“I’m afraid if I do, I’ll come back. I don’t want to be locked into the fear I’ve always let drive me. Fear that if I don’t take every opportunity, there won’t be another one. I’ve lived with that as my lighthouse for long enough. I don’t want to live like that anymore.”
“Do you know how many people would love to have the opportunities you’ve had, Keegan?”
There’s a slight edge in his voice now, and I know that he will never understand why I’ve walked away. But, in all fairness, I haven’t told him the whole truth so I really shouldn’t be surprised. “I think I do, Joseph. But you know those opportunities came with a lot of sacrifice. Some of which I already regret.”
I hear Evan tromp down the stairs and head out the front door without saying anything.
“I better go,” I say. “Thanks for checking in.”
“Sure you don’t want to hear about just one offer—”
“Bye, Joseph,” I say and end the call.
That which is not good for the bee-hive cannot be good for the bees.
– Marcus Aurelius
Bowie
THE SUN IS setting, shadows starting to fall across the lake side of the house when Carson and I head back up from the dock. We took the boat out in the late afternoon and idled around for a while. I admit I did ride by the Monroe house, telling myself I just wanted to see what it looked like in daylight. But when I thought I caught a glimpse of Keegan through one of the big glass windows, I slammed the accelerator forward so fast that it nearly knocked Carson out of the boat. He’d given me a severe look of disapproval before returning to his position at the bow, ears flying out to the side, tongue lolling.
He would be right to criticize me for my lapse. I don’t have any idea what I was thinking to drive by her house like some infatuated fan.
Maybe it’s been too long since I had a date. Maybe I need to work on that.
Carson barks and takes off across the grass. Keegan Monroe’s son is walking toward us in running shorts and a soaked-with-sweat T-shirt.
“Hey, Mr. Dare,” he calls out, stopping to squat down and rub Carson, who is now giving him a full body-wag welcome.
“Hey, Evan. Don’t let him lick you to death.”
“I like it,” Evan says, and, of course, that makes me like him more.
“Out for a run?”
“Yeah. It’s hotter than I thought.”
“The humidity is what gets you.”
“Yeah,” he says, wiping his face with his shirt. “Another thing to love about Virginia.”
Not sure how to respond to that, I say, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Some water would be great.”
I wave him toward the porch. “Come on in.”
We go inside, and while I put ice in glasses, Carson drinks half of his water bowl, lapping loudly.
“He’s such a cool dog,” Evan says, and I hear some envy in his voice.
“He’s my buddy,” I say.
“So are you just here for the summer or what?” he asks, sitting down on one of the kitchen barstools.
“No. We live here full time.”
“You don’t get bored?”
“Haven’t so far.”
“How do you even meet people in a place like this?”
I smile, shake my head a little. It’s clear he thinks his mother has moved him to the North Pole minus the ice caps. “Sports teams. There’s a popular youth group at the Baptist church.”
“Oh.” His response is released with the same weight as a car with a suddenly flat tire.
“I’ve also seen a group of kids over at the marina who are part of the waterskiing club.”
“I don’t water-ski.”
“Ah.”
“Sorry, I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m just a little bummed about this whole move.”
“At your age,” I say, “I guess it would be kind of hard. Leaving your friends and all that.”
“Yeah, it was.”
I get the feeling he wants to tell me why. But I don’t ask because it’s not really any of my business. And I’m not sure I should be a sounding board for resentment against his mom’s decision to move them across the country.
“What do you do here?” he asks, his tone implying there’s no answer that could possibly make sense to him.
“I write books,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve surprised him. “Cool. About what?”
“Thriller-type stuff.”
“I’ll look you up.”
“Do you like to read?”
“Yeah, I do, actually. A lot.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Sci-fi. Just read a book called The Martian. This guy gets left on Mars during a duststorm and has to figure out how to survive. It was pretty believable.”
“That’s the best kind of fiction. When you believe it could happen but wouldn’t actually want to go through it yourself.”
“Yeah, I think so too. So what did you do before you moved here and became a writer?”
“I’ve always written. Since I was twelve. I wanted to write a book that made somebody else feel like the ones I loved made me feel. Somewhere along the way I took a detour and worked for the FBI.”
“Really?” Now I’ve really surprised him. “Doing what?”
“Stuff I’m not allowed to tell you about.” I can see by the look on his face I’ve gone up several notches in his estimation.
“But you write about it?”
“On some level, I guess we have to write about what we know.”
“Now I have to read your books. Why did you leave your job with the FBI?”
“It was time.” I realize that explains absolutely nothing to him, but it really mostly covers it all.
“Did you work a desk job?”
“I mostly worked drug-related cases.”
“Wow. I bet you do have a lot to write about.”
I notice then that Carson isn’t on the porch. I step out into the yard and call him. When he doesn’t answer after a couple of tries, I get concerned and tell Evan, “I’ll be right back. I think he’s asleep down at the dock or something.”
“I’ll come with you,” Evan says.
