“His arm looks bad.”
It wasn’t pretty, but the hand was still attached. As with Chaz’s friend Ubaiah, it was all a matter of perspective.
Lance had wrapped her around the waist and held her against him as the officer continued his investigation. If Rico had made his own stop here at the intersection, his speed could not have been that high. But what she’d heard from the window hadn’t sounded like deceleration. More likely they’d both ignored the stop sign.
More sirens. An ambulance had been called. Couldn’t they just walk him to the hospital? Put him in a cruiser and drive the few blocks? But she knew they’d take no chances with a possible spine or neck injury. Red and blue light slashed across her vision. Lance’s hold tightened, and maybe that was why it got hard to breathe. She couldn’t avoid seeing the stretcher without ignoring Rico. So she made herself watch as they raised him up on the backboard to the gurney.
She could almost feel the mask pressed to her face as they strapped it over Rico’s, smell the sweet oxygenated air he breathed. It could have been her getting closed into the ambulance. It could have been Lance. But she didn’t go light in the head. Everything grew shockingly clear, thoughts linking like a chain being forged. Helpful adversity. If Star hadn’t left, Rico would not have gone looking. If Rico hadn’t crashed, she and Lance might have taken the bike out. Soft brakes. Soft … brakes.
Was there a reason for this accident that might be no accident at all? Was there a meaning and purpose behind every bad thing—no, behind everything?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lance waited for Rese to lose it, but she didn’t. As the ambulance took Rico to St. Barnabas, he loosened his hold. “Are you okay?”
She turned in his arms. “Yes.”
He studied her face, then let her go as his own fear calmed. The professionals had charge of Rico, and there was only one immediate thing to do. From the officer in the intersection, Lance asked permission to get the bike out of the street.
The damage didn’t seem irreparable, and Rico would want to try. He had done the original chopper modification—on a Kawasaki no less—stripping off everything extraneous. And he’d done all the repairs over the years that kept it running. Lance made no attempt to start it, though. If he even thought of driving the thing, Rese would have his head.
She came up beside him. “What are you doing?”
“Walking it back.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t think Rico would drive that again.”
He walked it around the parked cars. “Might not be possible.” But Rico would give it his best shot.
“He could have been killed. We could have.”
Not surprising she’d drawn that conclusion. He shouldn’t have mentioned the brakes. Rico was probably gunning it, rolling or ignoring the stop—traffic signs being more suggestion than law in his right mind. Angry or disappointed, Rico got crazy, took chances. But pointing that out wouldn’t help. Rese could easily attribute the same to him.
“We weren’t killed, and neither was Rico.” He’d saved a head injury, riding the skid, but his arm was bad. It would have been better to break a leg, both even. Rico’s livelihood was in his arms, and more than that, his identity. If he couldn’t drum … Lance shook his head. No way, Lord. No more grief for people he loved. Quota filled. When they reached the yard, he put the bike into the enclosure.
Rese pressed a hand between her eyebrows. “He could have brain damage.”
“He wasn’t hit. There was no collision.”
“He made contact with the street!”
It was catching up to her. “He’s all right, Rese.” They would do a CT scan or MRI to be sure, but Rico would be fine. He’ll be fine, Lord. Because Rico was like a brother, and Lance was not losing another brother. No way. No way!
It was catching up to him too.
“Promise you’ll never drive it again.”
Lance looked from her to the offensive machine. It being Rico’s chopper, he said, “I promise,” and before she could broaden the demand added, “We need to get to the hospital.” That thought tightened his stomach like a cramp. “I’ll find a car. Rico won’t feel like walking home.”
Did he really think they’d put on a Band-Aid, give him a sucker, and send him home? Best case: a cast and sling, and Rico immobile was a scary thought. He functioned in motion. He thought in rhythm. He breathed in beats.
