"Someone wise," Jean said softly, turning away.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"I hope so," Debra said with feeling.
It was inevitable that when she finished her shift Jean would go and stand at the end of Lenny's bed and try to think of something inspiring to say. Lenny had been moved to a normal room with the motorized bed that allowed him to be rotated without the assistance of four nurses. At present, thankfully, he was lying faceup and she was able to address him rather than his scarred back.
Unfortunately, no words of wisdom came to her and he had yet to open his eyes despite her saying his name several times. She heard her mother's words in her mind and had to convince herself they weren't true.
"I can leave if you want me to," Jean said finally.
"But you're going to have to tell me to leave. Otherwise I'll just stand here feeling awful. But maybe that's what you want, Lenny, I don't know."
He opened his eyes. "You should know by now what I want."
Jean stepped closer, touching his bare arm. This room, like his previous one, was warmer than normal. Probably because they kept him scantily dressed to make it easier to care for him.
"What do you want?" she asked reluctantly.
"To die," he said flatly.
There was anguish in her voice. "No."
"Yes." Finally he looked at her face. "I can't live like this. You say you love me, Jean. If you do, then help me end this."
She clasped his right hand. "You just have to hold on for a little while longer.
Soon you'll be in a wheelchair and able to get out. I'll take you to the beach. I'll take you to the movies. You can't imagine how many great films have come out since you've been in here. I can show you—"
"You can take me," he interrupted. "You can show me. That's true because I can't do any of those things without you. But how long will you be there? You say forever but we both know that's B.S. One day you'll get tired of pushing a cripple around and you'll meet some other guy and then you'll say, 'I'm sorry Lenny but you know it's a tough world.' Then you'll leave, and what'll I do? I'll tell you. I'll kill myself. But why should I have to wait for the day we both know is going to come? I don't want to go through the pain. I want to do it now. I want you to help me."
Jean wept "I won't leave you, I swear to you."
Lenny strained to move his head as close to hers as he could. "You can get what you want if you keep your eyes open and move fast. A bottle of sleeping pills, a dozen packaged shots of Demerol—either of these would be enough to kill me. Are you listening to me, Jean? If you don't help me you just make it harder for me. I'll have to slit my wrists. No, that will be too slow. I'll have to cut my throat. The blood will be all over the place. You'll walk in here one day and the walls will be sprayed with red and—"
"Collate!" she cried.
Lenny let his head fall back. "I'm going to do it. You know I'm going to do it."
She sighed, her tears sprinkling his arm. "You must have some reason to live."
"None."
"Don't say that."
"I want to die today."
"Lenny."
"Right now."
"Damn you! You have to give yourself time. If you can't think of a reason to live, then you have to find one. Think, Lenny, of everything and everyone in the world. Think of something you want to do. Hold on to that, at least until you get out of here." She squeezed his hand, a desperate note in her voice. "Can't you think of anything?"
He started to answer but then stopped, only staring at her for several seconds.
His expression became strangely blank. "Maybe," he muttered.
She nodded. "Good. That's a start. Hold on to that. It can make you strong."
"Don't you want to know what it is?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter. As long as it keeps you alive."
Lenny sucked in a weary breath and closed his eyes.
"But the day it stops doing that, then what? Will you help me end it?"
Her head throbbed. "Do I have to?"
"Yes. You must promise me."
She let go of his hand, let his arm drop. "I promise," she whispered.
CHAPTER VII
JEAN DID NOT take the bus home after she left the hospital, but rather, to the beach, Huntington Beach, located in Orange County. It was a long ride for her, and on the way she kept asking herself why she was going there when Santa Monica Beach or Venice Beach was closer and just as nice. Indeed, she couldn't even remember when she had last entered Orange County. Yet a wave of nostalgia spread over her as the bus headed for the Huntington pier. Staring at the brightly colored shops, she felt strangely at home, at peace even. She was glad she had hours of free time. The dull ache of her perpetual headache had eased somewhat.
Jean had forty dollars on her. The first thing she did after getting off the bus was buy herself a bathing suit, a navy blue single piece affair that showed her breasts and bottom to good advantage. She wanted to look sexy but she also wanted something comfortable to swim in. She also bought herself a beach bag and towel and headed for the sand with the suit on.
The area immediately around the pier looked like the happening place; she found a spot in the shade of the first lifeguard station. The people around her seemed so different from those in her neighborhood, she thought, with their rich summer attire and perfect hair. Most of the kids looked like they were riding their daddy's credit card limits. Yet, at the same time they were young and confused like everyone else she knew. She couldn't take her eyes off them.
Since her accident she was always observing and watching, like a spectator at a play she had no part in.
Jean did not spend long lying on the sand. Soon she was in the water, and the motion of the waves was more than enough to wash away the stress of the last two weeks. She had always been an excellent swimmer. Her worries about Lenny and Debra fell off as she swam out three hundred yards past the first break and let herself bob up and down on the huge south swells. The air was hot, the water cool, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was almost as if she swam in paradise.
Wherever I am is paradise because I am there. I am joy itself.
