“My lung function tests were all right. I should be able to get enough oxygen for most things, but I might get short of breath now and then. I’m more worried about the surgery itself. I’ve never had surgery before.” Stephanie nibbled at her fingernails. “I’m scared.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? They said they’d bring in a bed.”
“Be with Anya. One of us should be tonight.”
Alex rose from the chair. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning.” He stooped to kiss her sweaty forehead. She whimpered, expelled a pained breath, and tears rolled down her cheeks. He folded his hands around hers. “No. Please, milaya. Don’t cry. You’ll be fine, and I’ll be waiting for you. Call me if you can’t sleep, all right? But please try to rest.”
“We get through one thing, and something else happens. When does it stop?”
“It stops now. Everything will be different now.”
“I want to come home,” she whispered.
Alex smoothed back her hair. “You never had to ask.” He laid their clutched hands over her heart and sang:
“‘My love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June
My love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my beautiful girl,
o deep in love am I
And I will love thee still, my dear,
’Til all the seas run dry.
’Til all the seas run dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee well, my only love,
And fare thee well a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Thou’ t’were ten thousand mile.’”
Stephanie tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “You always know exactly what I need.”
If only. “Try to sleep, baby.” He kissed the back of her hand, then walked to the door.
“Alex?”
He paused in the doorway.
“Thank you for everything.”
He smiled for real this time and tried for her sake not to fly apart like glass at high impact. Only once before had he ever felt so ineffective. He had no desire to return to that dark place, not with Stephanie and Anya depending on him. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
***
This was not how he ever wished to spend time alone with Anya.
Alex picked her up from the Whites. Already knowing sleep plotted to evade him that night, he heated a bottle for her and brewed a pot of tea. “Mama is going to be fine,” he told her, because the assurance spoken aloud convinced him more. She had to be. They had promised to be together forever.
He could not become a widower, a single father, at twenty-seven years old.
His phone rang, and he seriously contemplated smashing it to pieces with the nearest heavy object. Maybe if it wasn’t his only connection to Stephanie until he saw her in the morning.
“Hi, Ed.”
“Sasha. Catch you at a good time?”
“Not really. My wife is having major surgery tomorrow. I’m taking care of our daughter. And a good friend of mine died recently. ”
“Yeah, I know. You realize that going to her hotel was one of the dumbest things you could have possibly done, right? You’re making this harder on yourself.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. His arms and legs twitched, and he tapped his fingers on the kitchen counter to discharge some of the energy. “Ed, my wife and I were unofficially separated for about a month. I was not in the best frame of mind; I admit that. And now she has lung cancer, and…” He gulped air and wilted against the counter.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sasha. Really.”
“Spasibo,” he rasped. He thirsted for a drink so badly, though he’d emptied every bottle of alcohol down the sink last night.
“Anyway, the cops have interviewed everyone they could track down who was at the club that night and remember you being there. Everyone says the same thing—Katherine was sexually aggressive and left with you willingly.”
“We were both drunk. She couldn’t consent even if she did go willingly. That’s second-degree rape in this state, da?” Seven-year prison sentence. At least twenty additional years as a registered sex offender. Anya growing up believing her father was a criminal and a pervert. Justifiably amputated from her and Stephanie’s lives like a gangrenous limb.
“No way would a jury convict based on a complete lack of evidence. She claims there’s a rape kit? Not one hospital in the county has a record of her being there at any time within the week following the alleged incident. This isn’t even going to get to a grand jury, I assure you. They don’t have even circumstantial evidence. Nothing. You’ve settled down, started a family. She spent six months last year in a psych ward.”
“My defense is nothing but a character assassination.”
“Sasha, listen to me. Sixty percent of rapes are never even reported. Do you know why? Because this is what happens. The accuser becomes the bad guy, especially when a celebrity’s involved. Am I happy about that? No. But she’s not my client; you are. And my job is to prevent this case from ever going to trial.”
He heard Stephanie’s voice in his head, telling the entire viewing area and anyone who watched the episode online that no one would have believed her because of her father’s status. Shame that he was the reason she’d felt compelled to share her secret in the first place devastated him, and that hadn’t even been the worst of it. He blinked back tears. He would not become that man. He would not betray her, not to save his own skin.
“She can’t even file a civil suit against you—the statute of limitations for assault expired a year ago.”
“So what do we do now?”
“You keep cooperating with the investigation, but you make no public statements. She wants the attention, Sasha. Don’t give it to her.”
“Can’t we do a financial settlement and make her go away?” It had worked with Courtney. Alex tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could test Anya’s bottle. Perfect. He angled her in one arm and nudged her lips with the rubber nipple.
“She’s going away no matter what. It’s just a matter of time. So be patient, all right? No media statements; just cooperate with the investigation and keep living your life.”
“All right. Thank you, Ed.” Alex leaned over the counter and let the phone tumble onto it.
