with him, she says. On Friday.
Really? You should go.
He wanted to come see you but apparently your dad said he couldn’t.
My father kind of goes insane when things mess up.
Yeah, no kidding. She starts lightly tapping the rail. Anyway, I’ll probably go. To the movie.
You should definitely go.
You think so?
Yeah. Eli’s always been really into you.
Huh. And it wouldn’t bug you or anything?
No. Why would it bug me?
Just…I don’t know…nothing.
Then more silence for a while and neither of us looking at each other. Finally I give Frankie a wonky smile. I can actually feel how whacked it is, so stiff and big it doesn’t even begin to fit my face. Can I ask you something?
Sure.
It’s sort of weird. It’s sort of—
What? she says.
And I pull back the sheet. We both stare at the hook, that fucking clunk of inhumanity, tamed by two rubber bands.
Can you take it off? I say.
Her eyes flicker to mine, a flash of alarm. What?
Take it off, I say.
Shouldn’t you maybe get a nurse—
It’s fine. They said if it was bugging me…it’s fine.
She leans in, her hair hiding her face. Starts loosening the lace.
Like this?
Yes.
I don’t want to hurt you.
You won’t.
She wiggles the unlaced sleeve off and sets it on the table by the bed. The hooks are facing up, giving the world the metal finger. The cables hang over the edge of the table, turning slowly, first one way and then the other, just barely brushing the floor.
Frankie smooths out the stocking cap, then runs her hand lightly down my forearm. Through the layers of cotton I can feel her fingertips moving toward the end.
It doesn’t bother me, she says. I want you to know that. She cups her hand lightly over the rounded end of the bandage. You can still ski and everything, she says. You can still—
I yank my arm away. The doctor said everything’s good. The doctor said I’m doing really well.
Yeah…you look good. The ping of her cell gives her an out. She frowns, texts, tells me that blah, she’s gotta go, she has a chemistry test tomorrow. She loops the straps of her purse over her shoulder and starts buttoning up her coat.
Frankie…can you…I stare at the thing on the table. Her eyes follow mine.
What?
Take it.
She frowns.
I don’t want it in here.
Won’t you need it later?
They’re going to get me a better one. A lot better one.
Yeah, I was wondering…But shouldn’t you…Won’t you get in trouble?
Fuck, Frankie! Just put it in your bag.
—
MICHAEL PLACES THE BOX on the floor outside Peter’s office. For a moment he hangs in the doorway, suspended on the threshold. Peter’s planted behind his desk. Michael knows that cautious, calculating smile, can see him looking for an opening, something safe to test the waters.
“I called your cell a thousand times,” he says, but he doesn’t get up. “There was no answer at home. I left messages. Helen and I both did. We wanted to come to the hospital, but when you didn’t call back…Christ, Michael, Helen and I are…Frankie…we’re all just sick about what happened to Fi—”
“Don’t.” Michael spits the word through
clenched teeth. “Don’t even say his name.” Four steps and he’s looming over Peter’s desk.
“Michael,” Peter says, rigid in his soft leather chair, “what’s happening here?”
“You tell me.” Michael lets his gaze wander the room, lets the unpleasantness settle in and the blood creep from Peter’s collar. He takes in the business-achievement awards on the walls, the motivational posters Mia loathes. When she redid their offices, she wanted them gone, but Peter held on to a couple. Better Actions, Better Outcomes. Brave Now. Dare to Soar. That one’s got an eagle, wings spread of course.
Casually, Michael plucks a picture from the corner of Peter’s desk. Mia had set her camera on the picnic table and used a timer so they’re all in it. Frankie and Finn elbow-high and pudgy in bright bathing suits, Mia and Helen squinting smiles into the sun, the men pretending to christen the bow of Peter’s new bowrider with a bottle of Champagne they’d chosen to drink instead on their maiden voyage around the lake. A family sunset cruise, Diana Krall purring from the built-in speakers, Peter taking it easy behind the wheel. Later, after they’d put Finn and Frankie to bed and the women had a Scrabble board and a bottle of wine between them, Michael and Peter had gone back out. They took turns opening up the engine, the thrill of two hundred horses at play, splitting black water, laughing and whooping, tearing across a lake struck with moonlight, giving the shore shit with the power of their wake.
