We pull up in front of a house with smoke spewing from the front door. A lady in a bathrobe is standing on the sidewalk, holding the hands of two small children.
We hop out of the truck. “Anyone else inside?” Captain Dickerson asks.
“My husband!” she screams. “He was still sleeping upstairs. I was fixing breakfast for the girls.” She covers her sobs. “Please save him.”
“Briggs and Hanson, take the back,” J.D. says. “Andrews and I will take the front. Squad—get ready to attack.”
As J.D. and I put on our masks and head in the front door, I wonder why he paired us the way he did. Usually, in a fire, J.D. pairs me with Bass.
“There,” I say, seeing the stairway through the smoke.
I look beyond the stairs and see the faint glow of fire. Coming in from the back, Bass and Steve will be in a good position to handle it.
J.D. and I quickly ascend the stairs into the murky, smoke-filled upstairs hallway. It’s hard to see anything.
“Fire department. Call out!” J.D. yells through his mask.
I walk through a doorway on the right and step on a toy. “Kid’s room,” I say.
The room on the left is not so easy to label. J.D. goes deep inside the room before he darts out. “Bunk beds,” he says. “Not the master.”
“Fire department. Call out!” he shouts again.
Finally, we come to a third open door. The smoke is not as thick in here and I can clearly see a man on the bed. “Got him,” I say, making my way to the head of the bed. “He’s still breathing.”
I get the man onto my shoulders and J.D. leads the way down the smoke-filled stairway.
Out front, the woman comes running up to us as we put her husband onto a gurney. “George!” she shouts as Debbe and Ryan tend to him with an oxygen mask.
The man is finally awake and coughing. He reaches up and touches his wife’s face. “The girls?” he asks through his mask.
“They’re fine,” she says.
J.D. turns to me as we walk back into the house to help put out the fire. “Why the hell do people sleep with their doors open?”
Ten minutes later, the fire is out. I point to the wall behind the charred clothes dryer. “Point of origin,” I say. “Damn, people. It takes three fucking seconds to clean out your lint filter, and ninety bucks a year to have the duct cleaned out and this won’t happen.”
The other guys shake their heads. If we each had a nickel for every house fire that was started by a dryer vent …
Back at the station, J.D. finds me fresh from a shower. “Sit down,” he says, motioning to the bench in front of my locker.
I finish pulling my shirt over my head. “What is it, Captain?”
“You did good today,” he says.
“I did my job today. Same as everyone.”
“And the other stuff? How are you dealing with that?”
“You mean car accidents?”
He nods.
“I’m dealing,” I say. “Why?”
“I’m just hoping you’ll give me a reason to recommend you if anything ever comes up on Engine 319.”
I cock my head to the side. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Captain? Is Noah not coming back?”
“Noah is fine,” he says. “He’ll be back in a few weeks as planned. Just give me a reason, Andrews.”
“I’ll try my best,” I say.
After he leaves, I’m excited and pissed at the same time. Excited because he wouldn’t have mentioned it unless he thought there was a possibility of an opening. Pissed because, clearly, I haven’t proven myself to be the obvious choice.
~ ~ ~
I’m getting in a workout at the gym in the firehouse to pass the time between calls when my phone rings.
“Hi, Joelle. What’s up?”
“I hope I’m not bothering you. You said you wanted me to update you if anything happened,” she says.
“It’s never a bother. Tell me.”
“Well, the therapists told me this afternoon that she’s not progressing as much as they’d like.”
“What do you mean? She killed it yesterday. She stood up and even took a few steps.”
“I know. They told me. They also said that once that happens, things usually move along quickly. Sara should be making improvements in leaps and bounds, but she seems to have stalled. They think she may be suffering from depression.”
“Depression?”
“They said it’s not uncommon. But whatever it is, it’s affecting her motivation. And she’s still not talking much at all.”
“Damn. I’m sorry to hear that. Was Oliver there today?”
“He was here when I showed up about an hour ago. He and Sara were watching TV when I arrived.”
“What do you think of him, Joelle?”
“He’s very charming,” she says. “I can tell he’s not all that comfortable being around hospitals and such, but it does look like he’s trying.”
“I’m glad he’s showing up every day.”
“Me, too. Oh, hey, there is a bit of good news. They took out Sara’s catheter today.”
“They did?”
“Yes. Apparently, she started fussing about having to pee, something she hadn’t done until today. She still can’t walk to the bathroom, but with help, they can get her there so she can take care of things.”
“I’m sure that will help her feel more normal.”
“Let’s hope,” she says. “But if there is anything you can think of to help her out of her funk, please let me know.”
“You’re her cousin, Joelle. You’d know more than I do what would help her.”
“That’s not true, Denver. I’m not sure how it happened, but it seems you know Sara better than anyone at this point. And she seems to respond to you over everyone else.”
I sigh. That wasn’t my intention. I just knew she needed someone to be there until Oliver showed up.
“Maybe I should back off,” I say. “Let her get more accustomed to Oliver.”
