by Denise Wells
The Recovery Room is on the opposite corner as Lovestone, at a four-way intersection. A convenience store and a coffee shop round out the remaining corners. As I am getting in my car, I look for Kat at Lovestone out of habit since she stops there on her way home a few times a week. And am not surprised to see her leaving with Lexie and Remi. I lean against the car and watch them walk down the street, away from me.
She looks beautiful, as usual, throwing her head back and laughing at something Lexie has just said. My heart squeezes in my chest. It’s hard to be so close to someone, yet still so far away. I’m tempted to call out to her, but I don’t. I just watch them all walk to their cars. When she stops to get in her car, she pauses for just a second and looks my way. My breath catches, and I wait for something to show that she sees me, but she doesn’t. I watch her drive away before getting into my own car to head home, knowing I will probably text her later to say goodnight.
Chapter 20
Kat
As I drive toward the coast and my little house above the water, my mind drifts to Brad.
I want to be with him. I really do.
But, I’m going to die.
And not at some undetermined time in my golden years. More like in the next five years, if I make it that long.
I won’t even see forty.
I’ll be lucky to see thirty-five.
God, that thought hurts so much more than I expect it to.
So, I go home and make myself a drink.
Three parts tequila, one part lime juice, one part rocks.
Then I change into yoga pants and a cami and settle back on my balcony to listen to the waves. Most of my neighbors keep their back lights low or off, which makes looking out at the inky blackness of the ocean the perfect backdrop for moods like my own. Tonight, even the moon is muted, barely casting a glow on the water’s glassy surface.
I take a deep drink of my cocktail, draining almost half the glass, and wait for the heat of the tequila to start its calming effect on my body. And more importantly, my brain.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brad, as though he’s been summoned by my thoughts. I can’t bring myself to look at it. If I do, I’ll want to respond. And if I respond, it will be to ask him to come over. So he can sit here, in the dark with me, and listen to the waves together. And I can pretend that everything is normal and back to the way it should be.
In the past, when we would sit out here together, it would always lead to sex. He’s why I traded in my Adirondack chairs for the extra-large, extra soft outdoor furniture. Because having sex in an Adirondack chair is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, it’s fun the first few times, but splinters on your thighs gets real old real fast.
And, now I’m thinking about sex.
And Brad.
And sex with Brad.
God, I miss him.
Shit. Fuck. Piss.
Do I use the RTF app tonight? I don’t think I’m quite drunk enough yet, and at some point I should probably sleep. Plus, I wasn’t lying when I told my therapist I wasn’t going to keep doing this.
Supposedly RTF stands for Really Temporary Friends. Which is a joke, RTF is Ready To Fuck, it’s a hookup app that lets you know people in your immediate vicinity who are ready to fuck.
And as I look at the app, I see there is a guy right now who is two point six miles away. One swipe and I can have him here in under ten minutes.
But I’m trying to be responsible. Or, at the very least not be what my therapist would consider reckless.
Solo mission it is.
I down the rest of my drink and go inside to find my vibrator. I’ll just keep making myself come until I burn off my clit or pass the fuck out, whichever comes first.
Chapter 21
Brad
I spend most of the night tossing and turning and wake up with zero motivation to do much of anything except make sure Kat is safe. Which is not easy to do when she doesn’t respond to me. I take a cup of coffee to my living room and try to decompress. Spending the night worrying about Kat did nothing to help me rest and I have to work tonight. She pisses me off when she gets like this, uncommunicative and uncooperative. It’s my job to protect her, but that’s hard to do when she won’t let me. I don’t want to text her again.
I flop on the couch and turn on SportsCenter to get caught up on what’s happening with my teams. One cup of coffee turns into a breakfast beer and I find a Die Hard marathon while channel surfing. Fucking perfection!
I have a man-crush on John McClane, the main character in the Die Hard movies, and I’m not afraid to admit it. I have a well-worn t-shirt that says, ‘Yippee-ki-yay, motherf**ker!’ on the front. I have all five movies on Blu-Ray. And I have a framed print of a pencil drawing of McClane crawling through the air ducts with the lighter during the “come out to the coast” scene.
Kat used to tease that she was going to get me one of those rubber bracelets with WWJMD? (What Would John McClane Do?) on it, but she never did. I can appreciate the entire franchise though, each movie has its own uniqueness and importance, even A Good Day to Die Hard despite what everybody says. I can watch each one again and again and never tire of them. Die Hard with a Vengeance turns into an afternoon nap, and when I wake, I’m almost late for my shift.
I pull in to the fire station, luckily only a few minutes late, race up the stairs and join the pre-shift meeting already in progress. The Chief is reviewing the schedules for the next three weeks, all of which still revolves around whether or not we are called out.
“Nice of you to join us, Matthews,” Chief says wryly.
“Sorry, Chief, lost track of time.”
I halfway listen and halfway think about how I’m going to end things with Stacy and convince Kat that she needs me back in her life, the two main things that occupy my brain of late. Plus, Stacy has been hinting that she wants to meet my dad and brother, which would take us to that next level. A level that I have no intention of going to with her.
