by Merry Jones
‘Hank – I’m back.’ She passed the living room, limped down the hall. Passed the kitchen, looked in. Didn’t see him. Heard nothing. ‘Hank? You ready to go?’ she called again, approaching the study. No Hank. Where was he? Oh God – had something happened?
Her heart skipped, and she saw him again, lying in the hedges, his head cracked and bleeding . . . But she kept moving, out of the study, up the stairs, past the nursery, the spare room, going into the bedroom.
‘Hank?’ she stopped at the door, staring at the bed.
Hank didn’t answer. He just lay there, his face blank, watching her.
‘What are you doing in bed? It’s noon. We’re supposed to go get you new boots?’ She went to the bed, sat beside him. Rubbed her nagging leg. ‘Are you OK?’
Hank stared ahead at nothing. ‘Fine.’
Obviously, he wasn’t. His eyes were dull, not twinkling.
‘What’s wrong? You never stay in bed all day. Come on.’ She stopped rubbing her leg, tugged at his arm.
He didn’t resist. Didn’t react at all. When she stopped tugging and let it go, his arm dropped like a stone.
‘Hank? Stop. You’re scaring me. Get up.’
He blinked, not moving. ‘Get. Up.’ He finally repeated. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Harper sputtered, searching for a reply. But she couldn’t find one. Because, other than to follow a conventional routine, there really was no reason for Hank to get up.
She sat on the edge of the bed, silent. Seeing his point of view. Why, after all, should he bother? What was there for him to do? He didn’t drive any more. Had trouble walking long distances. Didn’t work. Couldn’t even do chores, given his weakened right side. Maybe he was sick of going with her to the grocery store or the farmer’s market. Of tinkering alone on the house, laying tiles in the bathroom and painting walls, remodeling the house. Of being disabled. Of not being able to speak and live his life the way he wanted to. And, if he were sick of all that, no one could blame him.
She pictured him, the old Hank. The way he’d been before the accident. A hiker, a swimmer, a runner. An athlete in top physical condition. She looked at him now, lying slack against his pillows, felt a familiar pain ripple through her. God, she missed him.
And if she missed the old Hank, Hank certainly must miss him more. The man had every right to mope. When he’d fallen, he’d lost everything: his career as a professor, his ability to speak, his agility, his goals . . . hell, his sense of self.
Harper moved closer, lay down beside him. Listened to his breathing.
‘We’re lucky.’ She lifted his hand, kissed it.
He turned his head, scowling doubtfully. ‘Not. So. Much. Useless. Should have. Died.’
His answer stung. He wished he’d died? Really? No matter what he’d lost, they still had each other. Wasn’t that worth living for? Harper remembered her fear at almost losing him. Watching him fall from the roof. Seeing him unconscious. Waiting through the days of his coma, the weeks of intensive care. The months of intense therapies – physical, speech, occupational, psychological, experimental. And suddenly she felt not just gratitude, but almost painfully intense joy that he was still there, warm and alive, alert enough to be depressed by his condition. Well enough to mourn his lost self.
‘But we are lucky.’ She propped herself up on an elbow. Touched his stubbly cheek with her free hand. Turned his head and planted a kiss on his lips. ‘We have each other. And I love you,’ she whispered, kissing him again. ‘Even more since I almost lost you.’ And again. ‘Even more since I see how strong you are, every day.’ And she kept it up, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his neck, his chest. Moving down his body and not stopping until he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her to meet her mouth with his. Even then, she didn’t let go. She hung on to him with all her strength, as if her love could pull him out of his grief and sadness and make him want to live.
It seemed to work, too, even though it didn’t get him out of bed. They lay there together, tangled in each other’s arms, legs entwined, Harper’s clothes lost in the sheets. Bodies relaxed, eyes closed.
‘Mad.’ Hank finally sighed. ‘I. Can’t man. Be.’
‘If you were any more of a man, you’d kill me.’ Harper grinned at him.
He didn’t smile. ‘Man. Keeps. Safe. Prot. Tects.’
Of course. This mood was about Zina. That he hadn’t been able to help her.
‘Friend. Your. Asked help. From.’ He paused, licked his lips. Struggling with words. ‘I was no help. Now dead.’
