Vital Sign

by J. L. Mac

  Vital Sign

  By J.L. Mac

  Copyright 2014

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to every day that I’ve woken up thinking that I can’t write another word. This book is for every time I doubt my ability to sit down at my computer and tell a story worth reading. This book is for the part of me that likes to prove myself wrong.

  Most importantly, I dedicate this book to anyone who has lost someone that they love. For every day that they wake up gasping just to breathe in and out, sure that the task is far too difficult. For every tear they cry. For every time they think that life is cruel, unforgiving and not worth living. For my hopeful aspirations to prove them wrong too.

  Acknowledgements

  I have so many people to thank. As per usual I cannot thank my publishing team enough for their input, hard work, and encouraging words. Erin R., Angela, Robin, Erin F., Christine Estevez, and Elke Simmons, you ladies are amazing and have so much to offer, each in your own way. Thank you for being a part of everything I write.

  Many thanks to my readers. I love you all. I can never say how much your enthusiasm feeds my work. You all motivate me when I feel less than.

  Most importantly… I have to thank my very own Alexander McBride. My love, you have been my journey, my truth, my destination, my home. I have been pushed, squeezed, and cornered right to you. Always to you. I’ve never been so happy to endure one agony after another. Each one brought me closer to you. I’d face an eternity of uneven paths and tumultuous travels if you were my finish line. Thank you for being my inspiration. Thank you for being my purpose. Thank you for being my love.

  Vital Sign

  Copyright 2014 J.L. Mac

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

  Cover design by:

  Robin Harper-Wicked By Design

  Edited by:

  Erin Roth-Wise Owl Editing

  Images copyright

  Used under license from Shutterstock-www.shutterstock.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  19 months later…

  About the Author

  Featured Playlist

  “I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ.”

  ― Anaïs Nin

  Prologue

  March 29, 2011

  My eyes flutter open and for a moment I dismiss the noise I just heard as Jacob coming to bed—he has been beside me for hours.

  The clock on my nightstand glows displaying the time in bright green-yellow numbers.

  2:47

  He worked a double today and I know he’s exhausted, so I refuse to wake him over something that’s more than likely nothing.

  I lay in silence for a long moment before closing my eyes again. The second my lids shut I hear something rustle from down the hall. I hope it’s Starla . She left through the dog door this afternoon and she had yet to return when we went to bed.

  She’s a stubborn cat and I know she likes to sneak away in hopes of a good hunt, so I’m not too worried. She’s disappeared before and dragged in a day or so later smelly and tired from her gallivanting.

  Jake would insist that he check out the noise while I wait in the bedroom, but there’s no sense in waking my weary husband over Starla, the most domesticated of domesticated felines.

  He’s a police officer, so he has an awareness that I don’t and it can border on paranoia at times. I look over to him in the darkness and lift his leaden arm from my hip. I carefully slip from under his arm and slide from our bed. He doesn’t make a sound in response to my movement.

  Normally he’d wake up right away, but he’s exhausted. I can tell by his snoring. Jake only snores when he’s completely spent. I don’t have the heart to disturb him.

  My feet hit our carpeted floor and I tiptoe to the door of our bedroom. Once in the hallway, I glance towards the kitchen where Starla’s food and water bowls sit. I expect to see her there but she isn’t. I look the other way, towards the hall bathroom, but I don’t see her by the glow of the dim nightlight.

  “Starla?” I whisper, clicking my tongue a few times. Nothing.

  Where the hell is that crazy cat?

  I sneak quietly towards the kitchen and living room in search of her. I know I heard something. I swear if I find another raccoon in our kitchen trash I’ll force Jake to seal up that dog door. The house came with the dog door and we had planned on doing away with it. It’s been on Jake’s honey-do list, but my poor honey doesn’t have much time to get to the “do” part. I haven’t nagged him about it lately, but I can’t handle more rodent run-ins and Starla shouldn’t be getting out anyway, since she’s an indoor cat with no claws.

  I brace myself for the creature I’m sure I’ll find. My shoulders tense a little. I clench my jaw, preparing to bite back my screams when I catch the rodent. The last time I caught a raccoon in the house, I screamed like a wild banshee and ran for Jake like my life depended on it. I scared the shit out of him. Poor husband. He came hook sliding into the kitchen in his socks with his gun drawn. I squealed and jumped up and down, pointing to the ass end of the raccoon sticking out of the trash can. He had made a mess and was stuck in the garbage can. The more scared he got, the more he fought to escape. Jake just looked from the raccoon to me, wide-eyed, and slumped forward in relief. He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, and began laughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. I, of course, got mad. He put the safety on the gun and put it on the counter. Carefully skirting the animal, Jake opened the back door wide and in one swift movement, tilted the trashcan upright. The raccoon fell to the bottom of the can, head first, and Jake hurried outside with the whole thing.

