Lost Things (A Short Story)

by John Rector

  But I knew better.

  I wasn’t going to be fine.

  Never again.

  I’m not sure how much time passed after the surgery, but when I woke up, the windows were dark and Veronica was asleep on the small couch in the corner of the room.

  I tried to call her name, but my throat was raw and my mouth wouldn’t open. All that came out was a weak moan. I tried to sit up, but my arms felt heavy and full.

  All I could do was wait.

  Luckily, I didn’t wait long.

  After a few minutes, a nurse in green scrubs opened the door and came in. She saw me and said, “Well, hello.”

  Veronica sat up, crossed the room, and stood by the bed. “Hey, you’re awake.”

  The nurse motioned to the door and said, “I’ll let the doctor know.”

  Then she was gone.

  I looked up at Veronica and saw the tears in her eyes.

  I tried to smile, but something wasn’t right.

  She put a hand on my chest. “Don’t try to talk. Your jaw was shattered, so they had to wire it shut.” She paused, tried to smile. “It was a bad accident, Evan.”

  The tone of her voice cut through the fog.

  I closed my eyes and tried to move my arms and legs. I thought they were moving, they felt like they were moving, but I’d heard that some people who are paralyzed think they are moving when they’re not.

  Veronica must’ve read the look on my face, because she took my hand in hers and said, “You’re going to be fine, Evan, don’t worry. But it’s going to take a while to heal.”

  I thought she was going to go on, but then the doctor came in with my chart in his hand.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “Is there any pain?”

  I took a mental inventory. The pain was there, buried deep behind whatever medication they’d given me. I knew it was only a matter of time before it became an issue, but right then, it was far away.

  I shook my head.

  “Good.” The doctor closed my chart and put a hand on my shoulder. “Your legs were pretty severely damaged in the crash. We put pins in your right leg and a metal plate in your foot, but we had to remove your left leg below the knee.”

  I looked away and stared up at the ceiling. The words he was saying were clear, but they weren’t sinking in.

  The doctor read down a list of injuries. In addition to my legs, I had four broken ribs and a ruptured spleen that they’d had to remove along with a foot and a half of my intestines. My pelvis was chipped in three places, and my jaw and left cheekbone were shattered.

  I listened, but I was somewhere else.

  Veronica asked about rehab and recovery. The doctor answered her questions, then turned back to me and said, “It’s not going to be easy, but you’ll get there.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re very lucky.”

  After he left, Veronica pulled a chair close to the bed. Her eyes shone in the soft light coming in from the hallway. She reached up and wiped tears away with her fingertips, then smiled.

  “Your parents were here, but they went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. They’ll be back.”

  I nodded.

  “We can’t find Julia, but I’m still trying.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “And I called Peter,” she said. “He’s waiting outside. I know he wants to see you.”

  I looked at her, unable to move.

  Veronica leaned in and kissed my forehead. “I’ll go tell your parents you’re awake while you two talk.”

  If I could’ve talked, I still wouldn’t have known what to say. I didn’t want to see Peter, not there, not like that. But I was also curious.

  Part of me had to see him.

  Veronica walked out of the room, and a few minutes later, Peter came in and stood in the doorway. He stared at me for a moment, then leaned out and took one last look into the hall.

  “Well, Evan, I think it’s just the two of us.” He turned back to me, smiled, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  PETER crossed the room to the bed, never taking his eyes off me. When he got close, he reached down and ran a finger over the blanket covering what was left of my leg.

  He shook his head. “What a pity.”

  For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, then he said, “You realize you’ll never walk again, ever. Did they tell you that?” He pointed toward the door. “They were talking about it out there. Veronica made quite the scene. It was sweet, in a way, but a bit melodramatic.”

  I could hear my breath loud in my head.

  Peter leaned in close. “How do you think you’ll handle the next fifty or sixty years in a wheelchair? If it were me, I’d probably opt out. Who wants to live an entire life like that?” He paused. “I can help you, if you like.”

  He reached behind my head and took one of my pillows, turning it over in his hands.

  “It might be the best choice for both of us,” he said. “I know you’re going to want to do something about Julia, wheelchair or not. And honestly, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He sat on the chair with the pillow on his lap. “I can tell you that if it were me, and our roles were reversed, I’d be thinking all kinds of unwise thoughts right now, am I right?”

