Until Death

by Alicia Rasley

  “Good. My memory is bad enough for both of us. Not to mention your son’s.”

  “He was there?”

  “Right there in the front of the ambulance. But he stayed cool and didn’t get in the way.”

  I imagined Tommy witnessing his last surviving parent near-death. “Is he really okay?”

  “Yeah. Wanda brought him some clothes, yours too. She wanted to tell you there’s a place called Victoria’s Secret where they have something other than big t-shirts to sleep in.”

  “That’s okay. I sleep in t-shirts . . . or nothing at all.”

  “Sounds good to me. You get some more rest, okay? I’ll make sure Tommy gets home.”

  “Wanda can take him. Or Don’s sister. Tracy,” I whispered. I was fading back out again. “He knows the number. Mike—” I gripped his hand hard, as a handle on reality. “What about Brad?”

  “He’s down in the jail infirmary. On suicide watch. Don’t worry about him.”

  “I’m not worried. I just trusted him. He was a friend. A good friend, for years and years. God. I knew him as long as I knew Don.”

  “I’m glad I got to knock him flat.”

  It almost made me laugh. But not quite. “You are such a savage, Michael.”

  He touched me on my neck, where the pulse was, and then his fingers moved lightly across my cheek to my mouth, just for a moment, and then away. “You bet.”

  “I just—” So much of what I’d thought I knew was blasted by this new reality: Brad was bad, Wanda was good, and Dr. Warren thought he was in love with me. It made my head hurt. “I trusted Don too. Maybe I don’t have great judgment where men are concerned.”

  “Maybe not.” He kissed my palm. And then my wrist. And then the soft skin above that. I could feel it all the way through the haze of painkillers.

  “Michael,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and let the shimmer run up my arm. Trust a doctor to find the particular nerve that connected right to my breast.

  “You’re going to be okay, and that’s what matters. Now go to sleep, sweetheart.”

  Easy for him to say. He hadn’t just had to swim out of a mud hole. But obediently I closed my eyes. “Will you stay?”

  “Okay.”

  I held his hand and slipped back into the darkness.

  I WOKE UP A few times after that, whenever the nurse came in to stick me. But the next time I came to full consciousness, I looked up to see Wanda leaning over me. I closed my eyes, but she was still there when I opened them. She pulled open a bag and started laying out by the water carafe some essential supplies: hair spray and makeup and a fancy lighted cosmetic mirror.

  “I stopped at the Estee Lauder counter,” she said. “Figured we’d be in serious makeover territory after the night you had.” And she briskly propped me up with a few pillows and, seating herself on the chair next to the bed, started painting me.

  I was too surprised to protest that I was more the swipe of blush and lip gloss type myself. To a cosmetic connoisseur like Wanda, my makeup routine would seem insufficient and minor league. Besides, I was pale, and Mike would be coming back soon. “I’m sorry about Brad.”

  Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her motions were sure. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting much. He was just . . . nice. Took care of me. And right after Don’s death, this is kinda hard.”

  “Maybe—” I stopped. It wasn’t my place to give her advice. “I feel sort of betrayed too. Brad of all people. I’ve known him half my life. He’s not like this.”

  “I guess he is. I guess the whole Munssen name thing, and the money, just mattered most.” She started in on my left eye with a narrow brush. “I did a stupid thing. I told Brad that you were investigating Don’s death. I didn’t realize . . . well, I didn’t realize it would tip him off.”

  “You thought he could be trusted.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not why I did it. I just wanted to impress him. I don’t know. Maybe entertain him. Maybe diss you.”

  Her candor embarrassed me, especially when she was only inches away, studying every pore on my face. I didn’t want to be this close. I turned, pretending to look out the window at the parking lot. “Don’t worry. We both misjudged him. He’s a good actor.”

  “Right. Real good.” She put down the brush and rummaged through the bag. “Don’t worry about Tommy. He can stay with us till you’re out of here. Travis was glad to see him again.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Looks like I’m going to have to settle that damned lawsuit after all, if Don really did cheat the old man. And I’ll have to fix it with Will, whenever he gets back from where he’s gone.”

  I’d have to warn Barb. “Good luck.”

  “Yeah, well, after that I’m going to have to regroup. Think about the future. I don’t know how much money I’ll have left. Close your eyes. Both of them. This powder sort of sheds.” She spoke my thoughts. “I could maybe look for another rich guy.”

  “Now that’s an idea.”

  ‘Maybe that doctor with the Jag. He’s awfully good-looking.”

  I opened my eyes and focused on her. This was exactly what I’d feared. I was getting all possessive, talking as if Mike were mine, which would naturally lead to my being his, and then . . . Mike wasn’t mine to lose or hers to gain; he was his own person, yada, yada, yada. I heard myself snarling, “You even try to take another man from me—and this one, I don’t think, is take-able—you’ll regret it. Got it, girlfriend?”

