by C. E. Case
"Then you deserve a strawberry." Meredith plucked one out of the bowl and offered it.
The strawberry was sprinkled with powdered sugar. Natalie bit into the sweetness and nearly convulsed. Her expression of delighted surprise warmed Meredith. Juice dripped on her lips. She wiped her mouth with her hand.
Meredith chuckled.
"Geez, why don't I eat strawberries more?"
Meredith produced another.
"Thank you."
Natalie studied Meredith and then patted the bed.
"Thanks," Meredith said, sitting down with a sigh.
"How was work?"
Meredith shrugged. "You know what my day is like. People are nice."
"Really nice." She took another berry from Meredith's bowl.
Meredith smiled.
"You seem happy. Explain yourself."
"Having another adult in the house who doesn't--it's just amazing."
"Who doesn't what?"
"Never mind."
Natalie frowned, but leaned over for another strawberry.
# #
Chapter Twelve
In the morning, Meredith lingered upstairs. She should wake up the boys for preschool. She strained but could not hear them waking up on their own. In the room under her feet, Natalie slept.
Meredith didn't really believe in feng shui, but she knew she felt a different energy in the house and didn't know what else to call it. Natalie brought an aura with her. Meredith was still too nervous about having Natalie around to discern if the changed reality was pleasant or unpleasant. She needed to get used to everything, which meant going downstairs.
She slung her pocketbook over her shoulder. When the boys were distracted by cereal and only calling for her every 30 seconds, she ducked into Natalie's room.
Natalie slept, oblivious to the play of morning sunlight over her features. The hospital bed loomed scarily and out-of-place in such a light-filled room. Meredith was glad at least there were no machines. Natalie's wrist still had blotches from the IV needle. Her face was mottled green and yellow from the fading bruises. Asleep, she was perhaps the most beautiful person Meredith had ever seen.
Meredith moved closer to the bed. She didn't know quite what to make of Natalie's appearance in her life--here, in her home now when she was about to lose everything. Natalie couldn't have come at a worse time. Meredith didn't think she was up to helping anyone else, with her own life the way it was. But she would try. She resisted the temptation to sit on the bed and smooth hair away from Natalie's face. Her slumber was relaxed and pain-free.
Meredith envied her.
#
"Natalya," Natalie's mother would say, "If you're going to just sit there and drink coffee, study. Read."
"I know it all, Mom," Natalie would set down her coffee mug and toss her mother a textbook. "Quiz me."
Her mother would glance at the book and frown and shake her head. On good days she would express a desire to beat her daughter with the book, like in the old country.
On bad days she would just say, "Drink your coffee," and leave the room.
Natalya didn’t make her own coffee often. Starbucks was enough. The office always had coffee. The courts always had coffee. She bought expensive beans over the internet from far off places and--on rare, quiet Saturday mornings--she'd grind them up and make pancakes and drink pretentious coffee that never quite tasted as good as it should.
Meredith’s kitchen was stocked with pre-ground bags and a percolator. Natalie sat in her wheelchair and watched it brew for nearly a half hour. What else did she have to do? She took the coffee into the living room and turned on the television. Proud of those accomplishments, cursing her mother's voice in her head telling her to do more, she slept.
A talk show was on television when she woke up. She squinted and Ellen DeGeneres came into focus; too bright and sunny and cheerful and Californian to take when she was groggy and full of despair. Natalie turned the television off. Silence descended. Her coffee was cold. She turned the television back on and put it on mute. Just enough light to live by.
Wheeling herself back to the microwave to heat up her coffee seemed like too much, so she settled for drinking it cold and cringing and drinking some more. She had papers to sign, things to do. Patrick priority-mailed her paperwork to go from her sick leave to short-term disability.
She had to eat through her vacation days first. Watching her time slip away depressed her. Those days had been for a vacation. This was not a vacation, even if she was an hour from the beach.
The boys had gone off to preschool and Meredith was at work.
Natalie missed them.
They'd been noisy and happy at breakfast. And she missed the hospital--Teresa and Colleen and Wheeler and everyone she'd been friends with, or at least, those who were pleasant to her and kept her from being alone.
She was alone and hurting, too far from her medicine or hot coffee, across an abyss of living room carpet, with nothing to do but contemplate her sorry life. The one she'd lived before the accident. She gazed at the television, waiting for distraction. Knowing not to hope for salvation.
#
The choice between sleeping and pain continued. Natalie dozed all day in front of the television and, stiff and achy, did her stretches over the course of a half hour, and tried to choose whether or not to bathe off the sickly sweat gathered on her skin or call Meredith and offer to start dinner.
In the end, she ordered pizza and then finagled herself into the bathroom. She was exhausted by the time she'd combed her hair and contemplated another nap. The soreness in her abdomen made her want to curl into a ball and whimper. The doorbell rang.
"Come in. Door's open." She backed out of the bathroom and into the hallway that opened onto the foyer.
A young man stood just inside the door, holding a black bag. "Ms. Ivans?" he asked.
"That's me. Take those into the kitchen, would you? The money's on the table."
