Tribute

by Nora Roberts

  “For some, anything connected to my grandmother is valuable. Stupid, stupid to think I could turn it all around, make it new.” Make it mine, she thought. Stupid.

  “Was anything taken?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Mr. Chensky went out at approximately eight last evening, to a bar. You don’t have the name of the bar—”

  “No, I don’t have the name of the bar. You can ask Shanna Stiles. And if you’re thinking he was drunk and somehow bashed himself on the back of the head, smashed his face into the concrete and knocked his bike on top of him, you’re wrong. Steve wouldn’t get on his bike drunk. You can ask Shanna or anyone else who was in the bar last night about that.”

  “I’m going to do that, Miss McGowan, and if it’s all right with you, I’ll go over and have a look at your barn.”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “I hope your friend comes through okay. I’ll be in touch,” he added as he rose.

  Ford watched him cross to the nurses’ station, take out a card.

  “He thinks it was drunken clumsiness, or that Steve was stoned and stupid.”

  “Maybe he does.” Ford turned back to Cilla. “Maybe. But he’s still going to look at things, talk to people. And Steve can fill in the blanks when he’s able.”

  “He could die. They don’t have to tell me that for me to know it. He might never wake up.” Her lips trembled before she managed to firm them. “And I keep seeing him in there, in this scene out of Grey’s Anatomy, with the interns up there in that glass-walled balcony looking down at Steve. And everybody’s thinking more about sex than they are about Steve.”

  Ford took her face in his hands. “People do their jobs while they think about sex. All the time. Otherwise nothing would ever get done.” When she let out a weak laugh, he kissed her forehead. “Let’s take a walk, get some air.”

  “I shouldn’t leave. I need to be here.”

  “It’s going to be a while. Let’s clear the head, hunt up some decent coffee.”

  “Okay. A few minutes. You don’t have to stay.” She looked down at her hand as they walked to the elevator, saw it was caught in his again. “I wasn’t thinking. You don’t have to stay. You barely know Steve.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I do know him, and I like him. Anyway, I won’t leave you alone.”

  She said nothing, couldn’t, as they rode down. Her eyes stung, wanted to flood. Her body ached to turn into his, press against the solidity of him, be enfolded. Safe. She could hold on there, she thought. Be allowed to hold on.

  “You want food?” he asked as they stepped out at the lobby level.

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Probably still sucks anyway.”

  “Still?”

  “My dad was in for a couple days a few years ago, so I choked down the cafeteria fare a time or two. It hadn’t improved since I was a kid and did my own time.”

  “What were you in for?”

  “Overnight observation—concussion, broken arm. I, uh, got the idea to put these Velcro strips on my snow gloves and socks. Thought I’d be able to climb up and down buildings like Spider-Man. Fortunately my bedroom window wasn’t that high up.”

  “Maybe you should’ve tried climbing up before climbing down.”

  “Hindsight.”

  “You’re taking my mind off Steve, and I appreciate it. But—”

  “Five minutes,” Ford said as he drew her outside. “Fresh air.”

  “Ford?”

  Cilla looked over as he did toward the pretty woman wearing a suit of powerful red. A laugh played over lips painted the same bold color, while she drew off sunglasses to reveal eyes of deep, dark brown.

  Her arms opened wide, then closed around Ford in a hard, proprietary hug. She added sound effects, Cilla noted, a low mmmmmMM! before she broke off, shook back the short swing of glossy brown hair. “It’s been ages!”

  “A while,” Ford agreed. “You look seriously great.”

  “I do my best.” She turned those eyes, those smiling lips on Cilla. “Hi there.”

  “Cilla, this is Brian’s mom, Cathy Morrow. Bri’s doing a job for Cilla.”

  “Of course,” Cathy said. “Janet Hardy’s granddaughter. I knew her a little. You certainly have the look of her. And you’re fixing up the old farm.”

  “Yes.” It was surreal, the conversation. Cilla thought of it as lines from a play. “Brian’s a big help. He’s talented.”

  “That’s my boy. What are y’all doing here?”

  “Cilla’s friend’s in surgery. There was an accident.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” The bright, flirtatious smile transformed into a look of concern. “Is there anything I can do?” Cathy’s arm went around Cilla in a gesture so genuine, Cilla leaned into it instinctively.

