Christian had been running his arm across his nose. He froze, staring at her, then at his shirtsleeve—horrified.
“Promise me you won’t sacrifice your happiness for something as cheap as acceptance,” she begged as he backtracked to the refrigerator. “Find your courage, Christian. To hell with everyone else.”
He nodded, though not sure why, and reached for the refrigerator door. At first, he thought the sigh was simply air decompressing as he opened it, but the sound came from behind him. He turned in time to hear Annie say, “Christian?” She stared at some blood on her hands while a steady stream of red ran over her lips and down her chin and neck to bloom across the cotton appliqué of her bodice.
He stormed across the room as her eyes rolled into the back of her head, but he was one step too slow. Her head bounced off the counter ledge with a sickening crack just as he wrapped his arms around her to break the fall. She collapsed into his lap, even as he fished his phone from his pocket, dialing. “I n-n-nuh—” He hit the back of his head against the counter. “Need!” He gulped air and continued.“An amambullullul—”
Precious time was being lost as he tried to communicate with emergency services. He became frantic, sobbing into the phone.
And by the time the operator could successfully repeat the address and dispatch a vehicle, several more minutes had been lost. He hurled the phone aside and, gathering Annie against his chest, started rocking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried, over and over again.
While Christian streaked recklessly down Dolores Street in Annie’s Mercedes,following the ambulance,Edmond leaned over her picket fence to stare at a cabin in the distance. A warm breeze ruffled his hair. He glanced up. A crow circled overhead before descending to perch on the letter box—its eyes turned to him, button-black and impervious. It cawed, the sound eerie and mournful.
“Quite a day, huh?” Edmond said, not that he expected much conversation in return.
Indeed, the crow was unmoved by his question, and Edmond was reminded of his first conversation with Christian. Christian, the crow…who became an eagle that said, “Be careful.”
Be careful.
Unlatching the gate, he trekked through the field—the rippling wheat making the sound of a broom sweeping sand as it slapped against his legs. Or perhaps a sigh. Regardless, with each step he took, the wheat whispered, “Be careful.”
“Be careful of what?” he demanded, throwing his hands in the air. Was this about Christian? There were things Edmond had yet to say to him, because he didn’t know how, but that was a poor excuse and a dangerous game to play. Regardless, it was his choice, and the wheat field could go stuff itself, he decided. “Busybody!” he yelled.
The only response was a distant caw. He looked up to see the crow spiraling overhead. Then he looked to his destination. As in his dream, Edmond’s depth perception was on the fritz, and the cabin appeared to loom larger, rather than closer, as he approached.
The spell broke when he crossed in front of the barn and heard a wet whimper. A dog appeared from around the corner and let out a bark. “Hey, big fella.” Edmond squatted down as the dog trotted up to sniff him. Its tail started to wag as it put both front paws on his shoulders. “Okay, okay, that’s nice,” he said as it licked his face. Standing up, Edmond wiped his sleeve across his cheek and stared at the cabin.
The dog jumped back, barking excitedly, then loped to the porch. It looked toward the closed door, then back at Edmond, and began to whine as it scratched at the door frame.
Edmond dusted off his pants, stepped onto the porch, and opened the door. A wisp of a woman sat motionless in a wooden rocker on the far side of the room, her arms and legs bound.
Looking at Edmond with rheumy eyes, she said defiantly, “Alone again, Mr. Culler?”
“Mr. Culler?” responded Edmond, uncertain whether to move. “Oh no. No! I’m not Mr. Culler.”
Elsbeth strained to focus on her visitor, but the sun shining behind him left little more than a silhouette. She heard a familiar bark, recognizing Bounder circling his legs, and relaxed. Bounder had good instincts. “Well, don’t just stand there. Either shoot me dead or untie me, for heaven’s sake!” she said, grumbling as Edmond leaped into motion. “And don’t step on my spectacles!”