We walk across the yard, and all the while I’m still calling. Just before we get to the dock, I see Carson’s nose sticking out from under the bottom branches of a holly bush.
Frowning, I squat down and call him again, but he won’t come. He barks a couple of times as if warning me about something. And it’s only then that I notice the bees flying low to the ground just in front of us.
“Yellow jackets!” I shout. “Run, Evan! Back to the house!”
“Ow!” he yells, slapping at his leg.
“Run!”
He does, and I try to cut around the bees to get to Carson. He’s still hunkered under the bush, and now I understand why. “Come on, boy!” I say. But he’s not budging.
He whimpers. I squat down in front of the bush, feeling the bees landing on my jeans, and then stinging around my ankles. I reach under the limbs, pulling Carson out against his will. I scoop him up in my arms, no small feat considering his weight and resistance, and then take off running through the yard to the house.
“Evan!” I call out. There’s no answer, and I don’t see him.
I leap onto the porch, still carrying Carson as I shoulder open the door that leads to the living room. I set him down and slam the door closed with my foot at the same time. His tail wags full force, and he tries to lick my face in gratitude.
“You’re okay, boy,” I say. “Let me take a look at you.”
I rub my hands across his fur, pulling it back to see if he has any stings. Miraculously, I don’t see anything. The thickness of his coat most likely kept him from getting stung. And the bush, of course.
I stand up, calling for Evan again. When there’s no answer, I run to the kitchen. “Evan?”
Just inside the doorway, I see him lying on the floor, face down
.
“Evan,” I say, dropping to my knees beside him. I place a hand on his back, shaking him gently. But there’s no response, and that’s when I notice his swelling face.
The bees.
He must be having a reaction.
I continue calling his name as my mind races for what to do. Benadryl. No. This looks as if it’s already beyond that.
And then I remember the EpiPen in my medicine cabinet.
A couple of years ago, I started having reactions to foods that had never bothered me before, and my doctor prescribed the EpiPen as a just-in-case measure. I bolt to my feet to get it, then remember Evan’s mom, and reach for his phone on the floor beside him. I run upstairs to my bedroom, scrolling his recent calls as I go, until I see Mom. I hit call with the phone to my ear as I open the bathroom cabinet, reaching for the EpiPen kit in the back.
“Hey, Ev,” Keegan answers. “Where are you?”
“Ah, Keegan, Ms. Monroe, this is Bowie Dare,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “Evan came over to my house, and while he was here, he was stung by a bee. Maybe several. He’s having a reaction. I have an EpiPen here. I think he needs it.”
“What?”
“He’s having a reaction to bee stings—”
“Oh, no,” she says then, as if my words are just breaking through her disbelief. “Yes, please! Please help him! I’m on the way!”
She clicks off then, and I head for the stairs, dialing 911 as I go.
Signs may be but the sympathies of nature with man.
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Keegan
I RACE OUT of the house and jump in the Rover, praying as hard as I know how. I floor the accelerator down the two-lane road that leads to Bowie Dare’s house, my heart beating so hard I feel sick.
My mind is racing with potential scenarios. What if the EpiPen doesn’t work? He’s never had a reaction to anything before.
But then I already know that life can change in an instant. I’ve learned that with one child. Dear God, please don’t take this one from me too.
I remember the turnoff we took when we stopped to ask directions and spit gravel down the long driveway, slamming to a crooked stop in front of the house. I shove it in park and cut the engine. I jump out and run to the door, calling as I go, “Evan! Evan!”
“In here,” Bowie answers.
I follow his voice and find him squatting beside my son who is lying on the floor. His eyes are open, but he looks dazed, stunned.
“Evan,” I say, dropping to my knees beside him, my voice frantic. “Are you okay?”
He tries to say something, but the words don’t come out.
“I think his throat is probably swollen,” Bowie says. “I’ve called 911. They should be here any minute.”
“Thank you,” I say, hearing the gratitude in my voice. “For helping him so quickly and—”
“Of course,” he says, putting a hand on my arm. “I’m just sorry it happened.”
I glance at his hand, and he immediately jerks it away, as if he’s just become aware of being too forward or stepping over a line.
I hear the siren from the ambulance, its wail bringing back the reality of what has happened. Evan tries to sit up, shaking his head.
“Hang on, buddy,” Bowie says. “The EpiPen did its job, but it’s a good idea to get the paramedics to check you out. You had a pretty severe reaction.”
He drops back onto the floor, as if he doesn’t have the energy to protest. I lace my hand through his and hold on tight. “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “You’ll be fine, sweetie.”
A loud knock sounds at the front door. Bowie jumps up to run and let them in. In seconds, two paramedics step into the kitchen. Their demeanor is one of calm, and I feel instantly grateful that they’re here.
The young woman in a dark blue uniform looks at me and says, “Are you his mother?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
I glance at Bowie who is standing just behind the paramedics. “He was stung by bees,” Bowie says. “I’m not sure how many.”