  I’ll die if I’m about to relive that disaster.

  “Don’t move,” a low, raspy voice demands.

  I freeze in my tracks and gasp, unable to scream. I instinctively put my hands up in surrender, like I’m being arrested. I don’t know why. I guess it’s the universal sign of submission. In the low light coming from the hallway, I can see the form of a thin man standing in front of our television with his arm extended, holding what I presume to be a gun. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m the one who disarmed the security panel that Jake had armed before bed. I was afraid that if Starla came back, she’d set off the motion sensors, the alarm would sound, and Jake wouldn’t get the good night’s sleep that he needs.

  “I’ll fuckin’ blow your brains out if you make a noise. Anyone else home?”

  Lie. Lie. Lie. “No. My husband’s away on business,” I manage to whisper in what I think is a calm voice.

  “Good. Where are your keys and wallet?” He takes a step closer, forcing me to flinch.

  I stand, staring at him for a moment, my head spinning. I honestly can’t remember where I left them last. My heart is pounding
and adrenaline is coursing through my veins, leaving a path of fine sweat and tremors in its wake. Think, Sadie. Don’t panic now. Be smart. Be strong. I play Jake’s words through my head and it helps me to focus enough to remember where my purse is.

  “Bitch,” the man warns.

  “The dining table,” I blurt far too loudly.

  “Go get it and set it on the coffee table,” he instructs. “Slowly.”

  I take a deep breath and begin the short walk to our small dining room. I take only three steps before I hear the floor creak beneath the man’s feet. The noise startles me and I freeze again. He must be following me into the dining room. I don’t look back to verify it. I know what I heard.

  “Drop your weapon.” Jakes voice is clear and firm. I spin around and see him standing in his boxers in the low light, his department-issued pistol in his hand, pointed at the figure that’s still by our TV. My eyes immediately go to where the intruder is standing. “Sadie, walk towards me,” Jake instructs without looking at me.

  I look from the man to Jake, then back to the man. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to make a mistake.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere, bitch,” the intruder growls.

  Jake’s gun is pointed at the man, whose gun is alternating from pointing at me to pointing at Jake.

  “Sadie.” Jake’s tone tells me what I need to know and I know I have to do as he says.

  I inch towards Jake.

  “Stay there!” the intruder barks.

  I stop where I am, only three or four inches closer to Jake than I was. I can’t do this. My feet feel glued in place. A bead of sweat rolls from my hairline down my forehead and into my eye. The sweat stings, causing me to blink rapidly. I look to Jake, but he’s focused on the man in front of him.

  Jake takes a tentative step towards me. He’s testing the man.

  “Don’t move! I’ll shoot her!”

  The tension in the room is palpable yet Jake seems calm and confident. The man is becoming more and more nervous.

  “Jake, don’t,” I plead just above a whisper. My eyes dart back and forth between the men. Tears build in my eyes, goosebumps spreading across my skin. This isn’t going to end well. The intruder’s gun hand begins to tremble and he raises his other hand to stabilize himself. He’s edgy. “Jake,” I whisper, closing my eyes tightly, instinctively preparing for what’s to come. I can feel it all around me. I can feel something bad closing in on us. I’m scared. I’m so scared.

  Without warning, shots ring out. I’m not sure how many. I fall to the floor in a heap then roll to my stomach, immediately scrambling face down for safety. It’s a feeble effort on my part. The side of my head lands on the tile, hard, sending a sharp pain ricocheting through my skull. I’m immobile and utterly helpless. I can’t open my eyes no matter how hard I try. My lungs burn. I need to take a breath. My brain is screaming at me to breathe, but I can’t.

  Warmth covers my chest. It spreads down my ribs to my side. Immediately following the warmth is a cold that I’ve never felt. It’s a frigid type of cold that seems to emanate from the inside out. Confusion sets in and my train of thought is centered on Jake. I can’t hear him. I can’t see him.

  Without regard for anything else, I will my body to move and my eyes to open. A searing hot pain causes me to cry out as I force myself onto my side. With my temple pressed to the cool tile, my eyes widen, offering me the first glimpse of Jake. He’s only feet from me. The low light provides just enough for me to see. He’s lying on the floor facing me, a mirror image. Blood has covered his neck and chest. The rose red pool around him keeps growing, spilling life out with it. An unearthly shrill fills the space around us. A long moment passes before I realize that the unnatural noise is coming from me. It’s worse than a wounded animal. It’s what I imagine a dying person sounds like.

  My love. My sweet love. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

  Chapter One

  Stupid Ant

  Two years later

  April 16, 2013

  My cursor blinks rhythmically on the screen, causing me to blurt out a noise that comes out sounding like a sob and a sarcastic chuckle procreated and that’s what they spawned. Half snort, half whimper, but purely insane. I’ve been thinking that a lot lately.

