Borrowed Time

by Edie Claire

  "No, don’t!" she shouted, her voice rattling her skull with pain.

  He stopped and looked at her curiously, then picked up the last envelope and added it to the pile. "It’s all right," he answered, making an obvious effort not to look at what was in his hands. "I’ll just put it inside for you."

  She couldn’t seem to breathe. He was in and out of her house within seconds, and when he reached her he paused only to lay down her purse before heading back across the cul-de-sac. "I need to grab a shirt and my keys," he explained as he moved. "Please, just wait there. Don’t try to get up again."

  She sat and watched helplessly as he sprinted to his own front door, then disappeared inside.

  Her limbs began to tremble.

  ***

  The triage nurse pulled the bloody towel away from Sarah’s head. Her lips pursed, and she studied Sarah’s scalp with narrowed eyes. "Yes, you’ll definitely need to have that stapled." She replaced the towel with a sterile pad and put her hand back into position over the wound. "How did it happen?"

  The question shouldn’t have caught Sarah off guard, but it did. The ride to the hospital had been nerve wracking, and she was still out of sorts. Her neighbor had insisted on helping her out of the car and into the building, and it was all she could do to convince him to let her approach the desk on her own. She had thanked him and told him to go home, assuming that once he was gone, her sense of being safely in control would return. But her limbs were still shaking.

  "I’m not sure," she answered. "I was outside, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground."

  The nurse, a plain, competent-looking woman in her forties, eyed Sarah skeptically. "You passed out?"

  Sarah took a deep breath, trying not to be affected by the predominance of the color white. The smell. The steady drone of distant voices, the intangible aura of fear. She had not set foot in a hospital in nine years. She had forgotten.

  She wanted to forget.

  "I’m not sure what happened," she repeated. "I’ve never passed out before, and I felt fine at the time. I think I probably tripped over something, but if I did, I don’t remember it."

  The nurse studied her with a practiced eye. "Did you eat breakfast this morning?"

  "I ate the same thing I always eat."

  "Were you changing position, like rising from a chair?"

  "Just walking up some steps."

  "Did you have any idea it was coming? Feel funny in any way?"

  Sarah shook her head, but regretted the motion. Her skull throbbed.

  "Is there any history of loss of consciousness in your family?" the nurse asked, moving to scribble something on a chart. "Anyone with seizures?"

  Seizures. The images erupted in Sarah’s mind as sharp as the day they were real. Walking close to her sister’s stretcher as it approached the double doors of the ER, the paramedics bouncing its rubber wheels over the threshold. Bump. Bump. Dee’s eyes opening, then rolling back in her head. Her spine contorting, her arms and legs jerking. Every muscle of her body in spasm.

  "No," Sarah answered, nauseous again. "There’s no epilepsy in the family."

  Just one antidepressant overdose.

  "Did you wet your underwear when you fell?" the nurse continued. "Bite your tongue?"

  "No," Sarah whispered, her voice cracking.

  The nurse offered an appraising stare. "Did anyone else see what happened?"

  Sarah started to answer, but the response stuck in her throat. She did not want the man across the cul-de-sac any further involved in her affairs. "A neighbor," she said offhandedly. "He drove me in, but I’m sure he’s gone now."

  The nurse’s eyebrows rose. "And what was his name?"

  She hesitated, wondering how she could have neglected to glean that particular information. "I don’t know," she explained, trying not to sound as sheepish as she felt. "I only moved into the neighborhood a few days ago."

  The nurse appeared dubious. "You don’t know his name?"

  Sarah's heart beat faster. "No."

  The nurse’s brow creased with concentration. Her eyes bore into Sarah’s. "You need to be honest with us, Sarah. If you’re afraid of someone, we can help get you to someplace safe. Just tell us the truth. Did someone hurt you?"

  She flushed with alarm. The last thing she needed after acting such a fool was to have her neighbor harassed for his kindness. "No!" she protested. "I don’t even know the man. He was mowing his lawn. He said I collapsed and fell. He brought me here, and he left. Could we just leave him out of this? Please?"