The words brought Edmond skidding to a stop. He spotted her glasses on the floor by the cabin wall. Cleaning them with the tail of his T-shirt, he placed them across Elsbeth’s nose.
She looked him up and down. There was something fundamentally different about this one, though she couldn’t put a finger on it. An impossible notion entered her mind, but all she said was, “You aren’t from these parts.”
Chuckling at the understatement, Edmond agreed.“No, ma’am, I’m not.” He began to untie her arms as Bounder made a nuisance of herself, trying to crawl into Elsbeth’s lap. He said, “My name is Edmond Marden,” before dropping a bomb. “Annie sent me.”
Elsbeth stiffened. “Annie?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Is she safe?”
He nodded. “But she’s a little shaken up. Christian’s taking her to a doctor.”
Elsbeth patted Edmond on the arm with the hand he’d just freed. Then, in an apparent effort to reassert her gruff exterior, she adjusted her spectacles and cleared her throat. After a pause, she opened her mouth, but Edmond anticipated her next question.
“A nasty gash on her hand that will need stitches,” he said as he unbound her legs. “Other than that, a few bruises. She went through quite an ordeal, but she should be fine. It’s you I’m worried about,” he said, glancing at her cheek.
The blood had started to pump back into Elsbeth’s hands, causing a dull ache. She rubbed her wrists, saying, “What of Mr. Culler?”
Edmond shrugged. “Annie did something,” he said. “Don’t know what.” He freed her legs, then examined the side of her face. “That doesn’t look so good.”
Elsbeth wagged her hand, dismissing his concern. When he straightened up to cross his arms, she gave him her best schoolmarm stare, the one that had a 100 percent success rate in quelling mutiny among her students. He merely rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” she groused. “There’s some willow bark in the cupboard above the stove. Stir a teaspoon or so in a cup of water.”
Edmond combed through the cupboard and pulled out a tin of white powder. He held it up to Elsbeth. When she nodded, he poured a small amount in a tin cup, added water, and stirred. “Bottoms up,” he said, handing it to her.
Shaking her head, Elsbeth mumbled something about being treated like a child, but she knew when she’d met her match. She downed the tea, peevishly holding the empty cup out for Edmond’s inspection.
“Where would you like me to begin?” Edmond said, satisfied.
“Did Mr. Culler—” Elsbeth broke off midsentence at the soft rapping that came from the front door.
“Are you expecting company?” Edmond asked.
“Expecting company? Me?” Elsbeth stood and made her way to the table, grousing. “No, I’m not expecting company,” she said. “Indeed, I’ve had more company this day than in years. Most of it unwelcome.”
Edmond grinned as she hobbled across the floor. She seemed to have recovered quite nicely. The rap on the door became more insistent, and Edmond, looking for a weapon, grabbed a broom.
“What are you going to do? Sweep them into submission?” Elsbeth asked. “Put that down before you get yourself hurt.” She was a step ahead of him anyway, having grabbed her shotgun and loaded it with a pair of shells. “I’m getting entirely too much use out of this thing today,” she muttered. She stepped past him and made her way to the door. Cracking it a bit, she slid the barrel through the opening. “State your business and make it snappy!”
“Madam! I apologize for the intrusion, but I assure you I mean no harm.”
Edmond’s head jerked when he heard the voice. He reached over and slowly lowered Elsbeth’s rifle. Then, to her surprise, he pushed the d
oor wide open and yelled, “Nathaniel!”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Out of Options
Four hundred sixty-six. Four hundred sixty-seven. Christian wasn’t sure when he started counting the droplets of saline solution as they fell from the IV bag into the line inserted in Annie’s hand, but it kept him from focusing on the pallor in her face.
Four hundred sixty-eight.
Her vein had collapsed after the nurse’s first few attempts to insert the needle into her forearm, so there was now a butterfly needle in the back of her hand, as well as an ugly bruise radiating out from the insertion point.
Four hundred sixty-nine.