Where had she heard that? From a book? A teacher at school? She couldn't remember and it didn't matter because it was true, she was that joy, and that was all that mattered. She swam farther out and felt the ocean welcome her.
The blue horizon seemed to stretch to infinity and she felt as if she could keep going. She felt completely free.
Then she began to feel tired. The fatigue came on her all at once, and when she turned and saw that the beach was a half mile back, she felt a stab of anxiety.
The water felt cold now. She wasn't out of the hospital that long. Her supposedly healed ribs suddenly didn't feel as if they were all knitted together.
What if she cramped up? She might die. Yet it wasn't the thought of death that frightened her. It was the idea that she'd leave without completing an important task. For the first time in her life Jean felt she was on Earth for a purpose.
She slowly began to make her way back in, conserving her strength as best she could. She was halfway to the beach and experiencing exhaustion when the lifeguard boat happened by. The twenty-five-year-old bronze god behind the wheel waved and asked if she'd like a ride to the shore. She humbled herself and gasped that she would. Once aboard, the lifeguard complimented her on her stamina and her bathing suit. But he didn't hit on her or anything. He probably rescued way-cool babes all day, she thought. His name was Ken, as in Barbie and Ken. He kind of looked like Ken.
The warm sand was a delicious treat for her weary goose-bump-covered limbs.
She lay back on her towel and was out in ten seconds. She slept for an hour, and dreamt of the sun and the heavens. She flew above mankind's burning star on the back of an angel, while all worlds spun below her. Worlds of light, worlds of pain—it was all there for her to choose, the angel said. If she wished to go back.
"Go ba
ck," Jean whispered as she awakened with a start. She sat up and looked around, feeling as if she had to start back. But not to the other side of town, to her side of town. But to another place, she thought.
She stood and collected her towel and clothes. Without knowing why, almost as if in a dream, she walked north.
Two miles from the pier, on a stretch of sand where Huntington Beach ended and Bolsa Chica Beach began, a row of expensive and multistoried condominiums had been erected to provide a view of Catalina on every clear day Southern California had to offer. Jean paused to stare at them. It was not their decor that drew her—if anything she thought they were something of an eyesore, with their oversize balconies protruding from their back sides like lines drawn on a blueprint by an architect on acid. She realized she had a prejudice against places she knew she'd never be able to afford. Still, the condos drew her attention, even though she didn't like them, even though they frightened her. How curious, she thought, to fear buildings she had never seen before. Yet it was as if the condos were bathed in black and red light, in memories of horror that someone had desperately tried to blot out.
"But I've never been here before," Jean muttered to herself.
Horror can attract as well as repel. She felt herself walking toward the buildings, pulled by invisible strings that could have stretched from the ground as well as from the sky. She continued to move as if in a dream, her angel long gone, replaced by a being from a lower region who whispered silently. Maybe it was a demon, she thought. Maybe it was just someone's past that had somehow passed by without touching her.
The condo on the right, in particular, drew her. It was three stories high, like the others, but somehow it appeared taller. The roof was covered with orange clay adobe-style tiles. A metal fence surrounded the building, but the gate was open. Without asking permission, without ringing a bell, she went inside. She went straight to the spot. What spot? She didn't know what to call it. A stain on the ground.
Going down on her knees, she touched the dark stain on the smooth concrete and wondered what had made it? Why did it fill her with such dread? Who had died here?
Yes. That's the real question. It's a bloodstain, I can see that. Only blood permanently turns concrete dark. Only blood refuses to fade. Only blood never forgets.
Jean felt her hair slip forward over her shoulders and fall on to the stain. It was almost as if the strands of hair strained to soak up the blood that had once flowed at her knees. Soak it back into her head, deep into her brain cells, suffuse them with the life and death of that night. Whatever had happened here, she knew, had happened in the dark. It had been an act of surprise, an act of vengeance. Jean could feel all those things as she knelt there. But most of all she felt sorrow. Whoever had died here, she knew, had come to a bitter end.
Jean didn't know how long she remained by the stain. But eventually she became aware of a shadow stretching over her from above. She raised her eyes into the glare of the sun and saw a tall elderly lady in a lovely white dress. She carried a smart gray handbag in her right hand and it was obvious she had just had her hair done. Although she was as old as some of the patients Jean fed in the hospital, she was nowhere near retirement. She stood erect and her blue eyes were clear and alert.
"Can I help you, miss?" she asked in a pleasant voice.
Jean stood reluctantly. The stain repulsed her, while at the same time she was afraid to leave it. Somehow, it connected her to a part of herself she felt she should know. She wiped her palms over her knees—the heat of the concrete had slightly burned her flesh. She still had her suit on.
"No," Jean said, realizing how foolish she'd sound if she spoke of how the stain preyed on her mind. She stooped to collect her bag. "I was just resting. I'll be on my way."
"The way you were kneeling there," the woman said. "The expression on your face—I thought you knew her."
Jean stopped. "Knew who?"
The woman nodded to the stain. "The girl who died here."
Jean felt dizzy. She had to stick out her arm and hold on to a fence to support herself. "Oh, God," she whispered.
