On Blue Falls Pond

by Susan Crandall

  Once in radiology, the technician laid a gentle hand on Eric’s arm. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait outside.”

  He felt a tremor in Glory’s hand. “I’m staying with her.”

  “I don’t have to explain to you, Chief, why we have this rule, do I?” she asked.

  “A little scatter radiation won’t hurt me.”

  “No, Eric, you should wait outside,” Glory said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Let’s get this done,” he said to the technician. “We’re wasting your time. I’m not leaving.”

  The technician reached behind a corner and pulled out a large gray apron. “Then put this on.” She slammed it into Eric’s chest. Then she put on her nice voice again and instructed Glory how to position herself for the X-ray.

  Eric shifted his shoulders. The lead apron weighed a ton, but he kept ahold of Glory’s hand.

  Within thirty minutes the doctor announced there were no broken bones. He feared a slight concussion and said he’d like to admit her overnight.

  The wild fear Eric had seen when he’d first mentioned the hospital to Glory sprang back into her eyes. “No.” She shook her head in a jerky twitch. “I won’t stay.”

  “You need to be monitored,” the doctor said. “Awakened every two hours.”

  The color that had just begun to return to Glory’s face drained away. She began to hyperventilate.

  “I’ll make sure she’s awakened,” Eric said. “She won’t be alone.”

  The doctor looked unhappy. “I suppose, with your training . . . She’ll need to sign a release—”

  “No problem,” Glory cut him off, as if anxious to be gone.

  She signed the papers, then Eric stepped out while she got dressed.

  The rain was still pouring when they left the hospital. After he started the engine, he paused to look at her. Her eyes were closed; her head was against the headrest.

  She didn’t open her eyes when she said, “I’m sorry I was such a pain in the ass.”

  She looked cold and shaken, scraped and bruised, her auburn hair still dark with rain. And he’d never in his life felt so compelled to take a woman in his arms and comfort her. He stopped his hand just short of caressing her cheek, balled it into a fist, and rested it on the console. “You had reason. Besides, I’ve seen worse.”

  Her eyes remained closed, but her lips curved in a slight smile. “Thank you.”

  He took a deep breath, then said, “There’s no way to get you back to Tula’s tonight.” He let the statement hang there. He realized a moment later that he was waiting to gauge her response. As they sat there in his car with the storm crashing around them, both chafing in wet clothes, her lip swollen and a nasty bruise growing steadily darker on her cheek, he wondered if she felt the same pull of connection as he did.

  Or maybe he was just so lonely that he was grasping at straws.

  When she opened her eyes and looked at him but didn’t respond to his statement, he added, “The road’s washed out; it’s impassable.” The wind buffeted the car, rocking it on its wheels as if to emphasize his declaration.

  “Oh.” She looked intently at him with those moss-green eyes. She licked her injured lip, then touched it lightly with her fingers. “I . . . I don’t really have anywhere else to go. Most of my family lives in the hollow.” Then she brightened as if just remembering. “Is the Hideaway Motel still in business?”

  He barked out an unexpected laugh. “Yeah—and no way am I leaving you there.” The Hideaway had been cited for more fire code violations and health department infractions than he could count. It spent most of its time with its “cabins” empty, save for the occasional desperate two-hour adulterous tryst. “It’s not safe. Besides, someone needs to wake you every two hours.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I can set the alarm.”

  “Which you won’t hear if you’re actually unconscious and not sleeping. Nope.” He took a breath and said what he’d been thinking since he picked her up off the road. “You’re coming home with me.”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t—”

  “Listen, it’s my house or stay in the hospital. You can choose. But I’m not leaving you alone tonight.” Then he added, “Tula would never forgive me.”

  Putting it in that context seemed to relax the tension in her face. “Okay. Your house.”

  It was nearly full dark when Eric parked at the curb in front of his rented duplex. It was one of the few old houses in town actually built as a duplex, not chopped up later. It was two stories, divided vertically in half down the middle, each half the mirror image of the other. It had nearly as much character as his old house, but late at night when he was alone its hardwood floors and high ceilings seemed to echo loneliness instead of charm.

  The two units of the duplex shared a large concrete-floored front porch. His next-door neighbor, an elderly woman who’d lived there alone since her divorce in the 1970s (a very depressing thought each time Eric compared the similarities in their situations), had every light blazing, giving an unwelcoming contrast to his darkened windows.

  The thunder and lightning seemed to be taking a break, but the rain was relentless.

  “I’ll run in and get an umbrella, then come back and get you,” he said with a hand on the car door.

  She laughed, a surprisingly sparkling sweet noise considering her condition. It made him glad he wasn’t going to be spending this stormy evening alone. “You’ve got to be kidding!” She touched a still-shaky hand to her hair. “I sat out there on the side of that road in a downpour for who knows how long before you picked me up. I don’t think I can get any wetter.”

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Wait for me before you get out. Your legs might not be too steady.”

  By the time he’d run around the car, she had her door open and both feet in six inches of rushing water in the street’s gutter. When he reached for her, she said, “I’m fine! Go on.” Then she tried to take a step, and her knee buckled.