  I stared at him and didn’t move.

  Peter waved the question away. “Don’t answer that.” He leaned back and looked around the hospital room. “You must have good insurance. Private rooms are hard to come by.”

  He looked down at the pillow on his lap and laughed to himself. He didn’t say anything else for a while, but his lips never stopped moving.

  I stared at him the entire time, imagining what it would be like to watch him die.

  “That’s the way it has to be.” Peter sat up, eyes clear, his face solid. “There’s no other choice.”

  I didn’t like the look on his face, and I felt around for the nurses’ call button. At first, I couldn’t find it; then I did, and I pulled it close.

  Peter noticed and said, “Not yet, buddy. There are a few things I’d like to talk about first.”

  When he reached across me for the call button, I tried to knock his hand away, but I could barely move.

  “Don’t do that,” Peter said. “You’re going to have to conserve your strength. Even though you’ll never walk again, I’m sure you still have months of physical therapy ahead of you. And believe me, that’s going to take it out of you.”

  In my head, I screamed at him.

  What came out was a sad, low moan.

  “I’m really sorry how things turned out for you, Evan,” Peter said. “I really am. I never thought I’d hurt Julia. That was a mistake on my part.” He looked at me, leaned in close. “What was that?”

  I didn’t make a sound.

  “No, they won’t catch me,” he said. “See, they’ll never find her, I made sure of that. And I’m leaving town, maybe for a while, maybe forever.” He tapped me on the chest. “That’s up to you.”

  Peter leaned in again, listened to the silence, nodded.

  “It’s up to you, because only you can bring me back here.” He got up, carrying the pillow with him. “See, I’m willing to let this go, put it all behind us, and move on.”

  I looked away.

  “I know you’re not, and who can blame you. I know how much you loved Julia.” Peter stood by the side of the bed. He set the pillow on my chest. “But here’s the thing, Evan. You have other people in your life that you love too, and you need to ask yourself if they’re worth the risk. Is seeing me arrested worth Veronica’s life? How about Mom and Dad?”

  The rage exploded inside me. It came on too fast, and it was impossible to control. I tried to sit up, and the pain screamed through me.

  Peter picked up the pillow, and for a second, I knew exactly what he was going to do. In my mind, I saw him reach in and press the pillow against my face, leaning on my chest, pushing all the air out of my lungs. I’d be helpless to stop him. I’d die, and I’d feel every burning second. />
  But he didn’t do it.

  Instead, Peter lifted my head, and slid the pillow under my neck.

  “So, I’ll make you a deal.” Peter sat back in the chair. “I’ll leave town, tonight, and never return. I’ll never even think about you or this place again.” Peter held up one finger. “But no cops. If I so much as see one looking at me sideways, I’m going to blame you, and I’m going to come back. Do we have a deal?”

  I looked away.

  Peter waited, then leaned forward and put his hand on the spot below my knee where my left leg ended and squeezed.

  The pain was electric.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  This time, I nodded.

  When he let go, there was sweat on my forehead and tears running down my face.

  He watched me for a moment, then said, “I do feel bad for what you’re going to have to go through, Evan. It’s funny, but I still consider you a friend. The best I’ve ever had. I hope you believe me.”

  I stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, trying to push the pain back, and failing.

  “Focus on getting better,” Peter said. “Forget I exist. Whatever it takes, just don’t make me come back here.”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Peter stepped away from the bed as the nurse came in carrying a tray with several syringes.

  She smiled at Peter.

  He smiled back.

  “OK, buddy, I’m going to head out.”

  He touched my shoulder. It took all my strength to shrug him away. When I did, the pain was everywhere.

  But it was worth it.

  Peter laughed, soft. “Get better, Evan.”

  I watched him walk out.

  He stopped at the doorway and looked back. At first, I thought he was going to say something else, but all he did was glance around the hospital room, one side to the other, breathing deep, taking it all in.

  Then he nodded at me and was gone.

  It would be nearly two years before I saw him again.

  THERE is a woman in the next room who cries every night. I hear her most often when I’m lying in bed, staring at shadows, unable to sleep. This afternoon, the hotel manager knocked on her door and told her she had to pay her bill or he would throw her out on the street.