  “We’re just . . . waiting.”

  “The worst. The waiting. Listen, I volunteer here a couple of days a week, and I head a couple of the fund-raising committees. I know a lot of the staff. Who’s his surgeon?”

  “I don’t know. It happened so fast.”

  “Why don’t I find out, see if I can get you some information? I don’t know why they don’t understand we do better if we know things.”

  The offer was like water on a burning throat. “Could you?”

  “I can sure try. Come on, honey. You want some coffee, some water? No, I’ll tell you what. Ford, run on down and get Cilla a ginger ale.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you back upstairs. You’re in good hands.”

  It felt like it. For the first time in too long to remember, Cilla felt as if it was okay to just let go and allow somebody else to take charge.

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “We don’t know, exactly. That’s part of the problem.”

  “Well, we’ll find out what we can.” Cathy gave Cilla a comforting squeeze as they crowded onto an elevator with visitors and flowers and Mylar balloons. “What’s his name?”

  “Steve. Steven Chensky.”

  Cathy took out a red leather notebook and a silver pen to note it down. “How long’s he been in?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve lost track. We got here about eight, I think, into the ER, and he was there for a little while before they brought him up. Maybe an hour ago?”

  “I know that seems long, but it’s not, really. Here now.” Cathy patted Cilla on the back when the elevator doors opened. “You go on and sit, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t you give it a thought.”

  Cilla walked back to the waiting room but didn’t sit. She didn’t want to sit with the others who were waiting for word on a friend, on a loved one. On life and death. She wished for a window. Whose idea had it been to design an interior waiting room with no windows? Didn’t they understand people needed to stare out? To will their minds outside the room?

  “Hey.” Ford stepped up beside her with a large go-cup.

  “Thanks.”

  “Cathy’s talking to people.”

  “It’s very kind of her. She’s very fond of you. When she first came up, I thought she was an old girlfriend.”

  “Man.” Mortification flashed. “She’s a mom. She’s Brian’s mom.”

  “A lot of men go for older women, sport. And she looks really good.”

  “Mom,” Ford repeated. “Brian’s mom.”

  Cilla started to smile, then tensed when Cathy stepped in.

  “First, Dr. North is operating,” Cathy began in brisk, practical tones that were enormously comforting. “He’s one of the best. You’re very, very lucky there.”

  “Okay.” Cilla’s breath eased out. “All right.”

  “Next, do you want all the medical terms, the jargon?” Cathy held up her notebook.

  “I . . . No. No, I want, just, to know.”

  “He’s holding his own. He’s stable. It’s going to be another couple of hours, at least. And there are other injuries
that need to be addressed.” She flipped the book open now. “Two broken ribs. His nose and left cheekbone were broken, and his kidney’s bruised. His head injuries are the most serious, and Dr. North’s working on him. He’s young, fit, healthy, and those factors are in his favor.”

  “Okay.” Cilla nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Why don’t I check back in a little while?” Cathy took Cilla’s hand.

  “I appreciate it, Mrs. Morrow, very much.”

  “Cathy. And it’s nothing. Take care of her,” she said to Ford, and left them alone.

  “I’m going to go out, call the house. Let everyone know what’s going on.”

  “I did that,” Ford told her, “when I got your drink. But we can do an update.”

  They walked. They sat. They stared at the waiting room TV someone had tuned to CNN. As the projected couple of hours became a few, Cathy came back in.

  “He’s out of surgery. Dr. North will come in to talk to you.”

  “He’s—”

  “They won’t tell me much right now, except that he made it through. That’s a good thing. Ford, you make sure Cilla has my number. You call me if you need anything. All right?”

  “Yes.” Cilla’s fingers tightened like wires on Ford’s when the man in green scrubs paused in the doorway. His gaze scanned the room, paused on Cathy with a flicker of acknowledgment. And Cathy’s hand rested briefly on Cilla’s shoulder.

  “You call,” she repeated, and moved away as the doctor crossed the room.

  “Miss McGowan?”

  “Yes. Yes. Steve?”

  North sat. His face looked quiet, Cilla thought. Almost serene, and smooth, smooth as brown velvet. And he angled his body toward hers, kept his dark eyes on her face as he spoke.