Harper kissed his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Hank. Nobody could have predicted what happened.’
‘No. Not able.’ His body tensed as he repeated. ‘Not able. Me. Not. Self. Gone.’ His tone was factual, flat. Not maudlin. Not emotional. He kissed her forehead.
Harper wanted to console or encourage him. But what could she say? That he was wrong? That he hadn’t changed, that he was still fit and strong and could do whatever he wanted? Enter triathlons? Compete in Iron-man? No. The truth was that his life had changed. A lot. Resting her head on his shoulder, she sighed, feeling helpless. Searching for words. Finding none. Harper lay silent, wondering if either of them would ever get out of bed.
But they did get up. Soon, Hank made an announcement: ‘Food.’
In a flash, he was on his feet and in the shower. Then downstairs, cooking. It wasn’t until Harper was halfway through a stack of pecan and banana pancakes that she thought about the events of the morning. The envelope containing Peter Murray’s obituary. And the offer of the assistantship from Professor Schmerling.
She wanted to talk with Hank about both. But, given his earlier mood, she didn’t expect that Hank would welcome either topic. At the moment, mentioning Pete, yet another dead acquaintance, didn’t seem like a good idea. But maybe Hank would see the assistantship as a good opportunity, despite the reasons it was available. Maybe she just had to present it positively.
‘Pancakes are incredible.’ She chewed, assessing his mood. He seemed less bothered. But his eyes seemed altered, as if looking inward. Lacking their usual laughter.
‘Secret.’ He swallowed. ‘Batter.’
Really? She tasted it now, a trace of liquor. ‘Cognac? You’re a genius.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Magi. Shun.’
Good. Hank was feeling better. So why was she hesitant about talking to him? Usually, they were completely open with each other. She should just go ahead and tell him about the offer; Professor Schmerling wanted a quick reply. Harper took a breath, swallowed. Opened her mouth to speak.
‘Boots.’ Hank began at the same time.
‘Hank, there’s something I—’
‘Go buy? After we. Eat.’
Harper paused. ‘Sure. As soon as we’re done.’
‘Hoppa. What? You were saying?’
Harper put her fork down. Looked at her plate. She might as well just tell him. ‘Professor Schmerling took me aside after the meeting this morning.’
Hank chewed, listening.
‘He wanted to talk about Professor Langston’s collection. He said Langston’s family is contesting the professor’s will – something like that. So the university wants the collection documented before the lawyers put a halt to it. Which means as quickly as possible.’
‘And?’ Hank’s eyes darkened. He stopped chewing.
‘He asked me to take over Zina’s job.’
Hank’s eyes were cold, stone-like. He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.
‘He apologized for offering it so soon after Zina’s death. But the work needs to be done, and he needs an answer.’
Hank remained silent.
‘Look, it would pay my tuition for the whole semester. And I’d probably be able to apply some of the work to my dissertation research.’
Still nothing from Hank.
Harper kept talking. ‘The thing is, someone has to do it. And I’m the most qualified of the available grad students, and it’s an unbelievabl
e opportunity to work with those actual artifacts, even though, obviously, it’s terrible what happened.’
‘Know. You.’ Or maybe, ‘No. You’?
‘What?’
‘Do. What you. Want. Will.’
Harper crossed her arms. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m talking to you about it because I want to know what you think before I do anything—’
‘No. You. Know. Already made mind. Up.’
‘Not true. That’s not fair.’
‘OK.’ Hank pushed his plate away. ‘Hoppa. You want my oh. Pinion?’
‘Of course I do.’
He scowled, crossed his arms. ‘Job. Not good. Bad. Karma. Juju. Vibes.’
‘Seriously? Karma? Juju? Vibes? How about shape-shifters? Nahuals? You didn’t mention them.’
‘See. You did know. Do what. You want. Told you. Thoughts. My.’ He stood, picked up plates.
‘Hank, am I supposed to turn down a great opportunity because you think its bad luck? Because of superstitions? You know we can really use the money.’ Especially now that he wasn’t working, but she stopped short, didn’t say that. Didn’t have to.
‘Not money only. About.’ He turned to face her, dishes in each hand. ‘Choice. Yours. Not mine. I’m hus. Band. Not your boss.’