  They fought, but she didn’t leave.

  At first, the crying was a distraction. The walls between our rooms are thin, and it was hard to focus. I wanted to get everything down the best I could. Whether I did or not will be up to whoever finds these pages to decide. I’ve done my best.

  I could tell you more about what happened, because there’s always more to tell. I could talk about the seven months I spent in the wheelchair after leaving the hospital, or about the endless therapeutic torture sessions I endured while learning to walk again.

  Yes, I’m walking again.

  Peter was wrong about that, at least.

  I could tell you how I took an unpaid leave from my job after the accident, and how I never went back. Or, I could tell you about Veronica.

  Veronica.

  Yes, I should start with her, tell you how she stuck with me for almost a year after the accident, how she surprised me, standing by my side every step of the way.

  I didn’t make it easy on her, of course, and one day she just decided she’d had enough. She told me I’d changed, that I wasn’t the person I used to be.

  I didn’t argue.

  In a lot of ways, seeing her go was the hardest part of all. I didn’t want her to leave, and it killed me to push her away like I did, but keeping her in my life was too dangerous. I loved her too much to take that risk.

  Through it all, I kept my end of Peter’s deal.

  It wasn’t easy to do, especially with Julia gone.

  Peter said no one would find her, and so far, he’s been right. I’ve had to lie to everyone, telling them how she broke down over lunch and said she was leaving, that she’d decided to travel the world and disappear for a few years.

  My parents were furious, but they weren’t surprised. No one was surprised. Julia was Julia, and for her to pack up and leave without so much as a good-bye wasn’t exactly out of character.

  If only it were true.

  It’s been a long time since Julia’s death, but even now, sitting in this shitty motel, surrounded by newspaper clippings, and staring out this dirty window at an even dirtier street, I still can’t bear to talk about it.

  But maybe that’ll change soon.

  You see, I found him.

  After months of searching, and countless hours spent combing through old newspapers and forgotten police reports with no results, I finally got a break.

  I came across a tiny police beat column in the back of the metro section of the Albuquerque Journal. A twenty-eight-year-old prostitute, single mother, was beaten to death in an alley outside the rooming house where she was living.

  It could’ve been anyone, but somehow I knew.

  The next day I got on a plane to New Mexico, and I’ve been following his trail ever since: Colorado, Arizona, and now California. Eight bodies, all leading to this dirty little town and this perfect night.

  I’ve been patient, watching him for weeks, studying his habits, his patterns. I know when he leaves his room, and I know when he comes back. But this time when he comes back, I’m going to be waiting for him.

  Tonight, it all ends.

  My watch says eleven o’clock.

  I’ve spent the last few hours sitting at my desk, staring out the window at the street below. Everything is deserted and silent.

  Peaceful.

  Soon, I’m going to cross the street to his hotel. I’ll use the passkey I bought from the maid to get into his room, and I’ll wait.

  I don’t know what will happen when he sees me.

  I’ve played the different scenarios over in my head, time and again. Sometimes he’s happy, sometimes he’s angry, but it doesn’t matter. However he reacts, whatever he does, the end result will be the same.

  It’s funny to think about, if I let myself. Even now, sitting at this scarred wooden desk with my notebook, my black pen, and my loaded .45, I can’t help but laugh.

  How did I get here?

  It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times over the past couple years, but the only answer I’ve found that makes any sense is just another question.

  How does anyone get anywhere?

  It’s time to go.

  I can hear the woman in the next room crying again. It’s the same as every other night, except this time it’s not a distraction. This time, it’s a comfort.

  She’s still crying, but at least she’s still here.

  Sometimes, that’s enough.

  I’d like to thank Allan Guthrie, David Blum, Terry Goodman, Jeff Belle, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Leslie LaRue, and everyone on the Thomas & Mercer/Kindle Singles teams for all their hard work. I’d also like to thank my early readers, John Mantooth, Kurt Dinan, and John Lovero for their time and their insight during the early drafts of this book. And finally, I want to thank my wife, Amy, for her love, her support, and for always believing.

  John Rector is the #1 bestselling author of The Grove, Lost Things, The Cold Kiss, and the International Thriller Award Nominated Already Gone. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and won several awards including the Porterhouse Prize. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska.