by S W Vaughn
My head starts pounding. I almost ask who Julie is, but I decide I’d rather end this call. Whatever happened, it’s over now and I’m stuck with a halved commission and a smug bitch of a co-worker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” I say. “But I hope you enjoy the house.”
I expect to say goodbye and hang up, but Hannah says, “Oh, that’s the other reason I called! I’m having a housewarming party on Saturday, and I’d really like you and Jill to come.”
A housewarming party at the mansion I got screwed on selling is pretty much the last thing I want to attend, but I’m too polite to refuse her outright. “That sounds interesting,” I say. “I might stop by for a few minutes.”
“You mean you wouldn’t stay?” Hannah sounds crestfallen, and my conscience twinges.
I bite my lip, and mutter, “Maybe I could stay a while.”
“I do hope you will,” she says. “It starts at seven. Please come — you and Jill both.”
I mumble something about trying and hang up on a heavy breath. “So, what are you doing Saturday?” I say as I turn back to Jill with a smirk. “Because Hannah’s having a party, and we’re invited.”
“Oh, boy. That chick is really weird,” Jill laughs, and then cocks her head. “Wait, are you actually thinking about going?”
“I don’t know.” I make my way back to the couch and plop down wearily. “You know me. I’m the queen of not saying no,” I sigh. “And I do kind of feel sorry for her. She doesn’t seem to have any friends.”
Jill flaps a hand dismissively. “Please. She’s got plenty of friends,” she says. “Lots of Jacksons, Grants, and Benjamins. She could buy all the friends she wanted.”
It does seem strange that she’s rich and friendless. But maybe that’s just because there are no other ultra-rich people in Wolfsbrook. Maybe she has friends, but they’re scattered, and she goes to visit them in her private jet or something. I have no idea how wealthy people operate.
“Tell you what. If you go, I’ll go with you. But I won’t have any fun,” Jill says, and sticks out her tongue.
A giggle escapes me. “Neither will I, so I’ll try not to inflict that on either of us.”
“Thank you, dahling. No pish-posh for me,” she drawls. “Unless there’s a cute pool boy I can pick up.”
We both laugh at that. I push Hannah’s party out of my head for now and toy with my phone, remembering another call I made that day. The one to the hospital. “I’m going to call Brad tomorrow,” I say quietly. “I found out that his mother won’t be there until at least ten, so I’ll be able to talk to him if I call earlier.”
“Oh, honey.” Jill flashes me a dismayed look. I’d already told her what happened the first time I tried to call, and she knows I’m more terrified of Willa than ever. In fact, she knows more about me and Brad than anyone else. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
I swallow and nod. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” she says in a determined tone. “After the way he treated you that night … you don’t deserve that. And neither does Alyssa. He never has to know.”
The reminder jolts me hard. It was an awful argument. But it’s not like he hit me, or even threatened me. He just freaked out and left me at the restaurant.
And then nearly killed himself by driving into a concrete barrier wall at forty miles an hour.
“I’m not sure that’s fair,” I say, trying to be diplomatic. “He was so young, and scared. We both were. I think if it wasn’t for the accident, he would’ve calmed down in a few days, and we could’ve talked about it rationally. And Alyssa … I really should tell him.”
Jill purses her lips, and then reaches out to pat my hand. “Maybe don’t tell him right away,” she says. “Talk to him first, and see if you can feel him out. And if he’s still the same old shallow asshole, well …” She makes a tipping gesture.
“Yeah. You’re probably right,” I say, and maybe I won’t tell him. Not tomorrow, anyway.
But keeping it from him doesn’t feel right.
13
Tuesday
I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m driving to the hospital. I’m going to talk to Brad in person.
Last night I tossed and turned for hours, agonizing over what to do. I finally decided that calling him would only prolong the inevitable. I need to see him. I want to see him.
I never stopped loving him.