Anya had emptied her bottle. He rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher, then carried her into the great room and sat on the couch with her against his chest, her chin on his shoulder. Supporting her with one hand, he rubbed her back with gentle strokes until she issued a tiny burp.
“Good girl. Time for a bath and bed.”
In the en suite, Alex gathered the bottle of baby bubble bath, a washcloth, and a plastic cup, and laid out a towel, a clean diaper, and a sleeper. He filled the tub with about three inches of warm water, then undressed a squalling, thrashing Anya. She did not love bath time the way her mother did.
“Shh. I know Mama usually does this, and we both miss her. She’ll be home soon, moy angel.” Alex lowered her into the tub feet first, using one hand to brace her neck and head. He poured cupfuls of water over her to prevent her getting cold, and washed her scalp. After rinsing soap from the cloth, he gently cleaned her eyes and face, dabbing the dried mucus in her nostrils to soften it before removal.
She quieted a little, contented by the soap’s tangerine scent, and bestowed on him her precious, toothless grin. He pursed his lips, bit them, battling to keep the tears at bay. “Mama’s going to be okay,” he whispered. Alex rinsed her thoroughly and wiped her with a clean washcloth. Then he lifted her from the tub with one hand propping her neck and head and the other her bottom, wrapping his fingers around one slippery thigh. He swaddled her in a towel and patted her dry. A fresh diaper, into the sleeper, and a kiss on
her lightly fragranced head.
Alex moved her bassinet into the master, for his solace as much as Anya’s, and placed her in it. “Good night, baby girl.” He kissed each plump cheek. She had already fallen asleep.
He never did.
***
Stephanie
A nurse escorted Stephanie to the Pre-Anesthesia Unit. She had given Alex her rings and necklace for safekeeping. More paperwork to sign, then the nurse took her temperature, blood pressure, and pulse, and reviewed her medications.
“All right, Stephanie, we’re going to insert the IV now. You may feel a little pinch.”
Compared to what she’d already endured, and what was coming next, the IV didn’t scare her. She barely noticed the needle sliding into her arm.
The anesthesia provider arrived next to examine her and check her medical and anesthesia history. She tried to ignore the significance of Alex’s posture, the curled shoulders and concave chest, the tightly clasped knees. The paling face. He’d been through all this, except he’d been unconscious already. Lucky him.
“We’ll be giving you general anesthesia,” the provider said, “which is injected in your IV. We’ll also give you a mixture of gases with oxygen to breathe. You won’t be aware of anything happening during the operation. We’ll place a breathing tube into your windpipe to help you breathe during your surgery, which may cause some soreness in your throat afterward. Do you have any questions?”
“No.” Her throat, however, ached at the thought of the tube.
Now her surgeon’s turn to ask if she had any questions. Only one: Can I leave? She shook her head. Her mouth tasted sour.
The surgeon asked her to turn over so he could mark her surgical site, then left to prepare in the operating room. The nurse reviewed her information one more time before instructing her to slide onto the stretcher.
She gazed up at Alex, who was squeezing her hand. His fingers were cold and trembling. “I don’t want this to be the last time I see you,” she whispered.
“It won’t be. They’re taking good care of you, and I’ll be waiting. I love you.” He kissed her forehead, her lips.
“I don’t want to let go.” She let out a soft whimper. Tears spilled into her hairline. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Shh. You’re the bravest person I know. It’ll be over before you know it.” Alex smoothed her hair back, his eyes shining. “Please, baby. Don’t cry.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Never.” He kissed her hands. “See you this afternoon.”
They wheeled her away.
The surgical team members, dressed in identical gowns and with masks on, moved about the brightly lit room. The nurse helped Stephanie shift from the stretcher onto the hard, cold operating table, removed her gown, and instructed her to lie on her left side. She placed a safety strap across Stephanie’s thighs, then secured her arms on padded arm boards. Warm blankets draped her legs, but her breasts were hanging out, her nipples so taut in the room’s frigidity they hurt.
The team asked the same questions as those in Pre-Anesthesia. She couldn’t go under soon enough if it meant never having to answer them again. The anesthesiologist attached a blood pressure cuff, sticky pads with little nubs on the end he explained as ECG leads, and a plastic clip attached to her fingertip to measure the amount of oxygen in her blood during surgery. He affixed a mask to her face.
“Breathe deeply, Stephanie. That’s it. I know you’re nervous, so we’re going to give you something to help you relax, okay? We’ll inject it into your IV.”
She nodded. She could use all the help she could get.
The IV site tightened and burned a little. Was that normal?
Someone was washing their hands. “Stephanie, we’re going to prep your skin now. This will feel a little cold.” Beginning at the incision site, the nurse sponged a chilly solution onto her back in widening circles. This dragged on for at least five minutes, and she was starting to doubt the efficacy of the drug they’d claimed would calm her.
“We’re going to deliver the anesthesia now. Ready, Stephanie?”
She didn’t have much choice, did she? She couldn’t very well get up and walk buck naked out of the operating room. As much as Alex might enjoy that show.