Christian leaned back in the chair, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. He ran his palm over a day’s growth on his chin, then pulled at his cheeks before leaning forward to rest his elbows atop his knees. She looked so frail in her hospital gown— her joints so pronounced, like a little girl— and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed before.
What kind of a friend misses something like that? Annie had always seemed so substantial in her mounds of crinoline and sateen, he thought defensively. A better friend would… His mind emptied. What would a better friend do? That he even had to ask himself the question implied that he’d failed as one. Annie deserved better, deserved someone better.
Four hundred seventy-two.
He released his death grip on the guardrail and shook his hand, hating himself for his thoughts.
Four hundred seventy-four.
Solitude…that he understood. He was good at it. And he understood the whys and wherefores behind his. There was no blame. Few people had the patience for his sluggish speech, the tortoise-like roll of his words. Invariably, they wanted to finish his sentences, take ownership of his unexpressed ideas, and move on. Everyone was in such a hurry.
Except Annie.
Four hundred seventy-nine.
Except…Annie. He studied her face. Then, without even realizing what he was about to do, he reached over the rail, tucked a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear, and whispered into it. “I’m here,” he said, his doubts gone.
Her eyelids fluttered as if in understanding, and he sat up, breathing deeply while he checked the clock on the wall for the time.There were some hard realities to face. Annie was sick, sicker than he’d thought, sicker than she’d led him to believe. He broke from his train of thought when she shifted restlessly, murmuring something in her sleep. He placed his hand on her forehead. That seemed to settle her, and she went still, breathing shallowly.
Four hundred eighty-six.
There was also their last conversation to consider. She’d talked about things—about Edmond and sacrifices and hope. And something else… He couldn’t get to the heart of it. Even so, it made him anxious, especially the part about Edmond.
As if hearing his name in Christian’s thoughts, Edmond appeared in the doorway. “How’s she doing?” he asked.
Christian didn’t even bother to look up. “She could have died by the time I got the fu-fu-fucking words out,” he said, stuttering intentionally.
Edmond didn’t need to ask what he meant. The message Christian had left on his answering machine was agonizingly long, though it only managed to convey that Annie had been taken by ambulance to San Francisco General.
Christian looked up finally to find Edmond still standing outside the doorway. He held a spray of periwinkles that burst in a free-for-all of green and violet from a porcelain container shaped like a teakettle. Annie’s going to love that, Christian thought, motioning Edmond inside. “She’s sleeping.”
Edmond stepped across the room and placed the arrangement on the sill. “That’s a lot of blame to take on all by yourself,” he said while he snipped a few tired buds. “Imagine what would have happened if you weren’t there.”
Edmond’s point was clear, and Christian acknowledged it with a quick nod, though it didn’t really make him feel any better. “Annie’s uncle came by earlier.” He looked up, meeting Edmond’s eyes. “I didn’t even know she had one,” he said. “The man’s in shock. Annie never told him a thing.”
Edmond grunted, grabbed a chair from the corner, and carried it across the room to sit next to Christian.
Neither said another word—keeping vigil.
At around the five hundredth drip, Edmond put his arm across Christian’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. It was only meant as a little kindness, but the gesture seemed to break the membrane of Christian’s composure, and he rocked forward, folding his arms tightly across his chest, his back rising and falling silently until a single, lonely sob broke from his lips.
It was a heartbreaking sound, but Edmond knew as well as anyone the healing power of a good cry. He’d been there time and time again. And he knew what had to be done. He pulled Christian even closer, intending to repeat the usual platitudes, beginning with “She’s going to be fine,” but there was a rap at the door, and Christian leaped to his feet, wiping the tears from his eyes before a word had been said.
“Is this a bad time?” asked the attending physician as he poked his head in the door.
Edmond cursed silently, wanting to tell the doctor to come back in a few minutes, but Christian shook his head, and the doctor entered the room, flipping through the pages on his clipboard. He leaned over the bed to check Annie’s pulse against his watch and made a quick notation before peering under the bandage on her forehead.