They took Sofie’s Neon to the hospital. Word had spread, and someone would have certainly called Rico’s mother by now, but Lance didn’t see her. Rico’s older sister, Gabriella, came by, but no one else from his immediate family, and as the hours dragged on and Rico went from the emergency room into surgery, even Gabbie didn’t stay. No matter. He’d have the rest of the neighborhood there if the hospital would let them in.
Rico could handle pain, but judging by his swearing before the adrenaline set in, his concern was the immediate and long-term effects of the injury. Losing use of his arm would be death to Rico. Lance felt a tightening inside, like the inner girding before a fight. Not this time, Lord.
But the first information they got was good. Sprains and contusions, but no internal head or spine injury. He’d bitten his tongue pretty bad, but no internal bleeding. So now they waited for word on the arm. Rico must have reached down to control the skid as they’d done dirt racing. But pavement was not as forgiving.
Lance kept a running conversation with God, some of it supplication. Rese had paged through everything from Golf Digest to Sunset, and she wasn’t even a reader. Some trip this was turning out to be.
Momma came in with Sofie. “How bad is he?”
“You better start cooking.”
She sank into a chair. “I thought he only broke his arm.”
“It is his arm, but it’s bad.”
She shook her head. “And him with no insurance and no job.”
Momma was a good one for pointing out the worst. “Rico has a job; it’s just not nine-to-five. And it takes both arms to do it.”
Momma pressed her palms to her cheeks as though it just occurred to her that Rico couldn’t drum one-handed.
“And don’t make this worse for Rico. When he comes out, don’t talk about money or the future. It’s going to be hard enough not moving his arm for a while.”
“All right. Okay. You think I don’t know?”
She might know, but she always did it anyway. In case someone wasn’t fully aware of the pit they were in, she described just how wide and deep and dark it was. But there was love and concern behind it; Rico knew that much.
After a while, Sofie stood up. “I need to eat something.” The urgency in her voice was no doubt a hypoglycemic reaction to going too long without. If she’d been working or studying, she might not have eaten all day.
Momma jumped up. “I’ve got meatballs in the oven.”
“Since when?” Lance winced.
“Since I put them there. You come in for a sandwich after.”
He bobbed his chin. “Yeah, okay, Momma.”
She turned. “Rese, you come home now.”
He glanced to see if she’d caught the destination and realized the significance. Only family went home.
Rese met his glance but seemed more concerned about leaving him than going with Momma—another sign that their coffee chat must have gone better than Rese let on. She’d come upstairs and stipulated right up front that she was not learning the two-sided break with a man wrap. But she hadn’t been traumatized.
He squeezed her hand. “Go ahead. I’ll stay with Rico awhile when he wakes up.”
Not long after they left, he was admitted to the post-op recovery room. He hooked fingers with Rico’s good hand. “How you doing, ’mano?”
Rico nodded, then looked down at the arm strapped in place across his chest. There was no cast, just bandages from the elbow to the wrist. A nurse brought in a cup of ice chips and spooned some into Rico’s mouth, then gave Lance the cup. When she left, he said, “What say we make a break for it?”
Rico smiled, but it turned into a grimace, and he closed his eyes. Maybe not yet.
After a while, the surgeon appeared and explained the reconstruction; the wrist being the worst of it, pinned in several places, and the rod and screws to secure the fractured ulna he’d seen protruding from Rico’s arm. That much metal was almost bionic. “Brunhilda’s wand for you at the airports, buddy.”
Rico cracked a grin, then faded back out. Maybe he’d be up for jokes tomorrow—or not. Lance left him to get settled into a room for the night, then met everyone at Momma’s, where the main course was how much worse the accident could have been, served with sides of other close calls, especially his and even Tony’s. Misfortune bred misfortune in Momma’s kitchen until Lance was choking on it.
How could so many bad things happen to one family? Of course the refrain was, “It could have been worse. Could have been killed like poor Tony. Such a waste.” And tears would salt the memory.
He had to get out of there. “Rico’s gonna be fine,” he said. Then came all the shoulder-patting, head-stroking assurances for Lance, who was taking it too hard.