  She pushed back a few prudent inches. “I get it. But maybe I’ll hang here, fluff your pillow. Plenty of other doctors around.”

  Oh, great. Wanda the ministering angel of mercy. I resolved on an immediate discharge. “Now what are you doing?” I demanded as she took hold of my hand.

  “Manicure. Jeez, look at those cuticles. You need to drink hot gelatin, you know. I just like having a man around, you know?”

  “What about Bruiser?”

  “He couldn’t wait. Took off with one of the waitresses at the bar. Besides, I’ve sort of outgrown him.” She tossed my hand back and grabbed a bottle from her tray, twisting off the top. “You know, I could give you a pedicure too. That always perks me right up.”

  “Oh,” I moaned, hand to my nose. “I feel dizzy. The fumes.”

  She corked the nail polish right up, glancing anxiously at me. “The nurse said you had to take it easy. Lost a lot of blood. So maybe we’ll put off the finger job till you get out?”

  “Maybe,” I said in a die-away voice. “If I’m . . . if I’m strong enough then.”

  She gathered up her equipment and left me alone.

  I could get into this invalid routine.

  But first I had to assess the damage. I grabbed my purse from the chair—the IV needle in my arm giving a nauseating tug—and pulled out my mirror. Well, at least I didn’t look pale anymore. In fact, I looked . . . vivid. Bright. Wide-awake and ready to party.

  With a tissue, I blotted off two-thirds of the plum eye shadow, half of the currant-berry blush, and most all the winesap lip-rouge. When I was done, the tissue looked like an old bruise, and I looked pretty great, as long as you didn’t catch sight of my cuticles. Now all I had to do was call Mike and tell him Warrior Woman was back in action. But angel of mercy Wanda had worn old WW out, and with my hand on the receiver, I fell asleep.

  I WOKE SLOWLY, the conversation around me gradually narrowing into meaning.

  “I guess the Jag is because you’re a doctor, right?”

  “Well, most MDs have Mercedes. The younger ones BMWs, maybe. But I don’t think much of either. Not much to look at.”

  “Yeah, no style. Not like a Jag. And the Jag’s got the best colors. I mean, I never thought I’d like a blue car, but that midnight blue Jag is all right. What I was think
ing, though, is that you could next time get a Porsche. They’re pretty tight.”

  “I think a Porsche looks like a flattened beer can.”

  I smiled, even with my eyes closed, waiting to hear how Tommy responded to this heresy. He was a good boy. He stayed polite. “Well, okay, it’s sort of snub-nosed. But it’s a tight car.”

  “If I were going for a sports car, I’d go with the Maserati. I test-drove one of those 3200 convertibles last year, and you’d like it.”

  Tommy’s laughter was incredulous. “Come on, they’re practically handmade. What if you were going to buy a regular sports car, one that didn’t cost half a million?”

  “I’d go for the Corvette. One of the Zs. You know, buy American.”

  “I don’t know. It looks good, but—”

  I opened my eyes before Tommy could get into why a $70,000 car just wasn’t quite good enough for him. He was sitting on the window ledge, silhouetted by the sunlight. The window was closed, so I didn’t have to shove him aside and latch it. Just as well. “Hi, honey,” I said.

  “Mom.” He came over to kiss me. In front of someone else. Wow. “That was scary, huh?”

  “Yeah. You did good, though. You didn’t panic.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t. Hey, this is the guy who was there that night.”

  Mike was standing there near the door, watching me.

  “I remember. In fact, honey, I meant to tell you. This is Dr. Warren.” I resorted to that ambiguous phrase. “We’re going out.”

  “You are?” He turned to regard Mike. “Shoot. I thought you were a stranger who just came by. I was going to, you know, recommend you for that lifesaver award the mayor gives.”

  “You can still do that,” Mike said.

  “Nah, it wouldn’t look good if you guys are going out. Speaking of which,” Tommy lowered his voice so only I could hear. “Mom, I texted Lily this morning and asked her to go steady, and she texted me right back saying yes.”

  That was all? No fireworks? No angst? I guess Tommy decided a guy who saved our lives was an okay date for me. Or maybe after his godfather turned out to be a murderer, Tommy wasn’t going to let anything bother him much. Or maybe now he was just too preoccupied with his own romantic life to bother with mine.

  Or maybe we were both growing up.

  “I thought you wanted life to stay the same for awhile, and here you are, going steady.”

  “Aw, come on, Mom. I’ve known Lily since I was three. Everybody always thought we were going steady already. None of her friends would go out with me because they considered me her property anyway. I’m going to go call her and tell her you’re okay.”