We didn’t have the perfect relationship, of course, but no one does in college. And it wasn’t love at first sight, either. We’d been friends since the beginning, nothing more, and I watched him go through girlfriend after girlfriend with a kind of bemused disbelief that anyone could have enough strength to be with that many girls, let alone go through the fallouts when he inevitably broke it off. But he was upfront with everyone about not looking for a commitment. Flings only for Brad Dowling the Football King.
That’s why I stayed on the sidelines for so long. That’s why I told him about Joan, and she ended up dead.
But then one night, a bunch of us were at Monkey Shines — a super-popular college bar just off campus — and Brad asked me to come outside with him for a minute. So I went, not thinking much of anything about it. Until he kissed me.
“What was that for?” I’d asked him.
He’d shrugged, and looked at me with those deep green eyes that had charmed the panties off dozens of co-eds. The same eyes I still see every time I look at my daughter.
“I’ve never kissed you before,” he’d said. “I just wanted to see what it was like.”
“Well … what was it like?”
He’d smiled. “Amazing,” he said, and kissed me again.
That time, I’d kissed him back. And I went to his frat house room with him, knowing I’d fallen under his spell, not caring, even though I knew I’d care in the morning. I stayed all night. When I woke up, I was prepared to do the walk of shame back to the dorms and endure the teasing.
But he woke up too, and asked me to stay for breakfast. Then he held my hand and walked me over to the dorms while everyone stared at us. And he asked for a proper date that night, just him and me.
I spent an entire year with him, the whole time thinking I had to be dreaming. But it wasn’t a dream — it was a nightmare waiting to begin, when I asked him about our future together and he flipped out, stormed away, and ended up might-as-well-be-dead.
I didn’t know I was pregnant until a week after the accident, when it was far too late to tell him.
Hayhurst Memorial Hospital looms into view, a spangling-clean modern structure of blue glass and white cement. This place is actually the premiere regional trauma center in the northeast, despite its location in humble little Wolfsbrook. I have no doubt that if there was a better hospital within five hundred miles of here, Mr. and Mrs. Dowling would’ve whisked Brad away from this town without looking back. He definitely would’ve been out of my life forever then, and at the moment I’m still not sure whether that would have been better. But I’m about to find out.
I follow the signs to the hospital parking garage, ease my car into one of the too-narrow parking spots, and try to remember where I parked as I follow more signs to an elevator, across an elevated, glassed-in walkway, and into the hospital. There’s no desk or reception area here, just a lot of hallways and closed doors, so I hunt around for an elevator and ride to the fifth floor.
It’s just after nine when I walk into a brightly lit corridor and spot a desk with a sign that reads NURSE’S STATION. There are two women in scrubs behind the desk, one who’s forty-something and looks irritated with the world, and the other about my age who’s just familiar enough to make me smile as I approach.
I haven’t seen her in years, but I recognize Teryn.
She catches sight of me, and her face lights up as she skirts around the desk. “Celine, you made it!” she calls, reaching out for a hug. I’m glad to hug her back. Familiar faces are hard to come by in a hospital. “You should have plenty of time before the b
attleship docks,” she says under her breath, snorting laughter. “Do you know which room he’s in?”
I nod. “548, right?” I say, as if I haven’t held that number in my mind since the moment the receptionist gave it to me.
“That’s the one. Turn left at the end of this hall, and it’s the third room on the right,” she says, pointing past the nurse’s station. “You know, I think he’s going to be very glad to see you.”
“I hope so,” I say, and then bite my lip. “Is he … really messed up?”
Teryn smiles. “Considering what he’s been through, he’s in amazing shape,” she says. “He’s already taking a few steps every day. Dr. Salinas — that’s his doctor — calls him a blue-eyed miracle. I guess it’s supposed to be a joke, because of his green eyes. But nobody thinks it’s very funny,” she adds with a wink.
Well, at least there’s some good news. She doesn’t mention brain damage, so I’m hoping that means there isn’t any. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d better get down there, before the HMS Willa steams in.”
