by Cathy Lamb
She laughed.
* * *
When Zack came I was sitting up in bed, my curls all fluffed up. I had even brushed my own teeth and put on more lipstick.
He stopped when he saw me and stared.
Zack has proven a hundred times over during this disaster that he is loyal to me, to us. When I could not move, he held my hand. When I could not see, I heard him crying beside me. When I could not talk, he talked to me anyhow. When all seemed hopeless, he retained hope. When the doctors told him my prognosis was poor and they should let me go, he refused to give in.
He may have a secret, but he is all man and I love him.
“Natalie,” he said, tears rushing into his eyes.
I pulled back the sheet. “I think I’m ready for a quickie. Take your clothes off.”
We laughed until we cried.
* * *
I later lied and told Zack I overheard the nurses talking about the Barbie incident and I knew why there was a guard at my door. I told him that it scared me to think of someone out to get me, especially since I did not have my gun under my hospital pillow.
He studied his clasped hands, and I saw different emotions cross his face. Fury. Fear. And . . . was it guilt? Yes. It was guilt.
“I’m sorry that happened, Natalie.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it was someone who used to work for you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
But he did. He knew.
“Zack?”
“What?”
“Do you know?” I watched him closely.
“I don’t.”
“Do you think the person who hit me with the van is the same person who sent the Barbie?”
“I don’t know, baby. Maybe.”
“What did you tell the police?”
I could tell he was angry at the questions, agitated. Too bad. I was angry, too—at whomever had rammed me with his van and nearly killed me and who had left me the Barbie present.
“I told them I didn’t know who did it, Natalie.”
He lied. Again.
* * *
I met Zack over six years ago on the Deschutes River where I was fly-fishing and camping for the weekend.
Zack was walking up the river in his green waders, dark glasses, and a fishing hat. We were dressed almost alike, except that I had a pink shirt on underneath my waders—why not be feminine while fishing?—and I was wearing my red baseball hat with a tractor on it. We were out in the middle of nowhere and he was a tall man and I was a woman alone, but my grandma had taught me how to fight and I had my fishing knife on me, so I wasn’t worried. Plus, no one had ever bothered me on the river. Fly-fishermen and women are a peaceful sort.
The sky was blue with a few lazy, white clouds casting shadows here and there on the smoothness of the water.
“Hello,” he called out, and waved. With his glasses, I couldn’t see much, but he had a nice smile, lines on either side of his mouth.
“Hi. How’s the fishing?”
“Two. You?”
“None yet. I live in hope.” The goal was always to catch and release steelhead. But being out on the river, at dusk, under the open sky, the sunset hovering like a painting, was what I wanted most. Being alone on the Deschutes is my Zen. Nature, for me, takes away some of the lurking loneliness I feel. I think when my mother left, a place in my soul gaped wide open and loneliness crept in. The Deschutes fills the hole for a while.
Plus, my continual crush of work as an accountant, the endless hours during tax season, had my nerves stressed out.
“Perfect day on the river,” I called out.
“Yes, it is. Much better than working.” He walked toward me, smiling.
“Where are you from?” I made another cast.
“Portland. You?”
“Same. I come out here for peace and quiet.” He was taller than I thought, both of us standing in the river as it veered around us. A hawk flew overhead, and a fish jumped down river.
“That’s why I’m here, too. I think I could live out here.” He smiled. Sexy smile.
“I could, too. A house overlooking the river would be awesome. You could fish out your back deck.” The sunrises would be incredible. “I could watch the water, the eagles, the bighorn sheep, the deer, the otters, and the osprey all day.”
“I think you have described my perfect life.”
I laughed. “Mine too.”
“I’m Zack Shelton.”
“Natalie Deschutes Fox. Named after this very river by my dad. I was in a backpack as a baby as he fished right here.”
“Smart man.”
We shook hands, then fished together in quiet, the golden sun dropping down behind the cliffs, the pinks and yellows and purples beginning their show, spreading across the horizon, turning the day off and the night on.
“Are you leaving tonight?” he asked.
“I’m staying until Sunday.”
“Me too. I have a camper down the road. I used to tent camp, but a few years ago I decided I was tired of getting soaked in the rain and having my tent fall on top of me when it was windy. Plus, twice I found rattlesnakes in my tent down here, and that was it.” He chuckled. He had a deep and low chuckle. “Now I feel a little spoiled, but when I have a real bed to sleep in and when it rains and I’m not wringing out a sleeping bag, I have to say I like it.”
“I’m still tenting. I have not had rattlesnakes in my tent, but I’ve had to shoot a few around it. I have to admit that a camper is sounding more and more appealing.” I cast again. Come on, fish, bite. “A camper with heat for the cold nights. And a refrigerator, maybe a hot tub, a chef who would come along . . .”
“Sounds like you need to sit down and design the perfect camper.”
“Do you think I could get it to pop out to about five hundred square feet? Then I could have a library in there, too, for my books.”
“I’d need an extra room for my fly-tying stuff.”
“I tie flies, too. A long table for fly tying would fit well.”
“And a big-screen TV for football games.”