She offered her muffled assent through the mask. And in another moment or two, there was only darkness.
***
Alex
Alex hesitated outside Stephanie’s room, one hand on the door handle. They hadn’t allowed him to see her during her three-hour recovery in ICU; now that he could, he was ashamed to admit how it frightened him. The surgeon had informed him the operation had gone well, but he did not have context for “well.” When the doctor had told Stephanie the same thing after his injury, what did she assume it meant? “Well” simply because he was alive, never mind the loss of his career? His mind?
Part of her lung was gone. She might always be a little short of breath now, might not be able to play hockey anymore either. How perfect for each other, and there was nothing “well” about it. He’d wanted to become more like her, not the other way around.
He opened the door, and the cheap tape and bits of string holding him together began to break apart. She was so pale. Sick-pale. Death-pale. A plastic tube jutted from the right side of her chest, where her gown dipped below her shoulder, sutured there and connected to a machine that suctioned air and drainage.
Stephanie blinked several times, glanced around, then looked at Alex and smiled. He had ordered more flowers sent to the room, which was bursting with them. He resisted the urge to examine the name on each card and see if Brandon’s was among them. Then sneak them out while she slept and hurl them into a Dumpster.
“You’ve been crying,” she croaked. “Either I’m dying, or I look like I am.”
He laughed and kissed her forehead before sinking into the visitor’s chair, hands clasped between his knees. “You’re fine. They’ll try to get you moving this afternoon to prevent blood clots in your legs.”
“Ugh. I already feel like I’ve been run over. And this thing in my chest…”
“Can I get you anything?” he blurted, wanting to pretend the thing in her chest wasn’t there. To pretend his wife had not been sliced open in a bid to save her life.
“Not right now. I’m a little nauseated. When do you talk to the police again?” Her nose wrinkled when she said “police.” He didn’t blame her for finding them less than savory after what her father had done.
“Tomorrow morning. But I’ll be here right after. I just wish I could remember that night. There’s no evidence, but my history isn’t helping me.”
“Alex, did it ever occur to you that maybe she slipped you something?”
He felt the blood drain from his face. “Why would she do that?” Is she saying what I think she is? He could not begin to wrap his mind around the concept. It didn’t happen to people like him.
“Get you to take her home with you? Everyone says you weren’t interested in her.”
Then, at some point, her illness takes over. She sees me in the news for one thing or another and wants the attention. She decides I raped her.
He popped up from the chair. “I need to call my attorney. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
“Yes. Go.” She flicked her hand.
“You’re brilliant, you know.” He pecked her cheek, then darted into the hall, phone in hand as he strode toward the lobby.
***
Sometime between leaving the hospital and arriving at the police station the next morning, shame that he had allowed a woman to take advantage of him—him, of all people—devastated him. He sat in the Mercedes in the parking lot, pummeling his fists against his thighs to release the fury. Then he hunched over the wheel, unsteady, the world outside too loud, too busy. Too many condemnatory glares cast at him. If he hadn’t lost any fans, he had made many new enemies.
Revealing Stephanie’s theory to Ed had burned with ac
id intensity in his mouth. How could he tell the cops his accuser might have drugged him? They’d never believe him, and why should they? His reputation spoke for him. It was the dumbest story he’d ever heard, except he’d never experienced total memory loss, no matter how much alcohol he’d drunk or how many drugs he’d taken.
Alex dragged himself from the car and into the station, his knees weak and his palms slick with sweat. He felt small enough to tumble through the gaps between atoms and wink out of existence altogether.
He had the distinct impression Lane liked him less than before; even walking toward him from the hallway, animosity emanated from the detective like summer heat from asphalt. Lane ushered him into the interrogation room, where Alex broke into a panic-inducing bout of tachycardia, his heartbeat so loud it all but drowned out the investigator.
“You’re always nervous in here, Aleksandr.”
“I have anxiety. This room…”
Lane jotted notes on his legal pad. Was that a crime now, to be nervous? Cops didn’t care about anxiety or bipolar disorder. They dealt in absolutes, in things they could see and quantify. To a cop, a panic attack suggested guilt. “What brings you in today, Aleksandr?”
“I have some important information. My wife thinks…” He cleared his throat. Perspiration beaded along his hairline.
“You all right, Aleksandr?”
“I’m embarrassed, honestly.”
“About what?”
“She thinks that maybe Ms. Miller drugged me.”
“I see.” The detective scraped his chair on the tile floor as he inched forward, the noise knives in Alex’s ears. “I’ve spoken to your wife. She’s a firecracker, huh?”
It was the first thing other than Anya to make him smile that morning. “She’s something.”
“So, why do you think your accuser would do that? Do you believe she assaulted you?”
The predicted incredulity. “I don’t know. I used to, uh, sleep around a lot. And I’ve done my share of drugs. She probably assumed no one would believe it.”
What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2) Page 16