“Good idea,” Teryn laughs. “Hey, stop by on your way out. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee and catch up for a few minutes.”
“Sounds good to me.”
My resolve almost fails me as I walk down the hall. The closer I get to the left turn that will take me to Brad, the harder my heart beats, until I’m sure it’s going to explode. At least I’m in a hospital, so they can save me if I have a heart attack.
Soon enough, I find room 548. The door is open just enough to peek inside, giving a glimpse of white walls and part of a window. I’m not sure whether I should knock. Maybe I should just walk in, since it’s open. But as I reach for the door, I think maybe he’s sleeping. He could be trying to get some rest while his mother isn’t here to harangue him.
I finally realize that I’m making excuses to keep from facing this. I let out a long breath, and push the door open.
The room is good-sized, but there’s only one bed, and Brad is in it. His eyes are closed. That’s all I notice as I step inside carefully, looking around at everything but him before I have to really see him, because I know how much that’s going to hurt.
There’s a large, room-length window on the far side, and the wide windowsill is completely covered with flowers, cards, balloons, and stuffed animals. A big-screen TV is mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. Under the television and slightly off to the side, there’s a brown door that probably leads to a bathroom. There are monitors, IV stands, a blood pressure machine, a privacy curtain, a folded wheelchair in a corner. The normal trappings of a hospital.
And there is Brad.
When I focus on him, all the breath leaks out of me in slow motion. I have awful, vivid memories of him after the accident — his face a pulpy mass of blood and bruises and black stitches with a thick plastic tube shoved down his throat, both arms and one leg in stiff white casts with every protruding finger and toe swollen and purple-black. The way his chest jerked up suddenly with every hiss of the mechanical ventilator and went down gradually, like a deflating balloon.
But now the stitches are out, the casts are off, the blood and bruises are gone. He’s slimmed down, but not gaunt — probably because he was so muscled before the accident. Both eyes are marked with dark half-circles of exhaustion, and his lips are dry and cracked, the color of them too dark. There’s a sheet pulled to his waist, and his arms rest on top of it with IV needles taped to the backs of his hands and a large bruise on his upper arm. A small, bloody blister rests at the center of the bruise like a bullseye.
My throat wrenches shut. I can’t believe I’m looking at him, breathing on his own. Alive. It’s the moment I never dared to dream of — and I still don’t know what to say.
I take a tentative step toward him, and he shifts slightly. “I already choked down breakfast,” he says without opening his eyes, in a voice that sounds like sandpaper and nails scratching on wood. He tries to smile. “It’s not bath time, is it?”
“Brad,” I whisper. “Oh, my God …”
His eyes snap open. They’re slightly bloodshot, but still the same brilliant green I remember as they focus on me and widen in surprise. “Celine?” he rasps.
I nod like crazy and stumble the rest of the way to the bedside, barely noticing the tears that start to slip down my face. I can’t bring myself to touch him, or even to look at him directly, so I stare at the shapes of his legs under the sheet. “I’m so sorry,” I say in trembling tones. “So sorry.”
Something warm and dry caresses my arm, and I realize it’s him. He slides a palm down my forearm, takes my hand in his and squeezes gently. “Why are you sorry?” he says. “It was my own damned stupid fault.”
A single sob wrenches from my throat, and I clap my free hand over my mouth. I won’t break down in front of him, not here. He’s probably had more than enough people crying over him.
“Please, sit down,” Brad says. I finally look at his face, and he’s smiling. “Unless you’re not staying? I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t. I know you called the other day, and my mother …” A dark cloud passes over his expression.
“I’d like to stay. If you don’t mind,” I say.
“Of course I don’t. That’s why I asked you to sit.”
The teasing note in his awful, strained voice sounds like the old Brad, and I almost start bawling again. But I hold it back and take a seat in the big stuffed chair next to the bed. “I hardly know what to say,” I admit softly. “Everything I can think of sounds so trite.”