  He reached out and put an arm around her waist and half carried her up his front steps. He didn’t let go when he put his key in the lock and opened the door.

  The light switches were the old push-button type—push in the top button for lights on, bottom button for off; not anything you could flip with your elbow as you entered a room with your hands full. He carefully guided Glory to his couch and sat her down, then turned on a lamp.

  “I’m surprised the electricity’s still on,” he said.

  The lights immediately flickered, went off for a half a second, then came back on.

  Glory hummed the theme from The Twilight Zone.

  He laughed, glad again for her company; then immediately feeling selfish since she was here only because she’d wrecked her car and gotten hurt in the process.

  He said, “Before I get you in a hot shower—” The look on her face cut his words off. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “I know.”

  He knelt in front of her and instinctively reached for her knee before he realized they weren’t at an accident scene, it was his living room; he should ask before he touched. He looked up at her. “May I? Not that I don’t trust the doctor, but . . .”

  She nodded and the newly born trust he saw in her eyes gave him pause.

  “Um, it can wait until after you have these wet clothes off. Do you think you can stand alone in the shower?”

  She raised a brow.

  Every time he opened his mouth he just dug himself deeper. “I knew I should have insisted on admitting you to the hospital.”

  “Aw, come on, isn’t it a good sign that I’ve still got a sense of humor?” she said. Then she added dutifully, “I can stand in the shower.”

  “Good. You shower, then you can put on a pair of my sweats. I can check and ice that knee better then. And I’ll get some ointment for your lip.”

  The bathroom with the shower was on the second floor. He held her upper arm as they walked to the stairs. She stoppe
d at the bottom and looked up, as if she were about to scale a sheer cliff. With a deep breath, she took the first tread. He kept a firm arm around her waist and the other hand on her upper arm next to him. She took another deep breath before she faced the second. She was one tough cookie. She’d probably collapse from pain before she admitted it was too much.

  Before she took that step, he lifted her into his arms and started climbing.

  “Stop! I’m too heavy,” she protested.

  “If we want to get you in that shower before you seize up completely, this is the way you’re going. Besides,” he said lightly, “I’m a fireman, remember. Carrying damsels in distress is all part of the job.”

  He didn’t set her down until they reached the bathroom. Then he left her long enough to retrieve the sweats. As he set them on the toilet, he said, “I’ll call Tula while you’re in the shower and tell her you’re here and safe.”

  “Don’t tell her about the accident! She’ll worry if she can’t see I’m all right with her own eyes.”

  He nodded and stepped out of the bathroom. “Be sure and check yourself in the mirror for bruises . . . we might want to ice them after your shower. And take a couple of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet before you get in.” He paused. “And don’t lock the door.”

  After giving him a look that was either amusement or suspicion, she nodded.

  He saw her take one hobbling step toward the shower to turn on the water just before he latched the door behind him.

  He shucked off his own clothes and slipped into a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt that he’d grabbed when he got the sweats. Then he sat down on the floor in the hallway just outside the bathroom door. He picked up his cell phone and called Tula.

  Glory realized she was getting stiffer by the minute. She pulled her shirt over her head and winced at the pain in her chest and shoulders. Not sharp broken-bone pain, but long-lasting somebody-took-a-ball-bat-to-my-muscles pain.

  Once she had her clothes off, she did as Eric had suggested and checked herself in the mirror. Seeing the purpling bruise across her shoulder and chest where the seat belt had caught seemed to make it hurt worse. She leaned closer to the mirror and ran a finger across her split lower lip. It was already swollen to twice its normal size. Then she noticed her fingernails. They had mud caked underneath from her scrabbling up the embankment to the road.

  After taking complete inventory, she decided Andrew had been right about the Volvo; considering the impact, she was in surprisingly good shape.

  This was an old bathroom, with a pedestal sink and a tub/shower combination. The shower curtain surrounded three sides. She sat on the edge of the deep tub and swung both feet over. The last thing she wanted was to lose her balance, fall, and have Eric rushing in.

  There was a peculiar attraction that she felt for him, not exactly sexual, more emotional. Maybe it was because he’d saved her life, maybe it was because—contrary to her first impression—he was showing himself to be so considerate of her grandmother. She guessed it didn’t really matter, no reason to analyze it.

  For a long while, she stood under the pelting spray of the hot shower, stretching her neck muscles, rotating her shoulders to loosen them. Then she closed her eyes and was assaulted by the image of the giant pine tree hurtling toward the windshield of her car. A sense of vertigo, of the world falling out from beneath her feet, grabbed her. Nausea came in waves. She decided she’d better keep her eyes open.

  Once the nausea and light-headedness began to dissipate, she got busy with the soap, scrubbing her fingernails until the cuticles were raw but finally grime-free. Then she reached for the shampoo and found it to be a manly brand without conditioner. It would take her hours to get the tangles out of her hair.

  She had worked up a nice lather when the lights flickered.

  They came back on steadily for a few seconds. Then a loud crack sounded very near the house, and the lights winked out with an air of finality.

  She stood motionless, waiting. No lights.