  “Steve suffered two skull fractures. A linear fracture here,” he said, running his finger along the top of his forehead. “That’s a break in the bone that doesn’t cause the bone to shift. Those usually heal on their own. But the second was a break here.” Now he held his hand to the base of his skull. “A basilar fracture. And this more severe break caused bruising of his brain, and bleeding.”

  “You fixed him.”

  “He came through the surgery. He’s going to need further tests. We’ll monitor the pressure inside his skull in the ICU with a device I inserted during surgery. When the swelling goes down, we’ll remove it. He has a good chance.”

  “A good chance,” she repeated.

  “There could be brain damage, temporary or permanent. It’s too soon to tell. Right now, we wait and we monitor. He’s in a coma. His heart is very strong.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “He has a good chance,” North repeated. “Does he have family?”

  “Not here. Just me. Can I see him?”

  “Someone will come in to take you up to ICU shortly.”

  When they did, she stared down at him. His face under the clouds and streams of bruises was deathly pale. It wasn’t right, was all she could think. None of this was right. He didn’t even look like Steve with those blackened, sunken eyes, and his nose all swollen, and the white bandages around his head.

  They’d taken his earring off. Why did they do that?

  He didn’t look like Steve.

  She took the small silver hoop out of her ear and, bending over him, fixed it to his. And brushed his bruised cheek with a kiss.

  “That’s better now,” she whispered. “That’s better. I’m going to be here, okay?” Lifting his hand, she kissed his fingers. “Even when I’m not here, I’ll be here. You don’t get to leave. That’s the rule. You don’t get to leave me.”

  She stayed, holding his hand, until the nurse shooed her out.

  Part Two

  REHAB

  Change your opinions,

  keep to your principles;

  Change your leaves,

  keep intact your roots.

  —VICTOR HUGO

  ELEVEN

  We can take shifts.” Ford glanced over at Cilla as he drove. She hadn’t objected when he insisted she needed to go home, get some rest, have a meal. And that worried him. “They’re pretty strict in ICU anyway, and don’t let you hang out very long, so we’ll take shifts. Between you and me, Shanna and some of the guys, we’ll cover it.”

  “They don’t know how long he’ll be in a coma. It could be hours, or days, and that’s if—”

  “When. We’re going with when.”

  “I’ve never had a very optimistic nature.”

  “That’s okay.” He tried to find a tone between firm and sympathetic. “I’ve got one and you can borrow a piece.”

  “It looked like he’d been beaten. Just beaten.”

  “It’s the skull fracture. I talked to one of the nurses when you were in with him. It’s part of it.” Knowing it, even knowing it, he thought, hadn’t dulled the shock when he’d been allowed a minute with Steve. “So’s the coma. The coma’s not a bad thing, Cilla. It’s giving his body a chance to heal. It’s focusing.”

  “You do have plenty of optimistic pieces. But this isn’t a comic book where the good guy pulls it out every time. Even if—or we can go with your rainbow when—he comes out of it, there could be brain damage.”

  He’d gotten that, too, but saw no point in pushing through to worst-case scenario. “In my rainbow world, and in your darker version, the brain relearns. It’s a clever bastard.”

  “I didn’t get the goddamn padlock.”

  “If somebody got in the barn and went at Steve, why do you think a padlock would’ve kept them out?”

  She curled her fingers into her palms as they approached her drive. “I took down the gates. And planted fucking trees.”

  “Yeah, I figure the trees are what did it. Makes it all your fault.” He waited for her to take a shot at him—better, to his mind, than wallowing. But she said nothing. “Okay, again, if someone wanted in, how would a couple of wrought-iron panels stop them? What happened to pessimism?”

  She only shook her head and stared at the house. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. That crazy old man was probably right. The place is cursed. My uncle died, my grandmother, and now Steve may die. For what? So I can buff and polish, paint and trim this place? Looking for that link, that click, that connection with my grandmother because I’ve got none with my own mother? What’s the point? She’s dead, so what’s the point?”

  “Identity.” Ford gripped her arm before she could push the car door open. “How can we know who we really are until we know where we came from, and overcome it, build on it or accept it?”

  “I know who I am.” She wrenched free, shoved the door open. Slammed it behind her.

  “No, you really don’t,” Ford responded.

  She strode around the side of the house. Work, she thought, a couple hours of sweaty work, then she’d clean up and go back to the