My phone buzzes with a new text. I pull it out of my pocket to peek, hoping it’s from Kat. I’m disappointed to see that it’s from Stacy. Especially since Kat still hasn’t responded to the text I sent her last night.
Stacy: I know it’s your day off tomorrow, can I make you breakfast?
She has a string of heart emoji’s at the end of the text. I hate that my schedule is so predictable and that she knows when I’m working and when I’m off. Because she’ll just keep texting me if I don’t respond, I hit the shortcut button for an auto-response:
Me: Can’t respond right now - can I contact you later?
Stacy: Of course! Whenever you’re available is fine.
I have got to find time to end this with her. Even though I haven’t had sex with her in a few weeks, the expectation is still there. And I can’t have that.
The meeting concludes and I limp slightly out of the room, my body even more sore today. Ethan comes up behind me. “Were you the volunteer punching bag again?”
“It’s not like that,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” he replies, laughing.
“I worked out at the boxing gym, yes.”
“You’re moving a little gingerly, man. Want me to set you up with my masseuse?” Ethan has a masseuse that he sees regularly, both professionally and personally.
Before I have a chance to respond, we hear the familiar chimes and buzzer ring through the firehouse, spurring us all into action.
Alpha situation involving an elderly woman who can’t breathe. We classify traumas or emergency medical situations as either alpha, bravo, or charlie. With alpha being the most critical and charlie being the least critical.
Ethan and I are out the door less than thirty seconds later and in the rescue truck on the way to the residence. He gets an update from dispatch on the way. They believe the woman called 911 herself, so at least we know that she isn’t unconscious, which is good.
I always worry when we have the senior citizen calls, because it could be almost anything with t
hem. They have a tendency toward strokes, falling, debilitating illnesses, and too many are living alone with no one to check in on them or help them throughout the day.
I get that independence is hard to give up, but at some point, they need to realize when it is time to ask for help. Then they need to allow that help to do some good.
We arrive at the home, a smaller cottage style house at the water front end of what seems to be a quiet block running perpendicular to the ocean. There is a large tree in the front yard that desperately needs trimming. The branches are far too overgrown and heavy to be that close to her roof.
I make a mental note to see if she has help, a grandson, son, male companion, or someone to trim the tree. If not, I’m coming back to do it myself. One bad wind and those branches are going through the roof. Not to mention the fire hazard they present.
I grab the medical kit and we proceed to the front door. It opens before we have a chance to knock.
There stands a small, silver haired lady with chin length hair, super short bangs, and big red glasses. She’s wearing flannel pajamas, a cotton robe that is loosely tied, and large slippers with elephant heads on the ends. Two small dogs are barking and yipping, winding themselves in and out of around her feet. She’s holding a box of tissue in one hand and the door open in the other.
“Oy vey!” she says, sounding congested and stuffed up. “I could have died in the time it took you boys to get here. Clearly you don’t understand emergency.”
“We got here as soon as we could, ma’am. Can you tell us where the emergency is?” Ethan asked her.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!
“Don’t be a putz, I’m the emergency, boychik! I can’t breathe! Nothing is helping. I’ve tried everything.”
“You’re the woman who isn’t breathing?” I ask.
She looks at me now like I’m the putz. At least she didn’t say it too.
Ethan leans toward me. “Did she just call me a boy chick?” he asks in a low voice.
“My nose is completely stuffed up and I can’t breathe! Are you going to help or not?” she asks.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!
“Well,” Ethan says. “We can take you to the hospital.”
One of the dogs is now pulling at Ethan’s pant leg and growling. I can’t tell if it’s playing or if it seriously thinks it can take Ethan down. I see him gently shake his leg to try and get the dog off.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!
“No!” she says. “No doctors and no hospitals. My late husband, alev ha-sholem, died in a hospital. I am not ready to die, and especially not over something as ridiculous as not breathing. And they don’t know what they are doing at that hospital. So, no. You be a good boychik and fix me. You do it here at my house.”
I laugh under my breath at her calling Ethan a boy chick again.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!
“Ma’am,” I say.
“Mavis,” she says, smiling at me.
“Mavis,” I say. “We are licensed EMT’s, emergency medical technicians, and can assist when there is a medical emergency, but we are not licensed physicians, we did not go to medical school, and we are not equipped to help you with something that is much better suited for a doctor’s visit.”
“Feh! I told you, no doctors. No exceptions. Don’t you know who I am?”
“You’re Mavis,” Ethan says. I smirk at that.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!
She flicks her hand at him. “Oy khokhem attick. I am Mavis Strassburg, perhaps you’ve heard of my late husband, Stone Strassburg?”
We had indeed heard of Stone Strassburg; he was a pillar of the community before he passed, very philanthropic with both his time and money. He was extremely well loved and admired. His son had passed away years before him and the entire town showed up to his memorial. The SSFD was called in to assist with traffic control, it was that busy. I’m surprised that neither Ethan nor I recognized her.
“Why don’t we come inside and we can take your vitals, and perhaps come up with something that can help,” I tell her.
She quiets the dogs, finally. “Stella! Clyde! Shtum! Shtum!”
