by Tia Louise
“The difference is if you decide it’s not what you want to do. We need to know how soon that decision will be made.”
My brow lines. “It sounds like you think it’s going to be made.”
Conway clears his throat and shifts in his chair. “That’s a pretty little gal I’ve seen on your arm, Stuart.”
“What of it?” My eyes blaze into this bastard who has the audacity to drag Mariska into this.
Evan exhales a nervous laugh. “Just past experience. Seems the only women who want to stay in Great Falls is the women who grew up in Great Falls. Nothing more.”
He has a point, but I’ll be damned if I concede. I won’t leave Bill at the mercy of these guys. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Mariska has a lot of spirit. She likes it here.”
They both make subservient grunting noises and hastily back away from any insult to my fiancée. “I’m sure she’s quite a gal,” Conway says. “We wish you both all the best. And in the meantime, we have to think about our plans.”
I’m about ready to tell him what he can do with his plans when my phone buzzes. I glance down, ready to dismiss it, but I see the words on the face. All the air leaves my lungs as the words materialize on my brain.
Mariska injured. Go to Missouri River General ASAP.
I’m out of the booth, a distant roaring sound in my ears. Where is Missouri River General? I have to believe a cab driver can take me to her. I’m out the door on the street looking up and down. Not a lot of cabs around this part of town. My lungs tighten and it’s difficult to inhale.
“Stuart.” My uncle grabs my arm roughly. “Come on. Truck’s over here.”
* * *
My sister is crying softly in the background. My mother holds her, stroking her hair, but even Sylvia’s face is pale with fear.
She’s not waking up.
I’m standing in the doorway of the hospital room, fighting to breathe against the pressure in my chest. The fucking nurse almost wouldn’t let me back here because we’re not married. I think the fire in my eyes was enough to convince her she’d better get the fuck out of my way.
Mariska’s tiny body is in the bed. A white bandage covers her head and an array of tubes run from her to monitors and machines making whirring and beeping noises. I want to hold her, soothe her, but I can’t seem to move my legs.
The doctor is talking to my mother and Bill. His words float around me just outside the scrim of torment clouding my brain.
We’re keeping her sedated so her body can rest and heal itself without stress, he says.
A bandage covers one arm. She’s lying on her back, with her eyes closed, her beautiful face pale.
She hit the back of her head pretty hard when she fell, but we haven’t detected a concussion, he continues. Since the injury is near her occipital lobe, I’ve ordered a full brain scan and test of brain function.
Sylvia asks what that means.
The occipital lobe is the primary visual cortex, he says. Extreme blunt force trauma in that location can cause blindness.
My mother does a little wail, and my shoulders collapse. I grip the wall unable to imagine my beautiful artist blind, the light forever extinguished in those sunset eyes.
Let’s not anticipate disaster. Her injuries are severe, but she has no broken bones. The doctor takes a long pause, drawing all our eyes. It appears she tried to protect her stomach, but… I’m so sorry to have to say this. The placenta abrupted. We did all we could, but the fetus was expelled.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I grip the doorjamb. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. All I can see is the little body lying on its back with its feet up. That little baby Mariska was sure was a girl.
…the fetus was expelled.
Pain rips through my heart, leaving it bloody and torn. My mother’s sniffling joins my sister’s tears. I turn my head slightly to look at Mariska lying on the bed, her body still and empty.
“Will she be all right?” Sylvia’s voice is shaky.
“Oh, she should make a full recovery,” the doctor assures her.
He has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. Mariska will not recover from this. He leaves the room, and I hear Bill’s deep voice soothing my mother. I hear Amy’s whispering sobs.
“I couldn’t get her out,” she weeps. “That little horse kept screaming and kicking. I didn’t know what to do. I was so afraid.”
At that, the tension in my chest explodes. I said I would protect her, and when she needed me the most, where the fuck was I? I gave her that horse. I taught her to trust it. I gave her the thing that killed her dreams. All of this is my fault.
