by Loree Lough
“It’s no accident that they dress alike. Makes it tougher for victims to identify them.”
She growled under her breath and punched the sofa cushion with her good arm. “Well, it’s just so frustrating! Like when all those first responders came to me for help after 9/11, and there wasn’t a doggoned thing I could do but encourage them to talk it out. I felt useless and helpless and—”
“Quit being so hard on yourself. You did what you could then—I’m living proof of that—and you did what you could today.”
The reminder of the disaster brought memories of his own to the fore, and for the first time since delivering her home from the hospital, Austin wanted to leave. Just long enough, anyway, to clear his head.
“How ‘bout grilled cheese, tomato soup, and a salad for lunch?” he said, standing.
“I’m really not hungry.”
“It’s lunch time. Hungry or not, you need to eat to keep up your strength. Besides, you can’t take your meds on an empty stomach. I can make ham and cheese, BLTs, even an omelet— all with a salad—your choice.” He slapped his palms together
once and grinned. Not an easy feat, considering the way her cuts and bruises reminded him of the dead and injured he’d unearthed at Ground Zero. Good thing he couldn’t get to that bottle of Jim Beam.
“So, which will it be?”
“I need sleep just as much as I need food.” She scooted down, into a slightly more prone position. “I think I’ll take a nap, instead.”
“You’ll rest a lot easier with a full stomach.” Arms crossed over his chest, he said, “You can make a choice, or I can make it for you.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “All right, then. Fine. I guess I’ll have a BLT. At least that way I’m getting the salad and the sandwich all rolled into one, and I can get to sleep faster.”
He’d made it halfway to the kitchen when she added, “Thanks, Austin. You’re … .”
Turning, he waited for her to finish the sentence, and as her dark eyes locked on him, every muscle in him tensed.
“… I didn’t mind at all, finding out that you had fibbed— about our relationship, I mean—to the people at Hopkins. Or that you led Detective Campbell to believe we’re … um …you know … .”
No, he didn’t know. Did she expect him to finish her statement by admitting he was crazy in love with her? That he’d give anything to stand beside her at an altar and profess before God and all present that he wanted her to share a home and kids and everything else that went into the whole “happily ever after” package?
Leave it to her to further confuse and confound things, because now, in addition to figuring out how he’d tamp down his ugly 9/11 thoughts, he’d have his feelings about her to contend with. Because how likely was any of that to happen when she wouldn’t share the most important element of his life?
Austin realized he realized he’d been staring, gap-jawed and panting like a dog who’d been offered a pork chop—at arm’s length. How could he expect her to profess undying faith in God when he hadn’t been to church in months, and the only time he’d picked up the bible these days had been to dust under it?
Snapping his mouth shut, he gave a little wave and walked into the kitchen—
—where he burned the bacon.
And the toast.
Nearly hacked the tip of his finger off, slicing a tomato, and bled all over the lettuce.
It took two tries, but somehow he managed to assemble a gorgeous triple-decker sandwich. As he arranged triangle sections around a mound of low-salt chips, he considered snapping photo of it, so he could show it to Bucky over at Captain Harvey’s next time he and McElroy stopped in for a quick lunch. Bad idea, he thought, filling a tumbler with ice and lemonade, because Bucky might resent the competition and quit putting extra bacon on his orders.
He reached for the plate and glass, but froze. Both palms pressed on the counter, Austin stared out the window.
What would he talk about when he went back into the living room with her lunch? Gilded invitations and honeymoon packages?
He groaned, as he saw that a steady snow had begun to fall.Big fat flakes floated gently to the ground, melting on impact.Austin remembered what Campbell had said about the weather report. If it kept coming down at this rate, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if a couple of feet fell by morning.
The chickadees and sparrows jockeyed for position at the feeder. A blue jay splashed in the heated birdbath, and a squirrel scampered on the ground, scrounging for seeds dropped
during the frenzy. He’d read someplace that when birds and animals sensed foul weather, they started eating like there was no tomorrow. Maybe that’s what he’d talk about when he got back to the living room.
Or maybe he wouldn’t talk at all. Just deliver lunch and announce his intention to move the feeder and birdbath around front, so she could get some enjoyment out of the birds’ frolicking.And when he finished that, he’d take down the Christmas decorations.
The chore reminded him that they’d spent the holiday doing pretty much the same thing they’d done every day prior to and after the twenty-fifth. Nobody could accuse him of being a Christmas nut, but they couldn’t call him Scrooge, either.
After looking in every nook and cranny without finding so much as an ornament hook, he’d thrown in the towel and gone to the nearest discount store, and filled a cart to the brim with things to brighten up her house. Curiosity made him ask, once he’d made her comfortable that first day, where she’d stored her decorations. And when she said she didn’t have any, he’d asked, “You’ve lived here how long?” he’d asked.
“It’ll be five years, this summer.”
“And you’ve never owned any Christmas decorations?”
“Nope.”
“With all the decorating Baltimoreans do?”
She’d frowned so deeply Austin thought maybe she’d popped a stitch. It surprised him when she followed it up with “It’s messy and gaudy and time consuming. So what’s the point?”