“As best we can gather from Annie’s blood work,” the doctor said, “an enormous amount of adrenaline was dumped into her bloodstream. Her delicate system couldn’t cope and simply shut down.” He paused, letting Christian digest the information. “Do you know anything about that?” he asked.
“There was an intruder,”Christian said.“When can she go home?”
“I’d like to keep her under observation for another day or so.”
“Why?”
The doctor clicked his pen and slid it into his shirt pocket, a gesture Christian came to learn through experience meant bad news. “She’s not doing as well as I would’ve hoped.” He motioned for Christian and Edmond to sit.Taking the chair against the wall, he added, “She needs a bone-marrow transplant. And soon.”
“Are you sure?” It was the only thing Christian could think to ask.
“No, we’re not,” he said, shrugging. “We’ve never been sure. Her condition has characteristics of myelodysplastic syndrome, or MDS—a sort of preleukemia, but there are anomalies.”
“If you’re not sure, then why take the risk?” Edmond asked.
The doctor simply stared through Edmond, his expression promising more bad news. “She’s run out of options.” He stood and made for the door, only to pause. He turned around. “There’s one more thing,” he said quietly. “And I’m not certain it’s my place to tell you.”
Christian was fussing with the bedspread and didn’t hear him. Edmond touched his hand and pointed to the doctor.
When he had their attention, the doctor said, “Miss Aster’s hemoglobin level was elevated—extremely elevated.” The comment obviously puzzled them. “She’s showing signs of an erythropoietin overdose,” he said.
“Epogen? Her medication?” Christian asked. “But why would she do that?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me,”the doctor said as he leaned against the door frame. “Was she planning to enter the Tour de France?” he asked, half-jokingly.
“What do you mean? I–I don’t know what you mean.”
“It gives you the stamina of a race horse.” The doctor paused. “It also puts you at risk for heart failure,” he added. “A risk Miss Aster is well aware of.”
He grabbed the handle and started to close the door behind him but looked back over his shoulder. “What I’m trying to say is that whatever happened back there, at Miss Aster’s home”—he jiggled the handle with his index finger before looking at Christian somewhat sheepishly—“she planned for it.”
CHAPTER
FORTY
A dream is a slippery thing, plucking and bending and toying with our memories, sometimes acting as a bridge between the living, the loved, and the loved no- longer- living, but more often than not acting as a lesson not quite learned. Yet, despite the enormity of a dream’s purpose, this particular one happened to be nothing more than the necessary but gentle nudge that lifted a very sick young lady from death’s slumber into a wakeful world.
“Wake up, birthday girl.”
Annie didn’t question the fact that the person belonging to that voice was long dead and opened her eyes, grinning as Auntie Liza ran a finger down her nose. She pulled the duvet over her head and squealed before peering out from above the covers to reveal a mound of flyaway auburn hair and a pair of hungry eyes.The day was only a few seconds old, yet already promised to be quite excellent, she thought.
“Have you given some thought to what you’d like to do?”
“Well,” Annie said, shoving the duvet aside and putting on her most adult face. “Now that I’m eight and very nearly an adult”— she pursed her lips, glancing sideways at her godmother— “I think it’s time I kiss a boy.”
Auntie Liza grabbed a length of chiffon from the bed’s canopy and tossed it around her neck, eliciting a giggle from Annie. She leaned against the headboard, nodding gravely. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” she said. “But— ”
Something in the way Auntie Liza said the word but, drawing it out, was so impossible to ignore that Annie couldn’t help herself. She sat up, toppling her pillows. It would never do to overlook Auntie Liza’s suggestions. They were… She searched for the appropriate word. Singular? No. Exceptional? Inadequate. Avant-garde? Yes, that was it! That was just the most perfect word. Avantgarde.
The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 29