“You know,” Michael says, glancing up from the photo, “you used to look kind of cool, with your hair long like that, but now it’s all thin and stringy. You should definitely get it cut. I’m thinking it’s unprofessional. I’m thinking it’s bad for business.”
“Is that what you’re thinking?” Peter’s face flushes. Even his wide centre part turns pink. “That my hair is bad for—”
“And you should probably stop smoking all that pot. It wouldn’t look good if people found out what a stoner you are.”
Peter is up out of his chair.
“Down, big boy,” Michael says. Peter glances nervously out at the office—he’s paranoid about keeping his drug hobby a secret at work—where everyone is suddenly heads-down in their cubicles.
Peter is a couple inches taller than Michael, broad shouldered, but soft beneath his dress shirt. A belly. It’s another thing Michael could razz him about—the man is vain. Needy and vain. Wants to be liked, but turns most people off. Michael has never been intimidated by Peter. There is a weakness to him that is more than physical. Michael always thought people sensed the flint of greed around which he is built and kept their distance. Now he thinks it must be all the lies Peter tells that prevent him from ever standing on solid ground, his whole foundation shifting like beach sand in a low wind. Peter has to be ready to adjust, reposition, depending on what bullshit he’s told whom. It doesn’t make him a comfortable person to be around. Michael doesn’t know how he and Mia did it all those years, although the ski chalet and the cottage and all the booze certainly helped. And the business, of course. The hope of making it rich in tandem. And Helen was always a doll. And then Finn and Frankie came along.
Michael shoves the picture at him. “You remember this?”
Peter crosses his arms over his chest and takes a sudden interest in the carpet beneath his feet.
“It was an awesome day, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. It was.”
“Great friends, right?”
Every wrong Michael’s relived over the last four days, every vengeful thought he’s had, converges inside him. Even Finn’s accident feels like Peter’s fault. Michael should grab him by the stringy hair and slam his face into the wall, should have slammed his face into the wall the day Jill told him about the money he stole to buy the boat.
“Stanley talked to me,” he says, through gritted teeth.
“Stanley? Stanley doesn’t…Stanley shouldn’t have—”
“Yes, he should have. He should have talked to me three years ago.” Michael takes another look at the picture, then grins up at Peter, a hard, sardonic grin. “You’re a lucky man to own a boat like that. I wish I had a boat like yours.”
Peter slowly spreads his arms, striking a gentle Jesus pose. “We can get you a boat if you want one,” he says, carefully.
Michael smashes the picture on the corner of the desk. Smashes it again. With a flick of the wrist, he launches what’s left across the desk. Inside the battered frame, their families spin across the rosewood and drop over the edge.
“I don’t want a fucking boat.”
—
MIDNIGHT, MIA AND MICHAEL devour the casserole. They split the bottle of wine. Pérez Cruz, from Argentina. A familiar favourite. An old standby. Like the chicken-and-mushroom casserole. A slice of Gorgonzola from Nicastro’s to go with the baguette, and fresh green grapes for dessert. All of it waiting for them when they got home from the hospital. All of it delicious, regardless of its source, or maybe because of it, Mia isn’t sure. It’s the best meal—the only meal—they’ve eaten in days. Bellies full, they slowly climb the stairs. Doors locked, tonight they’ll sleep like the dead.
“You ready for a rookie?” Cathy, the Cabbage Patch kid of a nurse, winks at Finn.
He lays his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes. “Go for it, Mom.”
Cathy holds a gauze pad beneath Finn’s foot. “You’ll want to soak the dressing to make sure it doesn’t stick coming off.” The bandage is splotched with dried blood and crusted with fluids. As Mia pours sterile water onto the dressing, the nurse prevents the excess from spilling onto the bed.
“Cold?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.” Finn’s Adam’s apple bobs, but his head remains turned toward the window.
The nurse hands Mia a pair of tweezers she’s picked from a stainless steel tray and explains how after Finn is discharged a home-care nurse will come twice a week to check on his progress. “But most of the ongoing wound care will be up to you and your husband,” she says.