The point, he’d wanted to say, is that tinsel and ornaments and blinking lights—the gaudier, the better—helped put folks in the mood. And what was wrong with that, as long as it didn’t detract from the real reason for the day? Pleasant diversions were important, especially in this age when everything
happened in an eye blink, and people had forgotten how to make time to stop and smell the flowers. Why, he had Jewish friends who got more excited about the date than Mercy, who shared that her own mom had called herself a “Santa-holic!”
He added it to his mental “Differences and Similarities” list.The fact that the left side was way longer than the right left him with an uneasy feeling, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
Austin had known couples who’d spent a long and happy lifetime together, though it might appear to the casual observer that they had nothing in common. Take Eddy and Cora, for example—a self-professed Bible-thumper linked for life to a guy who’d spent weeks after graduating from the academy trying to make his uniform hat fit over his yarmulke.
And what about Bud, who’d traded his diehard anti-church mindset for an usher’s pin when he married Flora.
And Griff, who’d converted from Jehovah’s Witness to Catholicism to gain the approval of Mary and her parents.
In every case, the relationships had succeeded because the husbands and wives had been willing to compromise. If he and Mercy took things to the next level, they’d both have to give a little. He was willing to meet her halfway, but would she go the same distance?
Flapping wings and angry tweets pulled his attention back to the window. He counted eight perches on the tubular feeder, yet only two were in use by black-capped chickadees. A stark reminder that in nature concessions and negotiations were unheard of policies. Instead, an inflexible “my way or the highway” stance dictated the pecking order in nature, literally.
It explained a lot, from his point of view, about what was wrong with mankind. Wars, divorce, family feuds—
all because of humans’ need to have their own way, and few things proved that better than the events of 9/11.
As the birds wrangled, gruesome images flashed in his mind’s eye. Austin clenched his jaw. He’d better stay plenty busy today if he hoped to keep the grisly pictures from popping back into his head.
He palmed a fork and napkin, and used the same hand to grab the sandwich plate, then wrapped his other hand around the glass. “Start with the bird stuff,” he muttered as he aimed for the hall. Because now the birds would be a constant reminder of 9/11.
Maybe he’d oversimplified the cause of the aggressive attack, and maybe he’d hit the old nail square on the head.A scary concept. Equally daunting, the parallels between that situation and the one between him and Mercy.
One thing was certain: The minute Mercy could take care of herself, and he returned to work and One Regret, he had a lot of thinking and praying to do.
Until then, he’d better stay busy. The busier, the better, because then his mind wouldn’t fixate on the date that changed the entire course of his life …
… or the woman who’d turned his life upside-down.
30
Mercy’s goal, right from the start, had been to get back on her feet as quickly as possible. By the end of the second week, her hours of grueling exercise paid off and her doctor agreed that she no longer needed the in-home nurse or physical therapist.
Cabin fever had set in, and despite Austin’s his attempts to keep her entertained with movies and board games, she missed her students and coworkers at Dundalk High. And though he served grilled meats, BLTs, and salads with flair and enthusiasm, the repetition made her miss the cafeteria food, too.
He’d just settled in with the morning paper when she said “I haven’t talked to Bud or Flora in days. Do you think we could drive over there this afternoon for a short visit?”
He peered over one corner of the sports section. “How about if we ask Eversly about that when you see him, day after tomorrow? I have a feeling he’ll give you a clean bill of health and permission to return to light duty, so let’s not push it, OK?”
Two more days stuck inside, with nothing to do but watch TV and fill in crossword puzzles? And two more days of his constant care? Much as she loved spending time with him, and appreciated every hour he’d dedicated to her care and well-being, Mercy needed to get back to the business of taking care of herself.
She needed to get out of the house, too, before the stresses of being inactive, in pain, and cooped up made her say something thoughtless and ungrateful.
“If I’m strong enough to ride back and forth for checkups, then I’m strong enough to drive to the marina.” After all these hours alone with him, Mercy recognized that expression, and nipped his objection in the bud. “Who knows how much longer she’ll have? We need to spend as much time with her as we can, every chance we have.”
She watched as his “I’m only doing what’s in your best interests” frown softened. Logic, she’d learned these past weeks, went a long, long way with this generous, thoughtful man.
“Good point. And I suppose by now the road crews have cleaned up most of the snow.”
“I’ll call and give them a heads up that we’re on our way, because in Flora’s shoes, I’d want to freshen up before people stopped by.”
He put the paper down and picked up the phone. “Good point,” he said again. “How ‘bout if we stop on the way over, pick up lunch. That’ll save Bud the bother.” He dialed their number. “I’d better find out, first, what she’s allowed to eat these days.”
“Yeah. How mean would that be, showing up with one of her favorites if all she can do is inhale the aromas!”
“My thoughts, exactly.”
Two hours later, they balanced on the edge of the sofa cushions, knees tucked under wobbly TV trays. All but Flora, that is.
Bud had warned them to be ready for a big change in his wife’s appearance, but no amount of preparation would have lessened the shock of seeing her for the first time in more than a month. Skeletal and gray-faced, something as insignificant as blinking seemed to require more strength than she had in reserve. Her once-thick, saltand-pepper hair had turned white as new-fallen snow. Dull and sparse, it made the shadows beneath her sunken blue eyes look darker still.