My mind clouds, and I turn on my heel stalking out of the room. I vaguely hear someone call my name, but it’s a small hospital. I’m at Bill’s truck in less than three minutes, jerking the door open without a backwards glance. I shove the transmission into drive, jam the accelerator to the floor, and squeal out of the parking lot.
So many questions torment my mind as I drive. How could I leave her this morning? Why did we come here? Mariska wanted to go to summer school. We didn’t need to be here. It was a selfish trip, motivated by my wants and desires. I did this.
These thoughts torment my mind. Rage and guilt war in my chest, until I pull into the yard of the ranch house. Slamming the stick into park, I throw the door open, storming into the main house. Winona is at the kitchen table, and I vaguely recognize she has several small candles lit. She’s clutching a rosary, and when she sees me, her eyebrows lift expectantly. I don’t stop.
I know what I’m looking for, and I know where to find it. I’m in Bill’s office, going to the cabinet behind his desk. The glass door is locked, but the key is on the top. I use it to access the row of six heavy rifles.
When I was younger, before I entered the service, Bill would let me take one out and hold it, admiring the craftsmanship. Sometimes he and I would set up a target on the prairie and practice shooting. He would show me how to load a gun and care for it. Those days were long gone, and I’m a fucking Marine.
Pulling out the largest rifle in the case, I grab the box of ammunition, tossing it on the desk. A few shiny bronze bullets the length of my thumb fall out, and I grab two. Bending the long, metal barrel down, I shove them into the chamber and snap it shut with a loud clatch.
I stride through the main room, my boots making a dull thump on the floor as I head for the door. Another exclamation from Winona, but I don’t stop. I’m in the yard headed for the barn. My boots are a sharp thud as I enter the large, open space. Ranger’s head lifts over his stall, but I don’t stop. I’m moving quickly to the last two boxes in the row.
Freckles moves back and forth in her pen. First her head is over the door then she turns and goes to the back of her stall. It’s the final one I’m interested in.
Lifting the latch, I allow the wooden door to fall open beside me. Standing in the entrance, I level my gaze on the little horse stamping in place at the back of the small corral. She lets out a soft whinny and pushes her body against the back wall.
The taste of metal is in my mouth, and resolve solidifies in my chest. Dumb beast. Mindless killer. I hear my sister’s hysterical cries. She wouldn’t stop kicking. I was so afraid. I didn’t know how to make her stop.
Lifting the gun, I position the stock against my shoulder and hold it straight. The little horse stills as I level the barrel at her head. As if remembering something, she turns to face me. She takes a step toward me as if to put her nose into my chest, but I halt her with the cold steel of the gun. I set my aim on the white circle directly between her eyes.
Time seems to slow. We’re in a place of justice and revenge. The guilty stands before me convicted. Her black eyes locked on mine, and I tighten my finger slowly on the trigger. My breath stills as I wait for the blast of the gun. Only those dumb black eyes make me hesitate, and in that hesitation, in that half-life between conviction and wavering, I hear my name.
“Stuart! NO!” The gun i
s shoved up just as my finger pulls the trigger.
A deafening blast shatters the quiet of the barn, and all the horses react. I stumble against the wall, Ron on top of me, pushing me back. The little horse, already spooked from before, is now wild with fear. She jumps and runs, pushing past us into the alley, and then, as if knowing it’s her last chance, she bolts, spread out in a full gallop, from the barn and into the prairie.
Ron pushes off of me, his face creased with sadness. He grips the barrel of the rifle, and my hands drop. I don’t move from where I’m collapsed against the wooden wall.
“I couldn’t let you do it,” he says in that raspy voice I’ve known since I was a teenager.
I don’t answer. My eyes fix on a stain of blood, a messy disturbance in the damp hay on the floor.
“How is Miss Mariska doin’?” he asks.
For a moment, I can’t speak. I can only see how she must have looked, a broken little heap on the floor of this stall. Someone said it was Ron who finally got in and pulled her out. Darkness floods my brain.
“Let them cut it up.” My voice is as rough and broken as I feel. “I don’t want it anymore. Cut it up and sell it.”