Chaz would sprinkle it with glory. Must have had angels warding him off the car. What a miracle he didn’t hit his head. But Chaz hadn’t even heard yet, as far as Lance knew. He’d work late into the night at the fancy Manhattan restaurant that supported half of Jamaica through his long hours and come home none the wiser.
Chaz hadn’t prayed through the surgery, hadn’t beseeched God to guide the surgeon’s hands, to bring order to Rico’s bones, to sustain his spirit. Chaz was not in the forest when the tree fell. Which begged the question, where was God? Afar, removed and uncaring? Or hearing every word Lance said and weighing them according to his deeds.
Lance shook himself. What were these thoughts? The God he served, the God he loved was neither of those things. It was his own understanding that fell short. But his understanding had been falling short a long time now.
Bobby and Lou had gone to the ballpark. The kids had long before grown bored with the conversation and crowded the TV in the living room. Either choice did Rico as much good as hashing and rehashing life’s misfortunes. He looked at Rese.
She’d been all but silent. She didn’t know how to charge into the conversation on top of someone else if necessary, didn’t know volume equaled relevance. But that wasn’t her mode anyway. Brad said she didn’t speak for weeks after her dad’s accident. This wasn’t anything near that bad, no death or dismemberment. And she was coping. But he had to get her out of there. He needed out of there.
He stood up, kissed Momma, Sofie, and Monica, Lucy’s cheek damp with tears—she was the crier, nicknamed The Faucet in his less kind moments. Pop brooded at his end of the table, and Lance avoided it. The rest of them found comfort speaking Tony’s name, keeping him present, keeping him real. Not Pop.
Lance laced fingers with Rese as they climbed the stairs and entered the empty apartment. No Chaz, Rico, or Star. Only the two of them, a situation that would have excited him, spurred thoughts better not acted upon. Thankfully his mood was too dark for temptation, and Rese was surely craving solitude. He kissed her cheek as he would his sisters’ and closed the bedroom door behind her.
They’d hardly talked in the hospital, said not a word at Momma’s. He didn’t know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, yet he seemed acutely aware of all the other pain in the world. Pop’s loss throbbed in his heart. Momma’s fears entangled his thoughts, her need to keep them close, as though she could stop any others from injury and death. Didn’t she know they were pawns?
Job’s entire family had been crushed in one blow so that God could watch what he would do. Lance gripped his head. Stop it. Get out. He’d felt darkness like this before. God’s ways were above his. He couldn’t ascribe human motivations to the Lord. And where did Rico’s choices come in? Things got messy when people were involved.
Dressed in jersey pajamas, Rese came out of the bedroom and joined him on the couch, tucking her foot up under her. “Are you all right?”
All right? Now that was an expansive question. “Just thinking.” He hadn’t expected comfort. He’d thought her own fears and memories would occupy her, and guiltily avoided addressing them. Enough grief had been dredged for one night.
She drew her other knee up and held it with her arms. “If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?”
Of all the things she might have said, he hadn’t expected that. But she’d turned her frank and darling face to him and obviously expected an answer. “Besides partners with you?”
“Anything.”
“Shortstop for the Yankees.”
She rolled her eyes. “Typical.”
“I suppose you’ve got better?”
“A whale.”
“What?” He laughed.
“Why not?” She rested her chin on her knee. “Think how peaceful it would be under all that water, how simple.”
“Little stressed out?”
She shrugged.
“Rese Barrett a whale. Boggles the mind.”
She straightened. “Mom and I pretended all kinds of animals.”
“Ah yes, the earthworm.”
“More often it was flying things. Or mermaids. Underwater creatures.” She released a slow breath. “Those were good times.”
He circled her in his arm. “I’m glad.” He loved that she kept looking for the good in something that had hurt so much. As he should. As he used to.
She rested her head against him. “If Rico had died, would you still love God?”
