Louise bit her tongue, thinking, You got that right.
“But … I’m askin’ you … I’m beggin’ you to please come to the hospital and help me out? I don’t know what else to do. There — there’s something I have to talk to you about, and I … I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
I’m sure you don’t, she thought, barely repressing a grin because she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Umm — ahh … yeah,” she finally said, hoping she sounded reasonably sympathetic. “All right. Sure. Be right there.”
“Thanks, Lou. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. ’Stand by Your Man,’ right?”
“Yeah … Right. I — umm, I have to run a quick errand first, and then I’ll be over. Be ’bout half an hour?”
“Sure,” Tom said. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Before he could say anything else, Louise clicked her phone shut, ending the call.
For a long time, she sat there with the car running as she stared straight ahead. Her vision kept shifting in and out of focus as she stared up the rise toward the darkened house. Her pulse was racing fast in her throat, making her vision bounce with every beat. When she took a breath, the air burned her lungs like she had sipped fire.
Finally, she shifted into gear and drove away. She was thinking once she found a safe place to hide the money — someplace Tom and the cops would ever find — if Tom was in so much trouble, she had to fake it and be the dutiful, supportive wife to cover herself.
“CYA, Dad always said,” she whispered. “Cover your ass.”
It didn’t bother her in the least that her clearest, strongest thought was that if Tom had really been in a shootout, it was too damned bad one of those bullets hadn’t blown his stupid ass to Kingdom Come.
Ben was sinking down … down.
His clothes were instantly soaked through. They pulled him down like an anchor. The darkness below and around him was so dense he soon lost any sense of direction. He was suspended in a dimensionless, timeless void that was squeezing in on him.
Am I already dead? he wondered when he realized he should be panicking more than he was.
He had swallowed a mouthful of water when he’d gone overboard. Now his lungs were aching … burning for oxygen. They felt like they were ready to burst as a heavy pounding filled his head, keeping time to the thundering of his heart. His chest ached, but the pain was distant … almost like it was happening to someone else.
But a small part of him told himself he wasn’t dead … not yet … and where there’s life, there’s hope. He wouldn’t surrender willingly to the abyss that wanted to swallow him whole.
Not without a fight.
Struggling mightily, he kicked off his sneakers and then undid his belt and zipper. He peeled his pants down over his knees and kicked them free. They drifted away from him, fluttering like dark wings under the water. It was only after he’d let them go that he remembered his wallet and car keys were in the pockets. There was some cash in the wallet, but his first thought was what a bitch it was going to be replacing his license, other Ids, and credit cards … and his car keys …
How was he gonna drive home from the wharf … or pick up Julia … or go anywhere without his car keys?
If I survive this, he thought. He was surprised by his mental clarity in such a terrible situation, but the idea that he actually might die spurred him to action.
First, he had to get back to the surface and then …
Then what?
He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt over a t-shirt. He tore off the top shirt and let it drift away from him. For a moment before it disappeared into the dark water below, it looked and felt like a huge billowing jellyfish brushing up against him.
Trying to calm himself and knowing he would never survive if he panicked, he stopped thrashing about for a moment and just let go. All things being equal, if he didn’t fight too hard, he should start rising to the surface like a cork. Craning his head back and forth, he looked for some slight glimmer of light, but the darkness was solid … all but impenetrable.
Finally, though, when he let a small amount of air escape from his mouth, the stream of silvery bubbles trailed upward. Extending both arms above his head like a diver in reverse, he gave a powerful kick with his legs while scooping his cupped hands to either side.
He shot upward, satisfied when the crushing pressure lessened.
I’m gonna make it … I’m not gonna die … Not yet … I’m gonna make it, he kept telling himself until it became his mantra.
He gave several strong, deliberate kicks and powerful strokes, but he was still surprised when his face burst above the surface into the night air. He threw his head back and took in a roaring lungful of air. When he exhaled, he coughed and sputtered, choking on the seawater that splashed into his mouth and nose.
The water was freezing cold, and he was shivering wildly as he tread water to keep his head above the surface while he looked around.
The ocean was still rough, and strewn all about was the wreckage of what had once been the Abby-Rose. Dark tangles of flotsam bobbed in the water near him, spreading out and around him in a widening arc. To his horror, there was no sign of his brother.
“Pete!” he called out, his voice ragged and strained, barely audible above the sloshing waves.
He splashed around frantically, trying to see in all directions at once, but the night was dark and close. With his head at water level, he couldn’t see very far. To his left was the dark hulk of his father’s lobster boat, at least what was left of it. The boat was lying keel up, its bottom glistening with a silver patina in the starlight.
“Jesus, Pete! Where the hell are you?”
His voice sounded flat and pitifully weak in the vast, swelling expanse of the ocean.
Ben realized the boat must have hit a submerged rock or reef that his brother either hadn’t seen or didn’t know about. He clenched his teeth in frustration to keep them from chattering. He recalled how his father bragged about how he knew the ocean so well he didn’t need any damned electronics to navigate. Obviously Pete didn’t have Pops’ instincts or knowledge because here they were, in deep shit.