“Please don’t,” she says. “You are playing a huge part in her recovery. That’s more important than anything at this point.”
I remember Krista telling me the same thing before we left the hospital.
“Okay, I’ll be there tomorrow morning after I get off shift.”
“Good. Thanks, Denver.”
“No need to thank me.”
After our call, I think about Oliver and how difficult this must be for him. What if her memory never returns? Chances are it won’t. What lengths will he have to go to and what hoops will he have to jump through to get her to fall in love with him again? And what if she doesn’t? Who says that just because she fell for him once, she will a second time? How long does he try? Weeks? Months?
I just wonder if there is anything I can do to help it happen.
I decide to text him.
Me: Can we meet for coffee in the morning?
Oliver: I suppose. What’s up?
Me: I just thought we could get to know each other better.
Oliver: I’m spoken for, mate.
I laugh. Who knew he had a sense of humor?
Me: I’m not into Brits. Unless they’re tall and busty, that is.
Oliver: Good to know. How about you swing by our place. Sara has a great cappuccino machine.
Me: Text me the address. I get off at 8:00 and I’ll come right after.
He texts me the address and I notice it’s in a very trendy part of Manhattan. It’s out of the way, not even remotely close to where I live or the rehab center. But I’m glad he invited me. I’m not sure why, but part of me wasn’t even convinced they really lived together. It was just a feeling, I guess. It will be nice to see their place.
Then I wonder if Sara even knows where she lives. More than likely, when she and Oliver moved in together, they got a new place. Maybe when she goes home, it won’t even feel like home—an apartment she doesn’t remember with a fiancé she doesn’t know.
Sara needs more familiar thing
s in her life. More familiar people.
I decide to take a chance and call Lydia. After all, what’s more familiar than an old friend?
Chapter Fifteen
I look around the expansive loft apartment, seeing once again how the other half lives. I mean, I pretty much know how the other half lives because I’m staying in the townhouse owned by an MLB all-star. But this is nothing like Sawyer and Aspen’s place. This place screams modern artist.
The ductwork on the ceiling is exposed. One entire interior wall is brick, another consists of huge picture windows overlooking the city. The floor is painted cement. The countertops are white quartz.
I stand in the center of the living room and spin around, trying to imagine Sara here. I can’t. This place doesn’t seem like her at all.
“Would you care to take a peek in her studio?” Oliver asks.
“Her studio? She works here?”
“She does. Most artists work out of their homes.” He leads me to the rear of the apartment where there are two doors. He points to one. “That’s our bedroom—sorry, mate, no tour of that one. It’s a ruckus in there without Sara picking up after me.”
He opens the door to her studio, and he might as well be opening the door to another world. This is Sara, I think. Not back there with the clean lines and sterile floors. This room, with half-painted canvases, splatters and drips of paint dotting the floor, tubes of various colors and brushes of all sizes scattered about a workbench that I could swear is an old door—this room is Sara.
There are some paintings on the rear wall, some of which I’ve seen on-line. The expansive windows offer a view over the tops of some neighboring buildings with the picturesque George Washington bridge off in the distance. Definitely an urban view that I can see would be inspiring to an artist.
“Wow,” I say, admiring both the view and her paintings.
“She’s very talented,” he says.
“So you help sell her paintings?”
“I sell her,” he says. “Her vision. Her talent.”
“I hope she can continue to paint,” I say, running my fingers across the top of some brushes sticking out of a mason jar. “Do you think talent like that is forgotten?”
Oliver shrugs. “I like to think talent is inherent. Besides, she was talented even before she started selling her paintings. So even if she can’t remember how successful she is, I’m sure she remembers how to paint.”
I stare at all the supplies in her studio.
“Come on,” Oliver says. “Let’s have some cappuccino.”
We spend the next thirty minutes talking about all the places he’s been. All the places Sara’s been that she doesn’t remember. He shows me some souvenirs on the shelves. An Akubra ‘Crocodile Dundee’ hat from Australia. A Pashmina shawl from India. A beaded necklace from South Africa.
“You should show these to her,” I say.
“She’ll see it all when she comes home.”
“That could be weeks or months,” I say. “You should talk about all these things with her. And showing her pictures and souvenirs might help make it more real to her.” I stare down at my drink. “You should bring her cappuccino. In fact, maybe I could make her one and take it with me.”
Oliver’s phone rings. He steps away from the kitchen counter and answers it. It sounds like an urgent call.
“Was that about Sara?” I ask.
“No,” he says, putting his cup in the sink. “I have to go. Gallery crisis.”
“Oh,” I say, gesturing to the cappuccino machine. “I was hoping to …”
He looks at his watch. “I don’t have the time. But if you want to, go ahead. Just make sure the front door locks behind you.”
“Sure thing. Where do you keep the travel cups?”
“Cabinet,” he says, waving his hand towards the entire wall of cabinets on his way out. “Later, mate.”
I search through every cabinet and finally find some thermal cups in a drawer underneath the cappuccino machine. Logical spot, I think.