  Insane Sadie. Insadie.

  It does have a ring to it. No doubt about that. My eyes leave the screen and peer out my living room window. I stare out as cars cruise idly down my street. My grass is freshly cut. My driveway is neatly edged. You’d think that someone who actually gives a damn lives here at 803 Chestnut Lane.

  Not so much. Not even close.

  Dad is to thank for the pristine yard. Mom is responsible for the freezer full of ready-made meals that require next to no effort to prepare. There’s a pink sticky note taped to the lid of each plastic dish saying the same thing.

  3 minutes on high in the microwave.

  Stir.

  2 more minutes.

  XO-Mom

  She’s taken the time to write the same damn thing on each note and instead of thinking about how lucky I am to have a mom who cares so damn much, I think that she’s wasted her time. Who writes the same thing on a sticky note at least 20, 30, hell, 40 times or so? I’m not a moron. She’s stocked me with enough food to take on a zombie apocalypse and I never eat any of it. It’s the Southern belle mentality. Food is love and Southern mamas love. A lot. It’s also the “whole starve a cold, feed a fever” approach, except in this situation, it’s more aptly, “engorge a widow.”

  Another half snort/half whimper escapes my throat and a part of me, somewhere inside, is disgusted that I am the way I am. I imagine the long lost version of myself, the one deep inside, behind bars, is shaking her head in condescension at the new me. You’d think that I’d be ashamed of my mental status these days, but I’m not. I’m fucking sick of life and I haven’t made a single effort at hiding it. I’m callous with just about everyone, including myself, but somehow…somehow I’m not inclined to be that way with him. I don’t know why and I kind of hate that I feel like playing favorites with this man, but who can blame me? On some level…I love him. I love him and hate him simultaneously. See?

  Insane.

  I read the first email I received from him one more time even though my impassive eyes have scanned the words so many times that I could probably recite what he’s typed.

  To: sadiesculpts@tellesage.com

  From: alexander.mcbride@tellesage.com

  Subject: Hi

  April, 16, 2013

  4:08 pm

  One week from now? Tuesday, April 23rd? 9am is a good time. There’s a breakfast place called The Red Rooster on Main. I’ll meet you there. I’ve included my cell phone number in case your plans change.

  Regards,

  Alexander McBride

  No apologies. No condolences. No sympathy or questions about how I’m dealing.

  I don’t know why, but something about the short and to the point theme of his email feels relatable. I’m the same way. I’ve been short and snappy with everyone since Jake. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t want to know why he seems so short, I do want to know. I know why I’m short and abrasive. Why is he?

  ***

  My fingers hover over the keys, unsure of what I want to say—what I should say.

  I’ve been thinking about it all day. All night too. I can’t seem to sleep at all. I can almost feel Jake around me tonight. It’s torture. His presence feels almost close enough that I imagine if I closed my eyes and reached out for him, my hands would find him on instinct alone.

  I wish I could touch him.

  To: alexander.mcbride@tellesage.com

  From: sadiesculpts@tellesage.com

  Subject: Meeting

  April, 17, 2013

  2:29 am

  Mr. McBride,

  Why do I get the impression that you are a massive dickhead?

  Another obnoxious hybrid laugh bubbles out of me and I bring my fingers to the mou
se on my laptop, shaking my head. I highlight then peck the delete button extra hard.

  Mr. McBride,

  That’s fine.

  -Sadie Parker

  I type my response, including my cell phone number, and then send the email that feels like it should say so much more. What it should say, I have no idea, but I feel like it should say more than it does. That could be in part because the emails I exchanged with Mrs. Hampton, the woman who received Jake’s kidneys, consisted of copious amounts of sympathy and encouraging words.

  It was more of the same with Terry Jones. His liver was shot for some reason or another. I never asked. I don’t need or want to know. He and Jake made a fine match and so that’s what happened. Jake died. He lived.

  While his wife, Ellen, was the one doing most of the emailing, they both sent their regards over and over. I know it’s the nice thing to do, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying for me.

  I’m sick of sympathy. I kind of wish someone would act like a dickhead even if only for the sake of breaking up the monotony. The last two years have become a sugar-coated sympathy fest with a compassion filling that has done nothing but leave me sick to my stomach.

  I’m a bitch. I know. I kind of wish someone would join me in the bitch-fest, though. Ditch the sympathy and take the low road like I did. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so goddamn lonely. Maybe then I could catch my breath. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so isolated.

  To: sadiesculpts@tellesage.com

  From: alexander.mcbride@tellesage.com

  Subject: It’s late

  April 17, 2013

  2:42 am

  Why are you awake?

  Regards,

  Alexander McBride

  I sit back in my bed and think about what I should say. I don’t know him. Why does he care that it’s late? I shake my head, exhaling a loud sigh.

  To: alexander.mcbride@tellesage.com