The woman put her hand on her arm to steady her.
"Are you all right, dear?"
Jean nodded weakly. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just—the heat." She straightened up as well as she could, although the world continued to wobble as if the Huntington Beach fault had just decided to try for the top of the Richter scale. She added,
"I really should be going," and turned in the direction of the gate but didn't move.
"If you'd like a glass of lemonade before you go, I'd be happy to get you one."
The woman stuck out her hand. "My name's Rita Wilde. I manage several of the condos on this block. Most are owner occupied but quite a few are rentals."
Jean shook her hand. Her eyes kept straying back to the mark on the ground.
"You were the manager here when the girl died?" Jean asked.
"Yes. It happened a year ago. She was about your age." Rita cocked her head upward. "She fell off that balcony right above us." Rita frowned. "She might have lived if she hadn't landed directly on her head."
"How did she fall?"
A shadow crossed Rita's face. "A bunch of teenagers were having a party. The parents weren't home. The girl didn't die until near the end of the party. At first everyone thought she jumped. But then the police figured out she had been shoved. It was all over the papers. You must have read about it."
"I didn't. Not that I remember at least." Jean nodded to the stain. "This is from where she hit the ground?"
"Yes. I've tried a dozen times to scrub it away but it refuses to go. The poor child. She was only eighteen."
"I'm eighteen," Jean said quickly.
Rita smiled. "Are you? That's a wonderful age. What I wouldn't give to be eighteen again. Can I get you that glass of lemonade now?"
"No, that's OK. I'm feeling a bit better." Jean hesitated. "Do you remember the girl's name?"
Rita stopped to scratch her head. "It was something Cooper. I can't remember her first name. But I do know her parents lived near Adams. The father came by a couple of days after she died. I talked to him and he told me a little about himself." Rita shrugged. "I guess he just wanted to see the spot where his daughter had died. Maybe I'd do the same, I don't know." Rita paused and studied her. "Are you sure you weren't friends with that girl?"
Cooper. Adams. Cooper. The father. Cooper.
The words chilled Jean to the bone.
"No," Jean said. "I didn't know her. Why do you ask?"
It was Rita's turn to look at the stain. "I don't know. It's just a thought I had."
Jean began to back away. "Thank you for your time, Rita. Have a nice day."
"You, too, child. Enjoy yourself."
Jean searched for a telephone booth the moment she left the complex. She found one outside on a liquor store wall a block over. There was a telephone book; she hastily scanned the white pages and found sixteen Coopers. She flipped to the map at the front of the book and located Adams, studied the streets around it, then returned to the list of sixteen. Only one man, Stewart Cooper on Delaware, lived anywhere near Adams. She memorized his number and again consulted the map. From where she stood it was approximately three miles to the man's house, but she figured she would probably have to walk half that distance just to catch the bus home. She decided to pay Mr. Cooper a visit.
But what are you going to say to him? I didn 't know your daughter but I'm sorry she's dead. And, oh, by the way, her bloodstain really freaked me out.
When my hair fell on it, I felt as if I were the one who had died. Imagine that?
Jean decided to cross that bridge when she came to it. She entered the liquor store and bought herself a tall Coke. Her walk already had her dehydrated.
Taking a couple of slugs from the bottle, she set out for Adams, this time heading south, back toward the pier. She figured it would take her close to an hour to reach the Cooper residence. Plenty of time for her to figure out wha
t the hell she was doing.
As it turned out, her estimate was overly optimistic. Between her long swim and her still healing body, she couldn't do twenty-minute miles. She was about to call a cab by the time she stumbled onto Delaware, ninety minutes later.
Fortunately the Cooper house wasn't far up from the beach. In fact, it's just over there, she thought The house with the white picket fence and the maple in front....
Wait a second! I have to check the address to know which house it is. I don't know anything about picket fences and maple trees. Hell, I couldn 't tell a maple tree from an olive tree, even if it was growing maples. That was true, she thought. But what was also true was that she recognized the house the instant she saw it. She didn't have to confirm her feeling by checking the number she'd obtained from the phone book. The Cooper house was the third house on the right. Still, as she drew closer, she did check the number against the numbers on the curb. The perfect match brought another wave of dizziness to her already overwhelmed brain. As did the sight of the young man in the driveway loading his pickup. He was tall and handsome with dark hair and a nice build and that was cool and everything. But what was not so cool, at least not at the moment, was that he looked so familiar. He, in fact, looked like someone she had known all her life. Yet she had never seen him before.
"He's the dead girl's brother," she whispered to herself.
Jean walked up to him, probably looking like the overheated radiator that she felt like. His truck was loaded with a disassembled bed and a chest of drawers, plus a generous helping of wrinkled clothes and what appeared to be a PC. It didn't take a genius to realize he was moving out. He had a gold-colored lamp in his hand when he glanced over at her. His eyes were warm and blue and yet they sent a shiver down to her toes.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Yes," she mumbled. "Which way is the beach?"
He pointed toward the large blue body of water at her back, the one with the waves and the salt in it, and the sandy beach beside it. "It's over there," he said.
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