His heart lurched. Thoughts of Rico unresponsive, unbreathing had filled his mind as he ran toward the corner. Gone in an instant. One wrong choice—or simply God’s will. “I can’t think about that.”
She nodded. She would leave it alone, but then he said, “I don’t think I’m capable of hating God. Some people get angry and turn away, but that would be like turning my back on Rico, or you. It’s just not in me.”
“So why do you hit the road when things get tough?”
He thought about it, wanting her to understand. “It seems like running, and I do need miles and speed and distance. But it’s really searching, trying to get closer. It sounds dumb, I know.”
“It’s not dumb, Lance. It’s how you are. You have to be close.”
“Sometimes I need so much to know why, to see how, to understand what God’s thinking! I want to climb inside His skin.” He didn’t expect her to get it. He hadn’t found anyone who did. Not even Chaz experienced the desire to grab God by the ankle and wrestle.
Lance nestled Rese into his neck, wondering what she’d do if he kissed her as he wanted to. She yawned. In another moment she would get up and close the door between them. And so he seized the moment he had, and her mouth. Sweetness. Killer sweetness.
————
Lance kissed her as though he might never have the chance again, transferring his worry for Rico and everything else pent up inside onto her lips, and Rese responded with fervor. She’d intended comfort, distraction maybe. But now she understood his need for closeness, his desire to touch, to connect, to be one with another being. Yes.
It might not be her natural inclination, or maybe it was. Maybe it just took Lance to make her real. Desire surged. Time no longer mattered. She’d never felt this way before, so totally consumed.
Lanced owned her, but he pulled back, groaning. “Off the couch. Go to bed, Rese, or I’m not responsible.”
The shock of it caught her cold until she saw the strain that once again sent a tremor to his hands. He looked up as she stood. “I’m sorry. But you’re more than a number on my wall. I want to do this right.”
She got the point, but even now she’d give in if he reached for her.
He stuck his fingers in his hair. “I shouldn’t have started it. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve been here before.” The chemistry had set in immediately, fueling her initial animosity, but too soon becoming an a
dhesive no solvent she knew could break.
He nodded. “Take a shovel to my skull, will you?”
“I’m past that.”
He smiled wryly and took her hand, studying it with his eyes and fingers. “I’m in a bad way here, Rese.”
“Me too.” She couldn’t believe she’d admitted it, but he already knew.
He brought her knuckles to his lips. “Please go.” But he didn’t release her.
“That requires disconnection.”
“I’m working up to it.”
She drew a shaky breath. “You better work fast.”
He groaned again and let her go. “And lock the door,” he called when she reached her room.
She did, but she didn’t lock the bathroom door, and she wondered if he’d try it and if she hoped he would.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Grief is a coat you put on and off,
wearing it only until it has warmed the chill of loss,
but not so long as to take the edge from memory.
Iwould write that in my diary if it had not been lost in the struggle. I would put it in ink to remind me of this time, this aching that is both sickness and life. Something inside me wants to hope, but how can I when everything I know is changed?
Standing beside the road, arms crossed, I wait. Marco’s car has broken down again. It’s the hard miles, he says, and I know it well. Marco appears unfazed, but if he were honest he might wish he’d never come to Sonoma. A man with important business, strapped with a wife people want to kill. I promise myself he won’t regret it, but is that even possible?
He laughs. “You’re going to worry a dent in your forehead.” He climbs out from under the hood, sleeves rolled, hands dirty. He rubs them with a rag, then motions me over. His arms are the only sanity I know.
“What are we doing, Marco?”
“Climbing back in and praying this works.”
Turning aside the larger question, he tosses the rag into the trunk. He smells oily when we get in, and I know he’s running out of patience. If the car doesn’t start, will we stay there for good, building a hut from branches and leaves, begging from people passing by? Silly. But worlds of possibilities gape before me; things I’d never considered possible I’ve now seen with my own eyes. I could not have guessed I’d be here with Marco Michelli and no one else anywhere who matters.
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