  The other woman’s face blurred before her eyes.

  "Take it easy, Sarah," the nurse said calmly. "We’re going to go ahead and move you to a room now. Then you can lie down for a minute."

  We're going to move your sister to the ICU now, a man in blue scrubs had said. You can see her as soon as she’s stable.

  Dee had never gotten stable.

  "You need to relax," the nurse continued. "You’ve lost a lot of blood. It’s normal to feel light-headed. The doctor will be in to see you shortly, and they’ll give you something for the pain."

  Yes, we’ll give her something for the seizures. Just take it easy, honey. Hang in there. We’ll do everything we can for her. I promise.

  Sarah dropped her aching head into her hands. She didn’t want to remember. She couldn’t bear to feel that horrible pain—again. She missed her sister. Missed her so damned much. Still.

  In spite of everything.

  Chapter 3

  Sarah crossed her wrists and rubbed her upper arms. The treatment room was freezing. The circumstances of such a visit would make her anxious no matter what she was wearing, but the skimpy hospital gown ensured that she felt both cold and vulnerable as well.

  Three excruciatingly long hours had passed. She had been alternately poked, prodded, and ignored. Her head wound had been closed with six staples. A phlebotomist had drawn four vials of blood. She had been hooked up to an EKG machine. She had waited interminably to be slid into a CT scanner like a sardine. She had been offered juice and some crackers. She had tried to keep her mind on the present.

  The nausea had subsided, and her skull had ceased to throb after the first dose of painkiller. But her mind was still uneasy.

  The doctor who examined her had at once declared that her injuries were caused by a fall, with the brunt of her weight landing on her hip and her head striking something hard—evidently the corner of a concrete step. Her assertion that she must have tripped over something seemed no more plausible to him than it had to the nurse, and despite her denial of any foul play, she could tell he was not convinced. Only after returning from a long and unexplained absence did he inform her that there was no doubt she had suffered a loss of consciousness, and that because her history held no obvious explanation, a complete work-up would be necessary.

  Now at last, all the ordered tests had been completed. She waited only for the doctor’s final visit and, hopefully, her discharge. She eyed the plastic bag that contained her clothes, her frustration warring with her better judgment. She wanted to get dressed; she wanted to leave. Had she been convinced that the tests were unnecessary, she might have. But despite the doctor’s comforting words, the intensity of his gaze had disturbed her. She got the feeling he was looking for something specific. She wanted to know if he had found it.

  She stared at the faded clusters of star shapes on her gown, mentally outlining where the pattern repeated. There was little else to look at. Hospital gowns are like the emperor’s new clothes, one of her favorite elderly patrons had told her. They only give you the illusion you aren’t naked.

  Her lips drew into a smile, but the emotion she felt was bittersweet. Less than a week, and already she missed them. The large-print crowd at the Johnson County Library could always make her laugh. Leaving Kansas City had been difficult, but she was determined that if her past was going to catch up with her, it should happen among strangers. Pittsburgh’s Eastern Allegheny Regional Library was vast and well-fun
ded, and in her field, not many women were offered upper management positions at the age of twenty-six. No one had questioned her motives in moving.

  The air conditioner switched on, and her smile faded as an arctic blast swept down her back. Swearing under her breath, she slid off the bed, collected another gown, and put her arms into it like a coat. Then she hopped back up and huddled. Not much longer, she assured herself. Then she could go home.

  You might as well go home now.

  A fresh crop of goose bumps arose. She could recall the other doctor’s every word, even after nine years. He had been thin, African-American, and young. Perhaps a resident. She could see the sadness in his eyes; sense his helplessness. I’m sorry. But there’s nothing more we can do.