He scooted past her, trying not to see her wheelchair or her face and trying not to look away. She sighed, deciding she'd prefer one or the other to the tip-toeing.
He scooped up the money and asked, his voice cracking, "Need any change?"
"Nope."
"Thanks, ma'am." He backed toward the door. "Uh--thanks."
She waved.
He left and closed the door.
She texted Meredith, "Be warned. Got pizza."
Even with pizza on the table, there was nothing else to do but wait. She wheeled herself into her bedroom and took Tylenol. Her doctor told her if she was to take pain medication, she should take the maximum dose they'd worked out and not to cut it in half in order to tackle half the pain. It didn't work like that, he said.
Her instincts told her otherwise, but she followed orders.
He'd also told her to be light with the Tylenol, because a shot liver did no one any good. Contradictory advice. He was appealing to her lawyer's nature, and figuring out the puzzle of dosage and balance each day so far kept her goal-oriented. And in pain.
Stupid stomach. Stupid steering wheel. Stupid glass.
She set out her antibiotics to eat with dinner. Shifting herself back into bed tempted her. Meredith could bring her pizza. Or not. It didn't matter. She rubbed her stomach. The pain didn't go away.
Her eyes itched. She blinked rapidly, but tears still formed at the corners of her eyes, and then fell on her cheeks. She tried to read the book by her bed, but was too distracted by aches. She rolled herself back into the living room, slowly. She banged her hand on the doorway past the kitchen, and cursed as loud as she could, yelling at the empty house.
The new pain stung worse than the old pain. She angrily managed to get herself all the way into the living room. She turned on the television.
"The Roland case's local angle has--"
The front door swung open. Children's voices filled the space, drowning out the newscaster.
And Meredith's, louder, calling, "We're home."
Natalie bit her lip. She wiped at her cheeks.
"Pizza," Merritt said.
Beau screamed and ran to the kitchen.
Natalie turned off the television. She wheeled in a backwards circle until she faced Meredith.
"Natalie got the pizza. You'd better thank her," Meredith said.
"Thank you, Natalie!" Merritt flung himself at her, landing against her good leg, thankfully, and not against her stomach or her other leg.
She oofed anyway, but when Merritt hugged her she awkwardly hugged him back. No one hugged complete strangers with such affection over pizza. She didn't think she'd ever been as naïve and open hearted as Merritt.
Beau just leaned against Meredith's side and said, "This is awesome."
Meredith grinned. "Thank you."
"I was too lazy to cook."
Meredith shook her head. She walked into the living room and shooed away the boys, telling them they could start eating as long as they used plates and napkins. Over the clamor of cupboards opening and plates hitting the counter, Meredith took Natalie's hands.
"Any little thing that brightens their day--I'm grateful. It doesn't matter how small. It's a positive contribution to the universe."
"Gluttony, laziness, and junk foods are positive contributions to the universe?"
"If you do it every day, now, it won't be special."
"Good point."
Natalie studied their intertwined fingers. Her skin tingled, like Meredith was infusing her with the very graciousness she was talking about. The touch made her feel better.
"Can you afford it?" Meredith asked.
"I can afford it right now. Who knows if I can afford it in a week. But everything can change. I'm not going to worry about next week until next week."
Meredith chewed on her lower lip. Then she shrugged and said, "I guess you've got enough to worry about."
"All kinds of things."
"Then come have pizza. You don't have to worry about where you're getting your next meal. That's a blessing." Meredith tugged on Natalie's hands.
Natalie grunted. "You could push me, instead."
"I guess you've been wheeling yourself around all day."
"More or less."
"Think of how buff you'll get." Meredith let go of Natalie's fingers and went around to the handles.
Natalie leaned her head back. "Just what I always wanted."
Meredith squeezed her shoulder and then pushed her to the kitchen table.
"Your turn to say the blessing, Merritt."
"What about Natalie?" Merritt asked.
Meredith glanced at Natalie, and then said, "It's your turn tonight, Merritt. Come on."
Merritt shifted in his seat, curling his legs under him so he could more easily reach the table. "Thank you for pizza, Jesus and Natalie." Then he gazed expectantly at his mother.
"Amen," Meredith said.
Beau reached for his slice.
Natalie picked up one from the box, and turned her eyes heavenward. "Thank God for pizza."
Meredith elbowed her.
Natalie took a bite and chewed smugly.
"You are a terrible influence," Meredith said.
"I knew I would be."
Meredith held her gaze, and then reached over and rubbed her arm.
Merritt burped. Beau spilled his milk.
Natalie ate her pizza. She wondered if Meredith had bigger troubles than her influence on four-year-olds. It felt good to put food on the table for people she cared about. Totally different than doing it for herself.
Meredith nudged her shoulder. Natalie swallowed.
"You're staring at the French doors. Thinking of bolting?" Meredith asked.
"No." Natalie sat back and ran her hands through her hair. "Just thanking God for pizza. Really."
"Tomorrow you can thank Him for tilapia. Friday night is grill night."
Merritt giggled. "Mommy lets us play with the charcoal."
"I figure they're past the point where they're going to eat it."
"Smart."
"They just draw all over the porch with it. Come winter I'm going to start having to worry about my walls again."