“Where the hell are you?” he shouted as he kept treading water, trying to distinguish if any of the dark objects floating in the water around him were his brother’s corpse. A seat cushion was nearby, so he swam over to it and grabbed it. This provided enough buoyancy to give him his first ray of genuine hope that he might actually survive the night.
But where was Pete?
Had he already gone under?
He might have been knocked unconscious by the impact and plummeted straight to the bottom.
Or he might be clinging to some piece of wreckage out of sight, too dazed to answer Ben.
“For Christ’s sake! … Answer me!”
His only reply was the sound of seawater slapping against his face and the debris. Finally, convinced that his brother had gone down and — unlike him — had not made it up to the surface, he decided he had to do what was necessary so he, at least, would survive. Grief swelled inside him as he leaned forward on the seat cushion and started kicking toward the remains of his father’s lobster boat.
The chill of the water bit bone deep, and no matter how much he tried to stop them, his teeth kept chattering wildly. His only thought was, Goddamn it … This ain’t over yet, but a hollow feeling deep in his chest told him that for Pete, at least, it probably was all over.
“I understand completely this is a very difficult decision to make,” Dr. Robbins said. His voice was mild; his expression, understanding.
Julia sniffed and wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands. Dr. Robbins snapped a few tissues from the dispenser on his desk and handed them to her. She took them and wondered how many times he had sat there like this at that desk and told family members and relatives of patients what he had just told her. He was so young, probably not many.
“I …” Her voice was as ragge
d as tearing old cloth. “It’s so … so hard to … I don’t know if I can do it.”
“I understand completely,” Dr. Robbins said, and Julia began to suspect this was his safety phrase.
I understand completely.
It was something he had to keep repeating perhaps to distance himself from the raw emotions involved in such life and death decisions.
She leaned her head back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as thoughts and memories flashed through her mind. Every image … every memory, both good and bad, of her father unspooled across her mind’s eye. Bitter arguments, slammed doors, warm hugs, goodnight kisses, shared laughter...
But now her father was as good as dead. Dr. Robbins had presented her with the situation as he saw it, and he had told her there was little to no hope her father would ever recover even minimal brain functions.
He’s already gone, she kept thinking as if repetition would make it any less true or any less painful.
“You don’t have to decide this instant,” Dr. Robbins said. “If there are other family members or close friends you wish to consult, perhaps a minister or priest, I understand completely.”
There it is again … “I understand completely!” Julia thought, but she tried to squash down any bitterness. He was simply doing his job, and that was to advise her on all the medical options her father had.
No … my father doesn’t have any options … He’s gone … as good as dead already … I have to choose for him.
She was awed by the terrible responsibility of holding someone else’s life in her hands … someone she loved and cherished. She twisted with guilt, knowing that only an hour ago, she had been sitting in her father’s hospital room, fantasizing about pulling the plug on his life support. How many people had gone through what she was going through now? Was it normal?
She found that she was shaking her head from side to side, and she didn’t even care whether or not Dr. Robbins knew what she was indicating. She was lost inside her own head, feeling sorry for herself and being pulled steadily deeper and deeper into a dark, bottomless abyss.
Dr. Robbins remained perfectly silent. She noticed that he didn’t fiddle with pens or paperclips on his desk or make a move to get up and leave the office in order to give her some time alone to decide.
Thank God he didn’t say: I understand completely again, she thought.
If he did, Julia was sure she would start screaming at him that No! … He didn’t understand completely … He could never understand completely. Unless or until he went through something like this for himself, he didn’t even understand partially.
“I — I’m not sure I can do it … sign the papers, I mean.” Her voice was so low it vibrated wetly, like she was clearing her throat.
Dr. Robbins looked at her with the deepest sympathy in his dark eyes, and she couldn’t help but feel guilty. She began to reevaluate her earlier judgment of him. Maybe he did know a little more about human suffering than he was letting on.
“Beg pardon?” he said as he leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of his face, his elbows resting on the desk in front of him.
Julia wiped her eyes with the tissues he had given her. Already, they were sodden and couldn’t soak up all of her tears.
“I said I’m not sure I can sign the papers just yet … but that I … I’m afraid I’ll have to.”
She stared at the doctor, earnestly wishing he would say or do something — anything — that would relieve her of this horrible decision. She felt overwhelmed by the awful responsibility, but the neutral expression on the doctor’s face told her this was all her decision.
“There really is no hope, is there?” she said huskily.
Dr. Robbins didn’t hesitate for a moment. He lowered his eyes and shook his head from side to side.
“For all its benefits of medical science — like all the king’s horses and all the king’s men — we still can’t put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”
Oh, so now we’re all Humpty Dumpty, she thought feeling a flash of anger that quickly subsided. It wasn’t Dr. Robbins’ fault she was sitting here now.