  She closed her eyes. It was no use. No amount of mental distraction could keep the sights and sounds of the hospital from taking her back. She didn’t want to relive the day that Dee had died—she didn’t even want to recall their last few, cheerless years together. Her only comfort came in remembering her sister as a child, as she had been before the trouble started. Frizzy-haired and mischievous. Wacky, imaginative, fun.

  That was her Dee. The sister she had loved.

  A knock on the windowed wall interrupted her reverie. She looked up, and her eyes widened. It was the man from across the cul-de-sac.

  "Hello," he greeted, opening the door and popping his head through. "Care for some company?"

  Her pulse pounded. She couldn’t believe he was standing there. No matter how helpful he had been, he had no business coming into her exam room, particularly when she was half dressed. She had a sudden desire to dive behind the bed like a child, to scream at him to go away. But as the significance of his presence dawned on her, she became mortified on a new front. "Please tell me you haven’t been sitting in the waiting room all this time," she asked, her voice tight.

  He slipped on into the room, but remained by the door. "I haven’t been sitting in the waiting room all this time," he answered, offering a smile that was warm, yet somehow sly.

  Her heart continued to pound. "You went home?" she asked hopefully. She was certain her discomfort was obvious, but if he sensed it, it had no effect on him.

  "No," he responded lightly, still smiling. "I’ve been visiting other patients. But I checked in now and then to see when they might spring you. They tell me it should be soon."

  Her limbs began to quiver again. Rationally she knew the man intended no harm, but she didn’t want him near her, regardless. His appearance was too disquieting. He had put on a clean shirt, but he was wearing the same cutoffs and sneakers in which he had mowed his lawn. Tiny bits of cut grass still clung to the hair on his calves, and he was so tanned that not even the incandescent lights overhead—which gave her own skin the pallor of a corpse—could sap his vim. He seemed so out of place in the tense, sterile setting of the ER that his presence was like a mockery.

  "So, what was the verdict?" he asked, his voice cheerful. "Did they figure out why you passed out, or do they still think you were assaulted by a diabolical neighbor?"

  Her stomach twisted. His tone was teasing, and there was a twinkle in his eye, but her horror at his allusion was not assuaged. She remembered the doctor’s long absence earlier, and drew in a ragged breath. "What did they say to you?"

  His smile only widened. "Don’t worry about me. I know people. It was my fault for not introducing myself." He stood up straight and stepped over to her, hand extended. "My name is Adam. Adam Carmassi."

  She felt obliged to stretch out her arm, but no amount of willpower could keep it steady. Her hand was cold as ice.

  They shook.

  His own hand was warm; his grip, firm. "Sorry I didn’t say so earlier," he continued, stepping back again, "but the blood gushing out of your head had me a little rattled. You’re lucky I didn’t pass out myself."

  Her eyebrows rose. Comfortable with gushing blood or no, she did not believe men like him passed out. Then again, she never thought she would have, either. "You seemed perfectly calm and collected to me."

  He grinned. He had a nice smile, and she could see why he might indeed "know people." The masculine features that evoked anxiety in her were the same sort that made other women’s heads turn. His frame was solid and muscular. His jet-black hair was wild and unruly, and his high cheekbones and square jaw line were accented by a perpetual shadow of stubble. But most striking were his eyes. Deep brown and thickly lashed, they exuded a fetching mixture of intelligence and verve, and she found her attention drawn to them involuntarily, even as the rest of his appearance disturbed her.

  "I appreciate your bringing me here," she reiterated, attempting to put some authority in her voice as she shooed him. "But you really don’t have to stick around. I’m fine now. Go home and finish that lawn."

  "Sorry," he quipped. "Carmassi ER Transport is a comprehensive service. The ride home is part of the package."

  She tensed further. As much as she would like to chalk up his actions to neighborliness, spending three hours in a hospital on a Saturday for the sake of a stranger had to cross the line. She would be a fool to think he didn’t want something.

  She flushed. Then she shivered again.