He was right. If he told her not to take the job, she’d resent him for trying to control her. She needed to decide on her own. And, actually, she had. Talking about the artifacts had reminded her how badly she wanted to work with them and convinced her to accept the assistantship.
Harper followed Hank, carrying cups to the sink. Then, as he washed the griddle, she put her arms around him and squeezed. He allowed it, but didn’t stop washing. Didn’t return the hug. Harper moved away, wondering if she’d been wrong to tell him about the offer. If he was getting depressed again. If her new opportunity was reminding him of his own lost ones. Still, she had a right, even a responsibility to accomplish as much as she could. In fact, she ought to call Schmerling and make it official. Find out when she would start.
She started into the hall to get her phone. But Hank turned off the water, dried his hands and came with her.
‘Boots.’ He announced. ‘Go and buy. Now?’
And they did. Heavy-duty Timberland’s. They joked about the frat boys next door. Discussed the music, costumes, Halloween candy, the weather, what they’d have for dinner. But Harper didn’t tell Hank about Pete Murray’s obituary, and for the rest of the day, made no mention of Zina or the assistantship.
Vicki’s hair was darker. She’d rinsed it again, a bluish shade of maroon. ‘Are you fucking nuts?’ Coffee splashed out of her cup as she set it down, gaping at Harper.
Harper bit off the tip of a bacon slice.
‘You’re crazy. There is no way you should take that job.’ Apparently Vicki agreed with Hank.
‘Too late. I already called him to accept.’
‘So? You can call him back.’
‘Why? Vicki, it’s a great position. I get to work with actual relics and—’
‘And the last two people who did that are dead, Harper. How is it that you do not get that?’ Vicki shook her head, looked out the window of State Street Diner where they’d met for breakfast.
‘No one’s going to hurt me.’ Harper shoveled a wad of French toast into her mouth. Chewed. ‘Look, you yourself said that whoever killed that researcher twenty some years ago is either old or dead now. And—’
‘I said that to calm Zina, who is now dead. Dead, Harper. I saw how scared she was about working there. And now she’s dead.’
Vicki sounded like Detective Rivers. ‘In a freak car accident. It had nothing to do with the research assistantship.’ Besides, Harper was a trained combat officer; she could take care of herself.
Vicki sputtered. ‘You asked my opinion. I gave it.’
‘The university needs the documentation.’
‘If the university is so hell-bent on documenting that collection, they can move it to university property and post security guards.’
‘They can’t take it anywhere until the will is settled.’
‘Fine. Then let them wait until it’s settled.’
‘But the brothers might mess with it unless it’s catalogued. Besides, settling the will could take years; who knows where I’ll be then.’ Clearly, Vicki, a dentist, had no idea how rare an opportunity Harper had been offered. Not a clue how thrilling it would be to work with rare, Pre-Columbian treasures.
‘What did Hank say?’ Vicki stuck her chin out, a non-verbal challenge.
Harper hesitated.
‘I knew it. Hank doesn’t want you to do it either.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Then tell me. What did he say?’
Harper mumbled her answer. ‘Basically, he said it was up to me.’ Well, not really. Really, he’d indicated that she wouldn’t listen to his opinion. That she would do what she wanted to do regardless. That, once again, he felt powerless.
Vicki shook her head again, leaning on her elbows, watching Harper. ‘No one who loves you wants you to do this.’
Harper hid behind her coffee cup. They were silent for a while. Finally, a gong rang inside Harper’s bag. Harper reached in, dug around for her phone.
‘That’s your new ringtone?’ Vicki frowned.
The gong continued while Harper rifled through keys, flashlight, water bottle, Zina’s bangle bracelet, wallet, baby wipes, pens, tampons, chapstick, sunblock . . . Damn, where was her phone? Maybe it was Professor Schmerling’s office, calling about paperwork. Or maybe Burke Everett was canceling their coffee date.
But when she finally found her phone, caller ID announced Ithaca Police Dept. And by the time she answered, the caller had hung up. She tried to return the call; it went to the switchboard. No way to find out who’d called.
‘The cops are calling you?’ Vicki wiped her mouth, dropped her napkin on the table. ‘Why? Something about Zina?’