“Just don’t tell me what a miracle I am, and we’re good,” he says. “So … what have you been up to for the past five years? I’ve just been lying around.”
I gasp in a thick, wet breath, and my eyes sting with tears.
“I’m sorry. That was a bad joke.” Brad reaches through the bars of the bed rail, and I take his hand when it falls short. “I’m trying to laugh my way through this, you know? Five years. Jesus.” His eyes close briefly. “They say laughter is the best medicine.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” I say dryly.
He actually laughs, deep and genuine, and I can’t help laughing with him. “Not so great,” he says. “I happen to think morphine is the best medicine. I’ve got this happy button, see?” He lifts a white cord near his other hand with a plastic bulge in the middle, sporting a single blue button. “Every time I press this, I get really happy.”
I smirk. “You must be pressing the shit out of that button when your mother is around, then.”
He whoops in a breath and wheezes it out. “Oh, God, that hurts,” he gasps with a smile on his face, waving a hand when my face falls in dismay. “Hurts so good, I mean. I think this is the first time I’ve really laughed since I woke up.”
At least I can smile knowing I’ve made him happy for a minute. “I’m glad you can still laugh,” I say.
“Celine.” He stares at me, shakes his head slightly. “This is just so … bizarre. I mean, to me, the last time I saw you was a week ago. I actually woke up and wondered why you weren’t here, if you were really so mad at me that you wouldn’t come to see me in the hospital. I remembered knowing I was going to crash, that it was going to be really bad, and then …” A shuddering breath leaves him. “Five years,” he whispers. “God, I was so stupid.”
“No, you weren’t. It was an accident,” I say firmly. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“Can’t I?” He scowls furiously at the ceiling. “I was drunk, Celine. Very, very drunk. My blood alcohol level tested at almost three times the legal limit when they brought me in after the crash. The only reason I’m not recovering in prison right now is that no one else was involved, and the DA figured that sixteen broken bones and five years in a coma was punishment enough. Plus, my folks probably paid him off.”
I’m too shocked to respond. Three times the legal limit? He had one, maybe two glasses of wine that night.
“I know I didn’t drink much there,” he
says, as if he’s reading my mind. “But when I left, I hit the liquor store. And then …” He trails off and winces. “Let’s just say I compounded the huge mistake I made when I left you in the first place.”
Mistake? “You mean … you would’ve come back to me?”
“Yes. God, yes,” he breathes. “It’s all I’ve wanted since the minute I woke up. To go back to that night, apologize for making such an ass of myself. And beg you to forgive me.”
“Oh, Brad. I —”
“Get away from my son, you little slut!”
The drillbit shriek of Willa Dowling’s voice floods the room, and Brad and I both jump like a couple of kids caught making out in the back of a car. I shoot to my feet and let go of his hand, cringing from his mother’s advance.
“Mother, stop it!” Brad cries hoarsely. “I told you, it wasn’t Celine’s fault. She had nothing to do with the accident.”
Willa freezes in the center of the room, panting like a bull. Her green eyes, much paler than her son’s, are bulging marbles that show far too much white. Her face is patched with hectic, ruddy spots beneath her makeup, and her dark gray-streaked hair sticks out in flyaways from a hastily-formed bun.
“I don’t care. I want her out of this room.” Spittle flies from her lips as she speaks.
“It’s my room, Mother. And I want her to stay.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll go,” I say quickly, reaching down to take Brad’s hand one more time. “But I’ll come back and visit you again, if that’s okay with you.”
It takes a lot for me to say that while Willa’s glare burns a hole in my back, and I’m almost proud of myself. Okay, it’s not exactly standing up to her. But it’s a start.
“I’d like that,” Brad says. “Hold on, though. I want to …” His whole body tenses, and he starts to sit up.
“Bradford! You need your rest,” his mother quavers. “You shouldn’t move around —”