  Resisting the urge to rub her arms, she bucked up her voice with a bravado she didn’t feel. "I think," she insisted, "that Carmassi ER Transport needs to reallocate its resources to Carmassi Landscaping, before the latter gets a reputation for walking off the job. Don’t worry about me. I already called a friend to pick me up. She’s on her way now."

  "All right then," he responded. "If you’re sure you don’t need anything."

  She let out her breath out with a whoosh. "I don’t. And I won’t," she assured, perhaps too adamantly.

  His eyes held hers, as if he could see right through her. She turned away. Her relief at his leaving had to be obvious. If her suspicions of his motives were also, he would surely take offense. Few men appreciated being shot down romantically before expressing an interest, and she had no idea whether Adam was even single. She never apologized for being straightforward with her own intentions, but she didn’t want to be rude either, particularly when he had been so helpful.

  "Thank you again," she said more politely. "I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around the neighborhood. I owe you some donuts or something."

  He turned and opened the door. He didn’t seem offended. But in his face she perceived the same emotion she had seen when looking up at him from the ground. He seemed worried.

  "You don’t owe me anything," he answered.

  ***

  Sarah picked up her comb and gritted her teeth, knowing that even if her head wasn’t throbbing, combing the hair around her wound would be painful. But she vowed not to complain. At least she was home. After her discharge from the ER she had greeted her house’s already comfortably familiar interior with a rush of relief, locked the door behind her, and headed straight for the shower. Her hair was now free of blood. But the stain on her psyche persisted.

  The news she had waited for was mixed. All her test results had been normal. Her blood sugar was fine, her heart had its electrical act together, and there was nothing in her skull that shouldn’t be. But while she was happy to know what hadn’t caused her to pass out, she could not stop wondering what had. The doctor had suggested that her loss of consciousness was a fluke related to stress, but he had no idea how preposterous that theory was. If stress alone could make her faint, she would have spent most of the last decade unconscious. One formal letter from Sherman and Sylvester was nothing, and neither was a senseless episode of fear over a man. Those things were mere nuisances.

  She grasped her hair near the roots, hoping to blunt the pull of the comb, but its first tug brought a stab of pain so sharp her knees weakened. Realizing she was due for another painkiller, she headed for the kitchen and extracted the plastic prescription bottle from her purse. She had just swallowed the pill when her eyes alighted on the mail.

  The small stack lay on her kitche
n counter. The phone bill was on top. Her heart skipped as she extended a finger and nudged it. The letter from Sherman and Sylvester lay underneath, its return address still intact, despite her indiscriminate ripping.

  Heat flared in her cheeks. Adam Carmassi had seen the envelope. Whether or not he had paid attention to it, she didn’t know, but the invasion of privacy still rankled. His barging into her hospital room had been awkward, but no one knew about her business in Alabama. No one. As up front as she always tried to be about the fact that her parents had died young, she never told people that she still owned the family estate—much less how hard she had been fighting to keep it.

  She picked up the letter and turned it in her hands. Adam couldn’t have read it. He hadn’t had time. And why would he want to? People got mail from lawyers all the time. Most of it was uninteresting. She was being paranoid.

  She stepped to the trash can and tossed the letter in.

  We strongly recommend that you remove any personal belongings from the house and grounds immediately. The lawyer’s words tormented her as she watched the paper flutter onto the remnants of her breakfast. A pit of heaviness settled in her stomach.

  This would be her last chance. Only a few days remained. A part of her did want to go back, to see what was left, to make sure she had taken everything with any kind of sentimental value. But another part of her knew better.

  "I can’t," she mumbled, whirling around. "I just can’t." She moved quickly to the middle of her living room, as if putting physical distance between herself and the letter would relieve her guilt. It didn’t. Her eyes drifted to the framed picture of her parents that sat on her bookshelf, and her mother’s light-blue eyes reprimanded her even as the smile, and the melodic voice Sarah remembered, were soft. You didn’t leave the quilts, did you, Sarah? You know how hard your great-grandmother worked on them, and the Texas Star won a blue ribbon once...