“I guess I have to do it then,” she finally said. She sat up a little straighter in the chair and squared her shoulders. “Do you have the papers?”
Dr. Robbins nodded and reached for a file to one side of the desk. He opened it and took out a single sheet of paper.
“You should read this waiver before you sign,” he said as he slid it across the desk toward her. Blinking back more tears, Julia looked around until she noticed the container holding a handful of pens. She took one, clicked it so the point came out, and scanned the paper, only looking for the line where she was to sign.
The legal technicalities didn’t matter.
All she wanted was for it to be over and done with as quickly as possible so she could begin to grieve. She clasped the pen so tightly her hand went numb with pins ’n needles, but she shook it back to life as she made a pretense of reading. She knew there were all sorts of legal disclaimers, but she didn’t care. Narrowing her eyes so she could barely see what she was doing, she signed her name and then dated it.
“Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered, speaking so softly she hoped Dr. Robbins didn’t hear her.
Louise found it difficult to keep a straight face when, after a quick search by the policeman stationed outside the hospital room door, she entered Tom’s room. He was sitting up in bed, his face ashen. Dark circles ringed his eyes, giving him a raccoon look. All the cockiness and swagger was gone. It had been replaced by a tight, pinched look … as if he had a wedge of lemon in his mouth.
“You came,” Tom said feebly, and Louise nodded. He looked like Hell had hit him and run.
“You thought I wouldn’t?” she said.
Her tone of voice was pleasant enough, but she shot him a look that all but said: If you were on fire, you’d be lucky if I crossed the street to piss on you.
“I … uhh … like your haircut,” Tom said. Louise had been careful to style her hair and reapply the makeup exactly the way Lina had showed her. She knew she looked good. She also knew Tom hated it.
“So what the hell happened?” she asked.
A police officer was sitting in an easy chair in the corner of the room by the window. Tom pursed his lips and nodded in the cop’s direction, indicating that he wasn’t able to talk freely in the man’s presence.
Louise glanced at the cop, who appeared to be fully engaged reading an old copy of People magazine. She didn’t know him from around town and wondered if he’d been brought in from out of town because of the seriousness of Tom’s situation. She cleared her throat and said to him, “Excuse me.”
The cop appeared a bit bewildered as he looked up. His eyebrows were raised in silent question. He was young — no older than twenty-five, tops — but he didn’t have any of that earnest new cop bravado Tom had displayed when he first joined the force.
“Would you mind if I talked privately with my husband for a few minutes?”
The cop looked ceiling-ward and considered the request, but only for a moment. He shook his head no and said, “My orders are to stay with him until I’m relieved.”
Louise smiled to herself, thinking she should ask him what he would do if he needed to relieve himself, but she knew she wouldn’t get anywhere by being flip.
“It’s only for a few seconds,” she said with a hint of sultry undertone in her voice. “I mean — think about it. We’re up on the third floor. He’s been shot in the leg and is hooked up with IVs and whatever. I doubt he’s gonna run. Where’s he gonna go?”
The cop surveyed the room as if noticing it for the first time. Then he closed the magazine, dropped in onto the table next to the chair, and stood up. His leather gun belt creaked like an old saddle.
“I guess it’ll be all right then,” he said, and he walked slowly out the door, easing it shut behind him.
“Jesus Christ, Lou,” Tom said, the instant he was gone.
Again
st her better judgment, Louise almost felt a spark of sympathy for Tom. He was, after all, still her husband; and she had loved him … at least once upon a time. But she had been through enough, and she knew the true content of his character.
“So tell me …” she said.
She made a point of not approaching the bed and getting too close to him or making any gestures that he might interpret as loving or even friendly. If she wanted to get away with what she intended to pull off, she had to keep up the façade and play the dutiful, concerned wife.
“I got shot … and it looks like I killed two people.”
Louise’s body went cold at his words. She had no idea how to respond.
“I took a bullet in the shoulder —” He raised his bandaged right arm as if performing a “Show and Tell” in grade school. “And in the left leg … in the thigh just above the knee. A fragment blew out my kneecap.”
“Jesus, you killed someone?” Louise was still trying to absorb that simple fact while also thinking it was too bad he hadn’t died, too. If he had, she’d be free and clear to do whatever she wanted with the money she’d found.
“Two guys,” Tom said.
Apparently misreading her reaction and taking it as sympathy for his plight, he beckoned her closer to the bed. After almost a year of conditioning, though, she shied away from him, automatically expecting him, even in his present condition, to lash out at her.
“Come on,” he said, seeing her hesitation. He patted the side of the bed. “I … since all of this went down, I’ve realized some things … lots of things”
I’ll bet, Louise thought.
Tom kept patting the side of the bed, looking almost angry that she wasn’t coming over to sit close to him. Taking a shallow breath, her body tense and ready to respond if he made the slightest move to hurt her, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, pressing her clasped hands tightly between her legs.
“One thing — I realized,” Tom said, “is that I … that I haven’t been treating you very good.”
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