“A big-screen TV while you’re out on the river? Seriously? Surely you can live without football for a few days?”
He thought about that. “What about a little big-screen TV?”
“No TV. But.” I pointed a finger skyward. “There should be a nice deck on top of the camper for a telescope to watch the stars.”
“And locate the planets . . . Yep. I’m on board.”
We fished through dusk together. We talked as if we’d known each other forever. We both liked fishing and hiking and had fished and hiked in many of the same places. We both liked books. I liked crosswords; he hadn’t tried them but vowed to do so. He liked architecture. He built houses, he told me. I liked numbers. I told him I was an accountant. We were surprised to find we’d both gone to the University of Oregon at the same time. He majored in construction engineering. He was also a licensed electrician.
He invited me for dinner at his camper. It was new, the type you haul. Full bed, table, a couch area. He made steaks over the campfire. He had brought salad with tomatoes and French bread.
“This is absolutely gourmet,” I said. “I brought hamburgers for both nights to cook over a campfire.”
“I love hamburgers on the river.”
I pulled out the apple pie I baked. “Would you like some? My grandma Dixie’s recipe.”
Oh, he did.
We talked and laughed, a lantern on, the stars above mini-lanterns. I told him I had grown up in eastern Oregon fishing and hunting. I asked him where he grew up and he paused, then said South Carolina.
“But no southern accent.”
He smiled. “No accent. I think I’ve been in Alaska and Oregon too long. Tell me more about living with all those animals and your dad.”
The campfire crackled as I told him about our horses, the lambs, the goats, the dogs, the cat. The pet pig, Mart
ha. We laughed and talked late into the night, the moon a bright white ball.
I told him about my work as an accountant. I told him I had always loved numbers because numbers never lied.
“Have you been lied to?”
“My mother had a few issues with lying.” More than a few.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“It’s the Deschutes.”
“Maybe.”
“Makes us all honest. Plus, it’s easier to talk to a stranger sometimes.”
“Yes. It is.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
“It’s okay. I love that British saying, ‘Into every life a little rain shall fall.’ It reminds me not to whine. What about you? Your childhood?”
“My childhood was . . .” His face darkened and he stared through the night at the river with his cool green eyes. “It was perfect and then it was a disaster. My parents were killed”—he stopped for a second, studied the dark river—“in a car accident when I was seventeen.”
“I’m so sorry. What a terrible tragedy.”
“It was. They were loving, kind people. My father built homes, my mother was a nurse.”
“What were their names?”
Again, he didn’t answer for long seconds, which was odd, but I thought maybe he was overcome with grief. “Randall and Cora Shelton.”
“What did you do after they died? Who did you live with?”
“I lived in our home. I was seventeen, and about this size. No one thought I needed protection. Our neighbors came by, our friends. I finished my senior year, played sports. I took out all my anger on the playing fields, on the basketball court. I tried to hide my grief and be strong. I worked in construction after high school for about a year, then I became a fisherman in Alaska for five years before coming down to Oregon and working in construction while I was in college. I’ve had my own construction company for nine years.”
I understood why he changed the subject away from his late parents, I could tell it was still painful for him. He talked about fishing in Alaska, the storms, the catches, working with the men. His fishing stories were both fascinating and frightening.
We sat and stared at the stars and had more apple pie, then he said, “Natalie, how about if you stay here in the camper tonight and I’ll sleep in your tent?”
“No, but thank you.” Very nice. Very sweet.
“I would feel better if you did. Then I won’t have to worry about you alone in a tent. It’s deserted out here, as you know.”
“I’m fine. I’ve been camping on the Deschutes by myself for a long time.”
“But you could have the camper, lock the door, be off the ground.”
“It’s a tempting offer, but I like my tent.”
I could tell he was worried.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine. I have a gun. A rattlesnake gun, I call it. But it’ll work.”
He walked me back to my tent and checked for rattlesnakes. I am quite capable of checking for rattlesnakes, but I liked him doing it. My tent was near the river, by a slope. He could not have brought his camper down here, even if I’d invited him to protect this damsel in distress.
“Here’s my phone number. Can you put it in your phone? Call me tonight if you need anything.”
As he walked away through the shadows, the Deschutes rolling by, I thought, Zack Shelton, I think I need you. His green eyes were with me all night long. They smiled at me.
* * *
Zack’s cell phone rang later that night. He looked at the caller ID. I saw it. It said Number Blocked. He gritted his teeth.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. It’s work.” He looked as if he wanted to kill someone.
“Is there a problem at work?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’m handling it. Hang on. I have to take this one.”
“Alrighty.” He gave me a kiss and left.
My brain is slow, but I know this: When I was in my coma Zack lied, and he’s lying now.
* * *
I was glad there was always a guard outside my door. Nothing like knowing someone is out to get you to set your nerves on fire.
Chapter 7
Detective Zadora and the head of security, Shea Zogg, came and saw me. I was in my room with only Dr. Doom, who had been informed of the meeting and was there to make sure that I was not medically or emotionally compromised, I supposed. They were kind, and gentle, but they asked me a lot of direct questions, including whether I knew about the Barbie that had been nearly decapitated by my bedside, and I said yes.