Then she steps aside to let us in, motioning to the living room, where I see the house is much larger than it initially appears. I wonder if she lives here alone as I set the medical kit on the coffee table and open it. I help her sit on the couch so we can examine her.
We take her blood pressure, measure oxygen levels, check pupil reactions, take her temperature, test her reflexes, listen to her heart and chest, monitor her breathing, and look in her ears and throat. Nothing is out of normal range enough to be alarming. It looks like she has a common cold, so we tell her so.
She is not happy with this news. Mavis stands and puts her hands on her hips.
“Feh! What am I supposed to do now?” The dogs start to growl at Ethan and me again.
“I suggest rest, warm liquids, vitamin C, and maybe some chicken soup,” I tell her.
She sits back on the couch and sighs. “I don’t want to make soup.” She sounds as though she may start crying at any moment. The dogs jump up beside her and paw at her lap, whimpering.
I look at Ethan; he raises his eyebrows back at me.
She continues, “Oy vey iz mir. I’m tired, I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep, I just want it to go away. My son is dead. My husband is dead. My bubula is too busy with her grapes to care for me. I have no one!” She falls back against the couch and throws her arm over her eyes, the move is very dramatic, but also effective.
The dogs start to whine louder, hopping back and forth over her lap. While Ethan and I both immediately start making promises to her of visits, making soup, mowing her lawn, trimming the big tree. She looks up at us with big blue eyes.
“You boychiks would really do that?” She blows her nose with a soft honking noise. Ethan and I are both nodding our heads enthusiastically, not caring that now we are both boy chicks.
I kneel next to her and place one hand on her knee. Clyde, or maybe it was Stella, begins to lick my hand.
“Mavis,” I say. “When we get back to the station, I’m going to make you some chicken soup. Then I will bring it back here for you. And, one of us will check on your periodically to make sure you are okay.”
“Oh danke, danke.” She blows her nose again. “But I’ll need it to be matzo ball soup you know. That is the cure for everything. People think the cure is chicken soup, but a good Jewish woman knows the difference.” Her voice is suddenly much clearer than it was a minute ago.
I smile at the request. “Matzo ball soup it is,” I tell her. We move to leave, Ethan steps outside to call in our status to dispatch.
Mavis surprises me with a quick hug. “You’re a real mensch. You’re too thin, but you’ve got a nice tuchus. Are you married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Mavis.”
“Right, Mavis. No, Mavis, I am not married.”
“Well, you should be,” she says. “If I was still a maydl, I’d give you a run for your money.”
One of the dogs yips in agreement. She pinches me on the butt when I turn to walk out the door. The move surprises me and I jump with a little yelp, Ethan looks over at me with a questioning look on his face. I motion him toward the truck and follow quickly behind him.
“Danke, boys, danke!” Mavis yells after us.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!
Her voice is back to throaty and congested.
Ethan and I get back in the truck at the same time.
I turn to him. “Dude, she pinched my ass!”
“She called me a boy chick,” he says. “Multiple times.”
“She said that to me too,” I say.
“Once. She said it once to you.”
“At least she didn’t comment on your tookus and pinch it.”
Ethan just laughs. “You do have a way with the ladies. If things don’t work out with Kat, at least you’ll have a back-up.”
“Haha,” I say, dryly.
As we head b
ack to the station, I realize I need to figure out what the hell a matzo ball is.
Chapter 22
Kat
The day goes by excruciatingly slow, Bauer and I sit and review pictures and files for hours, taking notes, making comparisons, sharing speculations, and drinking copious amounts of coffee, with no results. I’m staring at the same things over and over again; getting no intuitive feelings, connecting no dots.
Not that we are the only ones working on it, mind you. Sherman has entire teams dedicated to both cases, and Bauer and I just sort of bounce back and forth between the two when needed. But it makes for a fairly unproductive day, giving me plenty of time to let my mind wander. And it seems to wander the most to Brad. It’s hard to believe I’ve only known him for a few years when it seems as though he’s been such an important part of my life for so long.
We met in a bar, I know, totally cliché. But let’s face it, once you leave college, how else do you meet someone outside of online dating?
I’d been at our favorite hangout, The Recovery Room, waiting to place an order for me, Lexie, and Remi.
“Hey Kat, what can I get you?” Nate, the bartender, asked. Yes, I was on a first name basis with the main guy at my favorite bar.
“We are all going for the pomegranate mojito tonight, Nate, you’ve concocted a good one there.”
“I aim to please where you ladies are concerned,” he said with a wink. I didn’t even try to wink back.
“Burning Up” by Madonna, came on the overhead. I started bouncing to the beat. I fucking loved this song.
“I’m burning up, burning up for your love,” I sang to Nate as he handed me all three drinks.
“I’ll put it on your tab,” he said in response. I balanced the three drinks between my two hands and stepped back from the bar.
“Umph!” I heard it before I felt it. Then there it was, a toe was impaled by my stiletto. I turned quickly to apologize, then watched in horror as bright red splashed all over the white in front of me. It was a chest, a broad chest encased in a white t-shirt that was quickly turning pink. A chest that was at eye level with me in my three-inch heels. It was sculpted. I reached out and tried to feel it, I couldn’t help myself.