Pushing past him, I stagger to the house and grab the unopened bottle of Macallan off the wet bar. Without even packing a bag, I grab the keys to the rented Silverado and head out across the plain. I can’t take this pain. I have to go to the cabin.
15
Fragments
Mariska
Everything hurts when I open my eyes. I’m in a dim, quiet room, and tubes are fastened to my wrists with little pieces of tape. I want to roll onto my side. I want to curl into a ball and disappear. I want Stuart.
Looking around it’s the strongest impression I get. He’s not here. I feel like he’s never been here. In all the days of silence, of people coming and going, his absence whispered through my subconscious like emptiness.
Tears heat my eyes, and my throat aches. I try to move, and a monitor goes off. A stirring of warmth at my side, and Sylvia speaks to me.
“Mariska?” Her voice is haunted, sad. “Are you awake?”
When I blink, hot tears hit my cheeks. My throat is so dry, I can’t speak, so I only nod. I want to know how long I’ve been here. Looking around, I see a vase of flowers on a table, but the blooms are drooping.
“Let me tell the nurse.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”
She’s out of the room, and I slide my hand over my stomach. The tube on my wrist stings as it pulls and more tears blur my vision. I know what happened. I know what’s gone.
“Well, hello!” The nurse’s voice is bitingly cheerful. It causes the skin on my upper back to crawl. “It’s good to see those eyes open.”
I watch her walk around the bed studying the monitors and making notes on a clipboard. Her light brown hair is cut short to her neck, and her peach colored scrubs are baggy on her body.
When she’s finished looking at all the machines, she turns and smiles at me. Her brown eyes are kind, and I strain to speak. I want to ask how much time has passed. How long I’ve been here.
“Let me get you something to drink,” Sylvia says, nodding. “Just give me a second.”
Scanning the room, I try to find a notepad or anything I can use to write my question. Seeing nothing, I drop my head back on the pillow and sigh. Frustration aches in my chest, and more tears slide down my cheeks.
The nurse takes my pulse, warm fingers clamped on each side of the bone. I lie back and wait. She listens to my heartbeat, and with the scope on my skin, our eyes meet. Hers frown.
“Does something hurt?”
The wounds in my arm and hip are muted, and my head is only a dull ache. Clearly I’ve been given some sort of painkilling drugs. I just want to know how long I’ve been here. I want to know where Stuart is, how long he’s been away, and when I can go home.
Sylvia returns to my side with a cup, holding the straw to let me sip. Setting it aside, she covers my hand with hers. Worry lines her face.
“How… long?” I whisper.
Her brow lines, and she glances at the nurse. “Umm… Good news. You only have to stay another day or two.”
Shaking my head, I try again. “What day… is it?”
“Wednesday,” Sylvia says.
Nodding, I close my eyes. Four days. I’ve been here four days. Amy was supposed to go home on Sunday. Opening my eyes again, I scan the room. No sign of her anywhere. The last I remember she was screaming. Jessie was screaming. My eyes squeeze shut against that memory.
It feels like she was here. I seem to remember her voice in the room. “Amy?”
“She went to the house to shower and change, but she’ll be back. She rescheduled her flight so she could stay until you came home.”
That only leaves one missing person, and my heart breaks at having to ask. “Stuart?”
Her eyes drop, and the ache in my chest twists harder. More tears fall onto my cheeks as I accept the worst. He’s not here. He’s gone. Ignoring the pull of the tubes, I roll onto my side and tuck my chin into my chest. My arms are bent, and I do my best to cover my face as I cry.
I’d forgotten the nurse until she breaks the silence. “Let me move this stand.” She does something and the pressure eases on my IV. “I’ll leave you two alone. Let me know if she needs anything.”
A few moments pass, and I hear the clicking of my door close. The side of my bed indents, and the warmth of a body is behind me on the bed. Sylvia’s arm goes above my head, and she strokes the hair away from my cheek. I only lower my chin more, trying to hide my face in the thin blanket.