‘Vicki.’ Harper was losing patience. ‘How can I possibly know why they’re calling? No one was on the line.’ She stared at the phone, trying to dismiss her ominous feelings. Telling herself that the caller hadn’t been Detective Rivers. That Rivers’ instincts hadn’t been right; the Coroner’s report hadn’t indicated that Zina had been murdered. That the police didn’t need to talk to her again.
But neither her feelings nor Vicki’s chatter would let up. ‘Something’s wrong, Harper. You know what? I’m thinking maybe Zina’s accident wasn’t just an accident.’ She paused. Then added, ‘I’m thinking the police don’t want you to take that position either.’
Harper was early for her appointment with Leslie. She’d been seeing her less often – every other week. Now that her flashbacks seemed under control and Hank’s health had stabilized, she didn’t feel an intense need for a therapist. Until today. Today, she couldn’t wait for Leslie to open the door to her cozy, candle-scented, plant-filled inner sanctum with its green leather sofa and steaming sweet teas.
Waiting, she sat, breathed evenly, tried to clear her mind. To think of nothing. Not sure how to do that, not able to picture ‘nothing’. So she envisioned an empty room, but Zina appeared inside it, her chest blood-soaked – no. She took another breath, started over. Closed her eyes. Counted, focusing on the numbers. One. She saw it, ‘1’, straight as a spear, strong as an impaling rod. Great. She’d counted all the way to one.
Harper stood, began pacing around the tiny waiting room. Heard Detective Rivers saying that people didn’t usually spend the night fearing for their lives and coincidentally end up dead the next morning. Heard Vicki telling her not to take the assistantship, Hank withholding his support. Hank. She worried about him. He was changing. Harper walked in circles, literally spinning. When would Leslie open up? What time was it, anyway?
Finally, the door swung wide, and warm green eyes and a cup of hot spicy chai greeted her. Harper took her place on the sofa beside Leslie and spewed words. About Zina’s death. About the assistant
ship. About Hank.
‘He was just lying in bed. Hadn’t showered or shaved. He said he didn’t see any reason to get up.’ Unexpected tears welled in Harper’s eyes. ‘Which sounded like he didn’t see any reason to live. He said he wasn’t a man any more. That he couldn’t help Zina, couldn’t protect her or anyone else.’
Leslie tilted her head, nodded slowly.
When Harper blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek. She swatted at it, despised crying. ‘I reminded him that it wasn’t his fault, what happened to Zina. And that we’re lucky that he survived. And that we still have each other. ’
Leslie said nothing.
‘And he seemed all right again, for a while. But when I told him about the assistantship, he got distant again. He said that the position was bad luck, but that it didn’t matter what he thought because I’d do what I wanted to do anyway. As if his opinion was irrelevant. And the truth? The truth is he was right; I took the position even knowing he didn’t want me to.’
Harper stopped. Realized that she was whining. These weren’t survival issues. They were trivial, in the scope of life’s calamities. What the hell? Why was she sniveling about her husband’s moods, her job opportunity? She was tougher than that, Army strong. Not a self-pitying sniveler. And yet, here she was, sniveling the hell out of her hour with Leslie: oh, poor me. Look at what a bad time I’m having.
She began to back off, change the subject.
‘No, Harper. Don’t try to gloss over this. It’s important.’
It was?
‘Fact is I’ve been waiting for something like this to come up.’
Really?
‘Sadly, the catalyst was the death of your friend, which we also need to talk about. But one thing at a time. First, let’s focus on you and Hank.’
Oh dear. ‘OK.’
‘Frankly, I think it’s a good thing that he’s expressing his feelings. Given all that’s he’s been through, don’t you think his attitude has been a little too positive this last year?’
Maybe. Yes, actually.
‘Look, Harper. After his accident, the two of you went through incredible stress and anxiety. Both your lives changed dramatically, but – face it, Hank’s changed far more than yours. He suffered physical losses like his speech, and professional ones like his professorship. Beyond that, he’s inevitably coping with psychological and emotional issues. He’s a strong guy, but he’s still only human. How has his injury affected his sense of self? His identity? The fact is that Hank needs to rediscover himself and find out a new way to be Hank.’