Me, Mia thinks, it will be up to me. In the latex gloves, her fingers feel clumsy and thick. She tugs at the tape securing the dressing. Sodden, it peels away easily from the top of the foot, but as she unwinds the bandage, the gauze remains caught up near his toes.
“More water.” This time Cathy pours, while Mia holds the absorbent pad. Still the bandage sticks. “Sometimes you just have to give a little tug,” Cathy says, crinkling up her nose.
Through latex and tweezers, Mia can feel the damaged tissue lifting along with the dressing. She flinches, Finn flinches, and the bandage finally gives way. With it comes a sharp reek that she does her best to ignore.
“That first one’s not easy. But you’ll get used to it.”
Mia drops the sullied bandage, its bits of torn-away flesh, into a small plastic bucket the nurse holds out. Sure she’ll get used to it.
“You okay?” she asks Finn, holding tight to her tweezers.
He nods. “How about you?”
“Good.” She smiles, and like him, tries not to see the fresh blood seeping from his feet, his pulpy, blackened skin.
—
“MIA?” CATHY LEANS over the counter at the nurses’ station. “Dr. Sullivan asked you to stop by on your way out.”
“I was just going to grab a coffee.” Sit down. Work the kinks out of her neck. Take a couple deep breaths. Collapse.
“He should be in his office now. It’s best if you go straight away,” she says. “His schedule is crazy. Here, I’ll jot the directions down.”
As her hand moves across the paper, her diamond throws off light, a small solitaire that reminds Mia of the one Michael gave her, which she no longer wears because the band irritates her skin.
“Beautiful ring,” she says, and the girl extends her hand, pudgy and soft, offering a better look. “When’s the big day?”
“July twenty-third.”
“Well, good luck.”
Cathy slides the small square of paper across the counter. “By the way, you did great in there,” she says. “
And Finn’s a great kid. All the nurses think so. Such a cutie. I’d say hot if you weren’t his mother.”
“Ha. Thanks. It’s been a tough week for everyone.” Mia studies the directions. She’d expected loopy writing, little circles over the i’s, but instead Cathy has drawn a neat schematic of the hospital basement, the elevator shafts, the numbered corridors, the operating theatres, an X marking Dr. Sullivan’s office, like treasure on a map.
“Listen,” Mia says, “I’m a photographer. I’d be happy to shoot your wedding next summer.”
“Really?”
“For free, of course. For all you’ve done for Finn.” She roots through her purse for a business card. “I haven’t done a wedding in a while, but you can check my website—it’s out of date, but you’ll see my work.”
“Well, thanks,” Cathy says, blushing. “That would be great. I mean, I’ll have to talk to Toma about it, we’ll look at your site, but, well, money’s tight.”
Mia slides her card across the desk, a small peace offering to the girl who, with sharp instruments, is caring for her son.
—
DR. SULLIVAN PEERS over the dark frame of his glasses when Mia knocks. Although his door is open, he seems annoyed by the intrusion, his gaze sharp. It takes a moment for him to place her. “Ah, Mrs….Mrs….” he says. “The BE amputee’s mother.”
Mia’s jaw drops.
“Sorry,” he says curtly. “Below-the-elbow. I’m good with cases, lousy with names.” He flips his wrist, checks his watch, then points to the empty chair on the other side of the desk. “We’re having some issues with your son. I’ll be with you in a minute,” he says, and returns to the file in front of him.
“Finn,” Mia says, still standing in the doorway. “His name is Finn Slate. Finley, actually. We were going to call him Blank but decided against it at the last minute.”
The doctor gazes up over his glasses. “Funny.” He nods at the guest chair. “Now, please take a seat.”
His office is modest for a surgeon’s. Windowless, neat. A huddle of framed diplomas on one wall, leather-bound reference books on the shelves behind his large metal desk. In the corner, a skeleton stands ramrod straight, its bones knitted together by fine wire. Two small coffee cups and a human skull top a high file cabinet.
We All Love the Beautiful Girls Page 7