“Bill went to find him,” she says softly, continuing to stroke my hair. Nothing is comforting to me. “He hates when I say this, but Stuart is so much like his father.”
I don’t even know what to do with that, so I don’t answer. “When we lost Sophie, he was gone for weeks,” she sighs. “I guess he thought by staying away he was giving me room to grieve? I never knew why he did what he did.”
The feeling is very mutual, I think ruefully. Only I do understand Stuart. He goes away because he has to, and the worst thing I could do is go after him. I learned it from our first days together, the days when he would tell me over and over he was leaving, not to set my sites on him. Now it’s so much worse than before. Pain, frustration, heartbreak, loss—all of it twists into a rock in the center of my chest. I have to wait until he comes to me, if he ever does.
“He loves you.” She rubs my arm. “If he didn’t he’d never have tried to shoot that poor horse.”
I jolt at her words. Lifting my chin, I look over my shoulder at her. “No,” I whisper, straining my voice. “She didn’t mean to hurt me. She was afraid.” The pain is too much, and tears are again in my eyes. “It wasn’t her fault…”
“Shh,” Sylvia whispers. “I know. Bill will find him. It’s going to be okay.”
Slumping back onto the bed, I close my eyes against a new flood of tears. He tried to kill my horse. He probably wishes he could kill me for going into that pen, being irresponsible. Well, trust me. I paid for that mistake.
I can still see Jessie’s black eyes wild with fear. I can still hear Amy screaming. I can still feel the shuddering panic as I realize I won’t be able to open the door with my injured arm.
I can still see my little girl dancing away from me across the grass. I see her lovely wings extending as she takes flight, and my heart is left behind in my chest, hollow and dead. If only she’d taken me with her.
When I open my eyes again, Amy is back. She’s standing with her mother talking to the nurse who’d taken my pulse and helped me earlier. The stinging tube is gone from my arm. All the tubes are gone, and a plastic tray of food is on a table beside my bed. My stomach rumbles with hunger. Pushing against the mattress, I sit up, and they all turn to face me.
“Look at you!” the still-happy nurse says with a smile. I can’t return it. “The doctor said you’d be ready today, but I was
n’t sure.”
“Ready for what?” My voice is better, stronger.
“Do you feel like eating your lunch?” she asks.
I look over at the tray and pull it closer to me. A scoop of mashed potatoes sits beside a short stack of orange carrots. A few broccoli spears are curled beside it, and a container of soup is in another corner, covered with a strip of plastic. At the opposite corner is a cup of juice.
Taking the fork, I scoop a small bite of the white potatoes and put it in my mouth. It’s soft and buttery, and it makes my stomach growl harder. I take another bite, and Amy walks quickly to my bedside.
“Do you want to go back to the ranch?” Her face is lined with concern. “The doctor said once you were eating we could take you home. I thought you’d be more comfortable there.”
I look from her to her mother, and Sylvia nods. “The doctor says you’re well on the road to recovery. He doesn’t see why you can’t go back to the ranch.”
“I would like to leave this place,” I say. I don’t add that I don’t only mean the sterile hospital room. I want to leave Montana.
Stuart is still missing, but now I’m not even sure I want to see him. I’m wounded and sad. My heart feels battered and empty. I want to protect it, as if like my body, it’s too injured to risk letting anyone near it right now.
I want to go back to Bayville. I want to go all the way back to the beginning, before this nightmare started. I want to see Kenny and go to Ocean Community College. I want to finish my master’s in fine art and be a teacher like I’d planned so long ago. I want to escape this place of misery and pain, where my heart is being torn apart, where the one person I long to hold me vanishes when I need him most.
“That settles it,” Amy nods. “We’ll get the paperwork started and have you released. Finish up, and I’ll help you get dressed.”
I’m in the backseat of Sylvia’s steel-gray Cadillac wrapped in a red Indian blanket over jeans and a beige tunic Amy brought for me to wear. She turns to face me from the front. Her sleek blonde hair is swept to the side in a low ponytail, and she’s dressed in a tailored shirt and slacks, looking very out of place here.