  Then she heard Eric knock loudly on the door. “Glory! Are you all right in there?”

  Having the lights out was much like closing her eyes, she felt dizzy and disoriented. “Fine.” She had tried to yell, but her voice only squeaked.

  “You don’t sound fine.” She heard the doorknob rattle. “I’m opening the door and setting a flashlight in there.”

  Dim light shone on the other side of the shower curtain, and Glory could breathe again.

  The door didn’t close. “Glory?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You’ve been in there a long time . . .” He let the statement hang.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” When the door still didn’t close she added, “I’m fine, really.”

  The door closed quietly, but she didn’t hear him walk away.

  When she stepped out of the tub, her knees felt even more rubbery than before the shower. She sat on the edge of the tub to dry off. As she picked up the gray sweats, Glory realized the only underwear she had was still soaking wet; she slipped into the sweats without. The neck hung wide on her shoulders and the sleeves covered her hands. The pants rode low on her hips and sagged over her feet, but thanks to the drawstring she could keep them on.

  She picked up the flashlight and opened the bathroom door. When lightning flashed, she nearly jumped out of her skin to see Eric standing just outside the flashlight’s beam. He’d changed his clothes too and was barefoot.

  He put a hand out and grabbed her arm, as if he thought she was going to collapse. “Let’s get you lying down.” He took the flashlight from her. “You’ll have to use my room; I only have one bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.”

  “Did you get in touch with Gran?” she asked as they made their way slowly down the hall.

  “Yes. I told her that I ran into you and told you about the sinkhole and that you’re staying at my house tonight. She’s relieved you won’t be driving home in the storm.”

  Glory was impressed that he’d been able to keep the fact that she’d wrecked her car from Granny and still managed to tell the truth. It said something for his integrity. She said, “I hope she’s all right. If the power’s out here . . .”

  “Tula’s used to power outages. I helped her get her flashlight and camp lanterns ready before I left. And her house is pretty protected from the wind by the lay of the land. She’ll be fine.”

  They entered a bedroom at the front of the house. The only stick of furniture in it was a queen-size bed. It wasn’t made.

  “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting company,” he said, as he hastily handed her the flashlight. He straightened out the sheets, then gathered up the pillows and piled them against the headboard. “There.”

  Glory got on the bed, sitting against the pillows. She flinched as she moved her right knee.

  “I want a look at that knee for myself.”

  She pulled the loose sweats up her leg.

  He said, “Shine the light on it for me.”

  He examined her knee with sure, gentle hands. And for some reason she felt more assured after his exam than she did after the doctor’s quick once-over.

  “I’ll go get some ice.” He stood and looked down at her. “But I’m going to need to take the flashlight.” Then he looked rather sheepish. “I don’t own a candle.”

  She smiled, glad to have his hands occupied with something other than her bare skin for the moment. “Because they’re a fire hazard?” she asked. “Or because you’re too manly to burn candles?”

  He smiled back, and in the reflective glow from the flashlight she saw that he had a set of shallow dimples on either side of his mouth. He said, “Both.” As he walked out of the bedroom taking the light with him, he added, “Don’t move. I have a camping lantern in the basement I’ll bring up.”

  As Glory waited in the pitch-darkness, dizziness returned. Then her eyes gradually adjusted to the dark and she could see the outline of the doorway and the window—enough to settle a bit of the disorie
ntation. By the time Eric came back, her stomach had stopped pitching and her light-headedness had lessened.

  Eric set the lantern on the floor. “You should elevate that knee.” He set the ice bag down and slid one of the toss pillows he’d brought from the downstairs sofa under Glory’s knee. Then he put the ice on her leg and secured it by tying a towel around it. “There. Did you take the Tylenol?”

  “Yes.” Glory put a hand on her head and remembered that she hadn’t combed her wet hair yet. “Crap. I didn’t bring my purse out of the car with me.”

  “No one is going on that road tonight. It’ll be safe.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t really thinking about that,” she admitted, surprised when she realized her vanity was more of a concern than the security of her credit cards. “I don’t have a comb.” She lifted the tangled ends of her hair and wrinkled her nose.

  “No problem.” He left the room again. When he returned he handed her a comb.

  “Thanks.”

  He stood there beside the bed for a minute, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, looking as if he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. It was the first time Glory had seen him at a loss. She lifted her arm to start working the tangles out of her hair. A quick stabbing pain shot through her shoulder.

  She must have winced, because Eric’s hand was on hers in an instant.

  “Here,” he said. “You shouldn’t strain your shoulder any more.” He took the comb from her. “Scoot over.”

  She inched toward the middle of the bed, and he sat down.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never done this before, so tell me if I’m pulling too hard,” he said as he started to comb her hair.

  She nearly objected, feeling horribly out of place here in his bed with him so close, doing something that felt so personal. But if those tangles dried in her hair, she’d probably have to cut them out. She sat stiffly as he put the comb to work.

  He began at the crown of her head, and the comb immediately stuck and pulled.

  “It works better if you start at the bottom and work your way up a little at a time,” she said woodenly, trying to keep herself disconnected from the intimacy of this act.