Before I leave, however, I take one last peek at Sara’s studio. I stand in the doorway, taking a longer look at her paintings. And then I have an idea. An idea that I hope will be the answer Joelle was looking for.
~ ~ ~
I walk into Sara’s room, carrying a box so large, I almost drop it on the floor before I can put it down.
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s a woman of few words.
“Well, what do we have here?” Donovan says, walking in behind me.
“I thought she might like to have these,” I say, pulling some of the larger blank canvases out of the box. I go to Sara’s bedside. “I have paints, brushes, basically everything I could find lying around your studio.”
Sara’s mouth drops open. “I … I have a studio?”
“You do. It’s in your apartment.”
“You … went?” she asks.
“I met Oliver there for coffee this morning. Oh, that reminds me”—I dig around in the box, hoping it didn’t spill—“I brought you this. Sorry, it might not be so hot anymore.”
She takes it, looking up at me with questioning eyes.
“It’s cappuccino. Oliver said it’s your favorite.”
She looks at it and then tries to take the tight lid off but can’t.
“Here, let me help. These things are a pain.”
I remove the lid and hand it back to her. She carefully puts it under her nose and smells it. Then she turns her head away, making a face.
Donovan and I laugh.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say, taking it from her and dropping the cup in the trash.
“Your tastes may have changed, Sara,” Donovan says. “It’s not all that uncommon after injuries like yours.” He looks through the contents of the box. “This is fabulous. Just what we need to focus on her manual dexterity. In fact, we were about to get started. Can you help me get everything set up, Denver?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Sara watches in wonder as we get the paints and brushes out. I’m not really sure how all this works, but I’ve seen movies. I squeeze a little color from a few tubes onto the palette while Donovan finds something to cover Sara’s clothes.
I notice she’s in regular clothing and not a hospital gown or robe. I also notice that she’s swimming in them. The doctor said she lost fifteen pounds while she was in the hospital. It makes me want to pump her full of cheeseburgers and fries.
I pull the tray table over to her bed and she stares at the palette. Donovan hands her a brush and smiles. “Let’s see what you can do, shall we?”
Sara smiles when she takes the brush. It’s a beautiful smile, one that tells me I did the right thing by bringing her paints. I sit on the side of her bed and hold up a blank canvas.
“Can you paint a red circle?” Donovan asks.
She dips her brush in the red paint and in the lower corner of the canvas, paints the most perfect circle I’ve ever seen anyone freehand.
“That’s fucking amazing,” I say without thinking.
Sara’s smile gets even bigger.
Donovan laughs.
“Uh, pardon my French. But wow, Sara.” I knock a hand on my hard skull. “My brain is fully intact, and I still can’t draw a circle that well.”
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Oh, damn. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” she says softly. “Joke.”
“Draw another one,” I say. “Yellow this time.” I look at Donovan. “Oops, I guess I got a little excited. You’re the boss.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here to participate in her therapy. It helps when loved ones are involved.”
Loved ones.
I almost correct him. I’m not a loved one. I’m barely even a friend, and only by circumstance. But I don’t correct him. And neither does Sara.
“Go ahead,” he urges. “Do what the man said and draw a yellow circle.”
; She draws one right next to the red one. Another amazing circle of the same size.
“And how about a square,” he says. “Can you draw one of those?”
She does. Over the next few minutes, she fills the entire lower six inches of the canvas.
“Now draw one up here,” Donovan says, motioning to the top.
Sara lifts her arm and tries to paint where he pointed, but her arm goes limp and a jagged line of paint trails down the canvas all the way to her lap. Sara closes her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Donovan says. “Your arms are weak. We’ll do exercises for that. How about your left hand, can you paint with your left hand?”
She puts the brush in her left hand and makes a circle, only this one looks more like an oval on one side and a square on the other.
I reach over and grab a brush and dip it in the paint, making a circle next to hers. “Look, the one you did with your left hand is still better than the one I did with my right.” Then I make an X over mine with the paint.
I study the canvas. “I have an idea,” I say. I turn to Donovan while I pull the canvas onto my lap. “Do you mind?”
“Go right ahead.”
I dip my brush in some more paint and glide it across the canvas several times. Then I turn it around and show it to Sara. “Do you know how to play Tic-Tac-Toe?”
She smiles and picks up her brush. “I’m Xs,” she says, smiling.
“This game,” I say. “Next game, I’m Xs.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donovan looking pleased. I’m glad he approves. This is something Sara and I can do together even when he’s not around. And if he thinks it’s good therapy, all the better. I have a feeling I’ll have to invest in a lot more canvases. But whatever it takes to help her in her recovery.
An hour later, it’s time for Donovan to leave.
“You’re brilliant,” Donovan says, pulling me aside in the hallway. “Bringing the paints was exactly what she needed. I’m not sure why nobody else thought of it. It’s the perfect therapy for her. She’s made more progress in the last hour than she made all day yesterday. And she recognizes sarcasm—that’s a very good indicator of her mental progress.”
Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series) Page 13