Natalie snorted.
Merritt slid off his seat and took his plate into the kitchen.
Beau started picking the pepperoni off the pizza still in the box.
"You're not going to make me babysit again, are you?" Natalie asked.
# #
Chapter Thirteen
Natalie spent Friday in bed imagining her leg was getting worse. The laptop was by her side and she typed half-heartedly with one hand. She felt far-removed from the day-to-day drama of the Charlotte courts. She didn't miss it. The criminals, the petty bickering, and often the stench of the jail. The judges who didn't like her, or the judges who liked her too much.
She checked her work email, but it mostly pertained to other cases. Patrick had re-assigned them and turned over her notes. He even hired a temporary clerk to sort through everything. Today, she told herself, she could just stay in bed and have fish later and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
She didn't like fish.
Refreshing her email box produced an email reply from Patrick in reference to a query she'd sent about Roland.
The letter read only, "You shouldn't be reading your email anymore while on official leave."
"Well, all right then," she said. She turned the computer off and then dozed.
Only after she woke up did she realize it was the first nap she'd taken without painkillers.
She smiled.
Her leg throbbed.
#
Natalie wheeled herself out onto the front porch. She checked herself. Not tired. No pain. Well, some, if she reached for it. A lingering feeling like her abdomen was bruised. If she lifted her shirt up, there was the yellow and purple skin and the angry pink rash of zipper-like stitches.
Her leg gave her the most trouble. The drugs she took to keep the blood flowing through its pinched, rerouted veins gave her the most anxiety. Her foot was white. She couldn't move her ankle or her toes very easily. It hurt to try. If she lost the leg--well, it might be better than this. But her life would be over.
Except for the leg, she was stronger. Her wheelchair moved easily under her fingers. She'd learned the tricks and corners of the house. So she made it to the porch and gazed out at the other little porches and two-story bungalows.
The neighborhood had been developed only ten years ago, when golf moved inland and Wilmington real estate shot sky-high. The city seemed suspended between cute and depressingly generic, but none of the grit of Charlotte was there, and none of the crime.
Natalie inhaled deeply. When she felt better, Jake was going to take her on a tour. The water tower, the railroad depot, the farmer's market, the library.
For the first time in weeks, she was energetic enough to be bored. She dug her cell phone out of her bag and called Patrick.
He was at his desk. "Uh, hi, Nat."
"Uh, hi, Pat," she said, trying to be jovial, but miffed at the hesitation. He was her only lifeline, didn't he know?
"I've been meaning to call you. I thought maybe I'd come down and see you on the weekend. When's your surgery scheduled?"
"Patrick, is something wrong at the office?"
"Tell me how you are first."
"No."
He paused, breathing evenly against the phone, and then coughed, and asked, "Have you seen the news?"
"Not really. I mean, sometimes the local stuff here, or CNN on the computer, but I haven't really been up to it."
"Oh, okay."
She was purposely avoiding Roland like a spoiled child. But she assumed everything went on as normal in her absence. Life usually did.
"Roland's lawyers have started these rumors, and you know the blogosphere, and it's just you've been so under the radar--in the hospital, I know--"
"Patrick!"
"Maybe you should talk to the District Attorney directly."
She was so i
nfuriated by his babbling, she wanted to throw the phone on the ground and roll over it with her wheel. She trembled, and whispered into the phone, hoping calmness would bring clarity.
"Patrick. What the heck is going on?"
"They're saying you were drunk."
"What?"
“You were drunk and distraught over having no case and framing poor, innocent Roland you took off for the weekend to drown your sorrows."
She made some sort of squeaking sound.
"We're placing you on administrative leave," he said.
"Agh? What about my vacation leave?"
"It's a good thing. More money than short-term disability, so you can ride this out longer. Once the trial is over--" He paused again.
"Once the trial is over what?" she asked.
"You can come back to your job."
"Not until then?"
"It's only until the verdict comes back and everything's straightened out. A week, maybe two. Nat," he asked. "Were you drunk?"
"No!"
"Can you prove it? The Tarpley police have been very uncooperative with the press."
"Do you want the damn police report? I'll fax it directly to the Observer."
"Have you seen it?"
"Not yet. But I will." She seethed, but at least he was giving her a plan. She could clear her name. Once she stopped being brutally offended she needed to clear her name.
"Nat," he asked, his voice quiet. "Were you speeding?"
"I don't know. I don't remember anything."
"The police report will say."
"I could have been. It was night, and the highway was wide open, and God, I was so angry about the case--"
"I don't want to hear anymore," Patrick said.
"So basically my career is ruined."
"Come on, Nat. Don't be dramatic."
"The case is tainted, the jury will think the city is either laughable or corrupt, and Roland seems like a victim."
"Those are issues we're dealing with. You need to heal," he said.
"He drowned his wife. He drowned her."
"I know."
"I didn't drown anyone."
"Natalie--"
"I didn't drink. I didn't hurt anyone. Just myself."
"It's politics," he said.
"I thought I worked for justice."
He didn't say anything.
She relented, still angry but not at him. "How're the girls?"