While caring for her dad during his long, harrowing months in the hospital. Her system for washing and rinsing a bedridden patient’s hair caught on. Soon, all the nurses in ICU had copied it. After lunch, Mercy thought, choosing a thigh from the bucket of fried chicken, she’d treat Flora to a gentle scalp-massaging shampoo.
If the poor thing could stay awake, that is.
Austin must have noticed her drooping eyelids, too. “We can drag chairs and the TV trays into your room,” he suggested, “so you can lie down while we talk.”
But Flora was adamant. “I’ve been cooped up in that dim little room all day, every day, for nearly a week. I’ve counted every knot hole in the paneling, every flower on the curtains, and every feather on that hideous flamingo print hanging across from the bed a hundred times, and I declare, if I have to spend one more minute under the quilt my near-sighted mother-in-law ruined in the clothes dryer a decade or so ago, I might just have to eat it. If that doesn’t put me out of my misery, I don’t know what will!”
She laughed, which started a coughing fit that lasted nearly five terrifying minutes.
Mercy had spent part of her internship assisting an oncologist, and remembered the symptoms only too well. Flora’s cancer had metastasized, attacking her major organs, one by one. At this rate, the poor woman would be gone by Valentine’s Day.
When she recovered, Flora tried—but failed—to hide her bloody hanky from Mercy. “I want to hear all about this awful thrashing you took, girl. Bet you were terrified. I know I would’ve been!”
Mercy would have done just about anything for Flora— except talk about the attack. She hadn’t had much cause to put her “put it to the back of your mind” talent to use since 9/11, but the gift came in handy in the weeks since her release from the hospital. The fierce, menacing glares had been scary enough at on the night of the attack. Last thing she needed was to see them in her nightmares. “I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.”
The familiar gleam that once sparkled in Flora’s eyes flashed for an instant as one corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “Never figured you for the type who’d hide from the hard things in life.”
Hide? Why, of all the—
“You don’t want to hear the details, Flora.”
Both women turned their attention to Austin, but it was Bud who asked “Why not?”
“Because she gave every bit as good as she got.”
Mercy considered asking him if he’d lost his mind, because she had no memory of fighting back. In fact, all she remembered was agonizing, pounding pain, then thinking she’d drown in the river of rainwater rushing down the gutter. That, and the irony of the filthy little cup that kept the mud and grit from getting into her nose and mouth.
Austin winked and reached over to squeeze her knee, exactly as her dad used to—a private signal between them that meant “Don’t take everything so seriously!”
If asked to count how many times she’d compared Austin to her father these past weeks, Mercy believed the number might reach double digits. Though the two men had nothing in common physically, they shared a fierce determination to protect those they cared about.
While pretending to nap on her first day home from the hospital, Austin had tiptoed closer to tuck the blankets up under her chin, just as her father had done when a virus or a cold kept her home in bed. And on Sunday mornings, her dad loved taunting her with a quiet “Hmm …” or whispered “Well, I’ll be” as he read the headlines, prompting Mercy’s inquisitive “What, Dad. What’s so fascinating!” And when Austin did the same thing, she’d nearly burst into tears at the sweet memory.
Bud laughed. “Well, good! I’ll bet those tough guys won’t
soon forget this li’l gal.”
“Yes, good for you, Mercy!” Flora said. “I hope you scratched and clawed and kicked so hard that …” She had to stop to catch her breath. “… so hard that … that the next time they decide to … to hammer on an innocent citizen they’ll think twice!”
“Aw, will you look at her pretty little face, Flor-dee-lee? Why, she looks terrified, just thinking about what happened.Can’t you see that Mercy wasn’t kidding when she said she didn’t want to talk about it?” He winked at her. “Talk less, listen more. It’s better for your health.”
Brows high on her forehead, Flora pinched off a piece of her biscuit. “I wasn’t talking about it, exactly,” she defended.“More like commenting is all.” She looked to Austin, hoping for an ally.
Unfortunately, she didn’t find one in her next door neighbor, either.
“Well, if this doesn’t just beat all,” she grumbled, feigning a pout. “Guess I’ll just have to hide my curiosity and hurt feelings behind my love for buttery biscuits.” And she popped the bread into her mouth.
Mercy suddenly felt horribly guilty. “I’m sorry, Flora. Maybe in a week or two, when the bruises have healed and Woodrow has found his way, I can—”
“Woodrow? Your cat is missing?”
“Yes. He’s the reason I went outside in the first place. I’d opened the front door to tuck a bill into the mailbox, so the letter carrier would pick it up on his way by, and when I did, Woodrow must have made a run for it.”
“Why, that ornery, sneaky little ingrate!”
“Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute, here,” Bud said. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that you went out in the driving rain, on that bitter-cold night, all by yourself to hunt for that—”
From the corner of her eye, Mercy saw Austin signal Bud to hush. Later, she’d thank him for that. “I never understood why he always tried so hard to escape, when he has a loving home, and food, and vet care and—”
“Didn’t you say he sort of found you on the day you moved into the house?”