They showed me a photo. I assumed it was the same one they showed Zack. It was a picture of a heavy white guy, in scrubs, in a doctor’s coat, with glasses, head tilted to the side, away from the camera.
“Who is this person, Mrs. Shelton?” Detective Zadora asked me.
“I don’t know. I’ve been having nightmares, and he looks a little like the man in my nightmares, but I’ve never seen him before.”
You can’t remember the morning of the accident, right? You can’t remember what the driver of the van looked like? Did I know anyone who was angry at me? What about at work? An employee or ex-employee? A client? I couldn’t think of anyone. Was there a neighbor dispute? An ex-boyfriend from years ago? Anyone holding a grudge against me? What was my relationship with Zack like? Had he ever hit me? Was he abusive in any way? Did he swear at me? Did I feel threatened by him?
At first I was ticked at that line of questions, but I understood. It’s almost always the husband or the boyfriend who goes after the woman. I told them the truth: I loved Zack, we had a great marriage, he was an awesome husband.
Was I having an affair? I could be honest with them, they wouldn’t tell Zack. Was I being stalked? Was Zack having an affair?
No. We were not.
Did I know anyone who was angry at Zack? Who might want revenge on him and would hurt me to do it? Had he had any arguments with anyone? Tell us about his business, Natalie: Does he owe anyone a lot of money? Do you? Have there been bankruptcies? Failed business dealings? It went on and on.
I didn’t even know what to do. Should I tell them about the phone calls that I’d overheard when I was in the coma? Zack swearing at someone over the phone? I wanted to protect Zack. I loved him. I knew he would never hurt me. But anything I said could be twisted around with the police. They would see something there that shouldn’t be there. They would hold it against Zack. Zack might find out and believe that I thought he’d hurt me through someone else. “No,” I said. “I don’t know of anyone who is angry with him. No one.”
They were both incredibly bright, competent, experienced women. I don’t know if they believed me when I answered that question.
* * *
“I was awake during much of my coma.”
Dr. Tarasawa, Dr. Doom, and Dr. Hopeless stared at me, stunned.
I told them what I remembered, and the things they had said about me, and to me, when they thought I couldn’t hear. I was specific in my examples, naming them when I quoted what they said.
Dr. Tarasawa was leaning against a wall when I was done, looking quite pale. Dr. Doom had collapsed into a chair. Dr. Hopeless had pushed my legs aside—I don’t even think he realized he did it—and was sitting on my bed, holding his head.
They would do with the information what they needed to do to help patients in the future.
“We’ll want to talk to you more about this,” Dr. Tarasawa said. “Later.”
“I know. But don’t tell my family. I can’t stand the thought of them knowing. It’ll hurt them.”
They nodded.
* * *
It was time to move on.
I was going to the Traumatic Brain Injuries Unit for rehabilitation. I called it the Brain Bang Unit. I was told that I would not be there for long—four to six weeks. I did not want to go. I wanted to go home, but I knew I needed to go. I am a banged-up mess, that is for sure.
Inside the Brain Bang Unit were people like me who had had head injuries/comas/medical issues in the head. They were caused by accidents of all kinds, sports, crime, falls, etc. We were all at different levels. My brain is not moving right, my speech is slow, I have memory issues, I walk like a drunk penguin, but I am telling you, this could have been a heck of a lot worse. I had only to look around to see that I was lucky.
Some people were in wheelchairs and appeared to be barely functioning. Others were functioning and walking around but clearly confused. Some were being helped as they moved around. Some talked well, others didn’t.
There were two gyms for therapy with overhead lifts to help people move from wheelchairs to an exercise mat/bed, and a larger gym with a treadmill and some weights. There was a harness system to pull people up and down so they could stand and exercise. There were treatment areas and offices for doctors. There was a practice kitchen and a practice laundry area so people could relearn how to cook and do laundry, an activities room with art supplies and games and a piano, an inside gardening room with lots of plants and an outdoor garden, a lounge for visitors, and separate bedrooms for the patients.
Zack and I went to my bedroom, which was the expected hospital room with a bed with rails around it. This time I had a window, because I wasn’t in the ICU. The shower had bars in it to hold on to and a chair I could sit on while showering. My toilet had two handles that came down on either side. The toilet was a tad depressing because I knew I would need those bars because my balance is poor.
At the Brain Bang Unit I would meet with doctors and therapists, including speech, physical, recreational, cognitive, and occupational therapists. I would have a social worker and a neuropsychologist. I would have a full schedule, every day. I would get better. I had to.
I would try to remember the morning of my accident, because it was right there, at the tip of my mind, and I hated that I didn’t know my own reality.
I would have my guard with me for a couple of days, but he would leave after that. I was officially “anonymous,” in the hospital, a member of the security team told me. That meant that if someone called looking for me, they would be told I wasn’t there. There had been no other incidences. I would be fine. Right. Yes. Probably. I took a deep breath and told myself to be brave and buck up.