“What kind?” she asks, wrapping a blood-pressure cuff around Evan’s arm as she talks.
“Yellow jackets, I’m pretty sure,” he says.
“Has he ever had a reaction to bees before?” the other paramedic asks. He’s quite a bit older, gray in his dark hair. His eyes are serious and focused as he inserts a needle for an IV in Evan’s arm.
“No,” I say. “He’s never been allergic to anything.”
“It happens like that sometimes,” he says. “Lucky you had the EpiPen.”
I look at Bowie and let him see my gratitude. Relief drains all the energy from my muscles, and I feel as if it is all I can do not to collapse in front of him. “Bowie is the one who saved him,” I say. “Thank goodness—”
Bowie leans back and says, “You don’t know how grateful I am that I had it here.”
The woman paramedic places a piece of tape over the needle in Evan’s arm and glances at us both. “You’re his parents?”
“No,” we say in unison, and then, I correct myself, “I mean I’m his mom. Evan was visiting here when he got stung.”
“Okay,” she says. “I think to be on the safe side we’ll transport him to the emergency room and get him checked out. “Rocky Mount is a little closer so we’ll take him there.”
I nod and say, “May I ride with him?” But then I realize I won’t have a car to get us home.
“I can follow so you’ll have a ride back,” Bowie says, as if he’s read my mind.
We don’t know anyone else here, and I have no idea if cabs exist in an area this small, so I say, “I hate to ask it of you, but I would really appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says.
The paramedics lift Evan onto a stretcher. Evan tries to protest, but his lips are swollen, and he’s having trouble making the words come out.
“It’s going to be all right, Ev,” I say, clutching his hand between my own. But I have to let go as the paramedics start to roll him out of the house. And as I follow them, I have the horrible feeling that I have made a huge mistake in moving here. Uprooting Evan as if it is really possible to start over again. To at least get it right with him.
As signs go, it’s not a good one.
Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes in the middle of nowhere, you find yourself.
– Author Unknown
Bowie
I STAY CLOSE to the ambulance, or as close as I can without abusing the speed limit too badly. The lights are flashing and the siren sounds most of the way up Route 40 to Rocky Mount.
I left Carson at home, and for once, he didn’t seem to mind, no doubt worn out by the bee scare.
I feel horrible about what’s happened. Logically, I know it’s not my fault. I didn’t ask Evan to come over, but it did happen in my yard, and I do somehow feel responsible.
Maybe it was the look in Keegan Monroe’s eyes when she saw her son lying on my kitchen floor. In my years with the FBI, I witnessed plenty of parental grief and loss. Drug overdoses have no mercy when it comes to that. But it had been more than unsettling to see untethered fear on her face.
At the ER, the ambulance pulls up to the patient entrance. I park in front of the hospital and go inside the admissions area where Keegan(should I call her Ms. Monroe — that seems weird though) is already filling out paperwork.
I stand near the sitting area, looking at my phone for no other reason than I don’t know what else to do with myself.
A woman seated a few feet away leans forward in her chair, lowering her reading glasses to focus on the admissions area. “Isn’t that the actress who plays on that show—” she breaks off, looking for the name. “Aimless.”
The woman sitting next to her is remarkably similar in appearance. Sisters? “In Rocky Mount? Right.”
“You never know. And she looks just like her.”
“S
o she has a twin,” the other woman says.
“Is there ever a day,” the first woman says, settling back into her chair and returning her attention to the book in her hand, “that you don’t absolutely delight in being a party pooper?”
The second woman makes a sound of insulted disagreement and shakes her head. “You should just move on out to Hollywood where you can star-spot for real.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Good.”
“Like you could live without me.”
Definitely sisters, I decide.
Just then, Keegan looks up and waves me over. “Thank you so much for this,” she says. “I don’t know how long before he’s released. I hate to ask you to wait around.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I have my phone. I’ll camp out in the waiting area and get an extra chapter written.”
She looks surprised. “You’re a writer?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Headphones, and I can write anywhere.”
“Okay. That’s great. Thank you. Really.”
I find a corner in the waiting area, away from the TV and the sisters and put in my noise-reducing earbuds. I read over what I wrote this morning, find the point in the story to pick up from, and I barely look up again for the next two hours.
Don’t make assumptions.
– Miguel Ruiz
Keegan
HE’S THE ONLY ONE in the waiting area when I come back out. I walk over to his chair and say his name. “Bowie?”
I repeat it again before he looks up at me, his eyes a little glazed as if he’s been somewhere else altogether. “Yeah?” he says, putting down his phone and standing.
“He’s doing fine. They want to keep him overnight just for observation. Would you mind driving me back? I’ll get my car and a few things for us both to stay the night.”
“Sure,” I say. “No problem.”
“Okay,” I say. “Ready if you are.”
He follows me through the waiting area and out the main doors. The night air is instantly cool on my skin, and I welcome its freshness from the antiseptic smell of the hospital’s interior.
Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2) Page 4