  After he loped out, Mike took my hand. “Another one bites the dust. But once your kid vanishes as a reason not to go crazy for me, you go and get shot just to get out of my deadline.”

  “Not a chance, buddy,” I said. “I’m holding you to it.”

  “It’s tomorrow, you know. So either you get better quick and get discharged, or we’ll have to get a padlock for the door. And then you’d really have a reason to sue me for exploitation.”

  “You’re fired.”

  “Not yet. I promised your surgeon I’d make sure you got up on crutches today.”

  He went to the closet, opening it and yanking out a medieval torture device. My leg started throbbing. “Do I have to?”

  “You know what happens to patients who don’t get out of bed? Blood clots and bedsores and Intensive Care psychosis.”

  “Intensive Care psychosis? You’re making that up.”

  “Nope. I was just dealing with a case this morning. It’s when the unreality of high-tech hospital treatment gets overwhelming, and the patient starts hallucinating.”

  That would account for Wanda and her makeup mirror. “I really have to walk? Can I have some more pain killer first?”

  “You’ve had enough. Sit up and slide your legs over the side.”

  This was actually more pleasant than I might have imagined, maybe because it was Mike’s hands doing the sliding. “Do you help other patients like this?”

  “Nope. You get the VIP treatment. I’m hoping it will ward off that malpractice suit you’re planning to restore your finances. Put your good foot on the floor.”

  I was wearing socks instead of slippers, so I had to grab at Mike to keep from slipping. Well, maybe I could have managed to stay upright, but why waste an opportunity? Then I looked down, and that was my mistake. It wasn’t vertigo but my leg wound up an inch or more thick in gauze that dizzied me. I sat back quick on the edge of the bed, Mike steadying me with his hand.

  “Take your time.”

  “Okay. I’ll just do it lying down. Come back in an hour or so.”

  In the end, it was only a minute or so before I was standing again on one foot, leaning against Mike, his arm strong around my waist. “We’ll take it slower now. When you’re used to standing, we can move on to walking.”

  “If you insist.” I gazed with longing at the wheelchair. But I didn’t want bedsores, or blood clots, or especially that ICU psychosis. My life was crazy enough already. I leaned my head against him. “Mike, I meant it. I’m not ready to get serious. And I don’t think you are either.”

  “Why are you telling me? Have I ever asked you?”

  I opened my mouth to retort, and then, slowly, closed it. “I don’t remember that you have.”

  “You’d remember.”

  “Oh.” I pushed away and stood there on one foot. So there. Not that I wanted to marry him or anything like that, but the least he could do was pretend he wanted to ask me. “I guess what my mother always said is true, then. A man doesn’t buy a cow when he gets the cream for free.”

  “What cream? I haven’t seen any. And let me tell you, after all this, I’m expecting Ben and Jerry’s high premium deluxe.”

  He said it as if he meant it. My knees—well, my knee—got weak, and I had to lean on him again. “You probably haven’t asked because I’ve always made it clear I’m not interested. And so you kept it sort of ambiguous. To give you deniability.”

  “Trust me.” He positioned one crutch under my arm and adjusted the height. “If and when I propose to you, it won’t be deniable or ambiguous or forgettable. And you won’t say no.”

  I wondered what he had planned. A memorable proposal. I could go for that. If and when, he said, but he was certain of acceptance. Cocky fellow. “You sure about that?”

  “I’m willing to take the risk. Or will be . . . if I get a sample of that cream you’re offering me.”

  “But I’m a bad bet for you. I sort of resolved that—” this was embarrassing. It made me sound like some weakling afraid of taking the same level of risk. But that was the way I’d felt ever since Don walked out. Now I could hardly look up at the man who deserved more than this. “That next time, I’d be the one who loved least.”

  “You can calibrate it like that? Just decide how much or how little you’re going to love?”

  “I thought I could.” I sighed. “Now I’m not so sure. I think you’re determined to make that difficult for me.”

  “You got it.” He handed me the other crutch. “Ready to take a hike now?”

  And as he held open the door, I hobbled into the future.

  (Please continue reading for more about the author.)

  About the Author

  Alicia Rasley grew up in the placid old mountains of SW Virginia. She was the second of eight children of a math professor and a scientist, and could rebel best by majoring in English. She teaches writing at a community college, and is a guest lecturer and writing advisor at a state university. Between sadistic bouts of grading papers, she hangs out and talks sentences with co-blogger Theresa at the Edittorrnt blog. She lives for semi-annual trips to England, and her children (
Andy, JJ, and surrogate daughter Kate) are gracious enough to travel there with her once in a while. She lives now in the flatlands of Indiana with her husband Jeff, who is also a writer and runs a foundation to benefit villages in Nepal. For a two-writer family, there is remarkably little artistic temperament. But the house is filled with crammed bookcases and overflowing magazine racks.