Leanne Davis - Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

by Natalie (Daughters Series #2)

  Oh, God. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel anything.

  No.

  That is all that enters my brain. That is all I can think to start shouting. Or whispering. Or crying. But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t even utter the word out loud. I just stare and stare. I just stand there, frozen. I stand there, destroyed. Bleeding.

  No.

  Blood seeps through my fingers where I clutch my stomach. Blood. So much of it goes drip–drop, drip–drop, splashing down on the ground under me. I glance down and my hand vanishes, as if it’s covered in a crimson cloth. So much blood.

  Still, I stand there, paralyzed.

  Is this me? Is that my blood? It’s so warm. That faint thought trickles from a weird spot in my brain. It’s so warm, it surprises me.

  I feel nothing. I don’t feel my wound at all. I see it. I see it all. But I can’t feel it. Is this what it feels like to die? Am I watching myself die? Is my spirit now floating above my body before going off and away? To heaven? To hell? Surely, not to hell. I was, or at least, I tried in earnest to be a good person. But now? Where will I go?

  I see who shot me. She’s standing right in front of me. Not even a bus length away. She stares at me, almost as shocked as I look at her. She wronged me. She destroyed my life. How could she shoot me?

  I don’t know.

  The world starts to shift. I fall to my knees. Shit. I feel that. Through it all, I feel the severe thump when my knees crash to the concrete. The colors swirl, browns and greens and grays and blues, so much blue. Trees, leaves, concrete, buildings and sky. Sky everywhere now over me. Faces are all gone. She is gone. I am gone.

  Sam.

  Sam’s face fills my mind’s eye. Oh, Sam. What will you do now? What will you do without me? What will you do about this awful event? Oh, Sam…

  No. No, Sam is gone. He’s gone. He’s not here.

  I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was wrong. I’m so sorry for myself most of all because it’s too late for being sorry. It’s too late for seeking forgiveness. It’s too late for living.

  I finally understand. Anything could have been fixed when I was still alive. Anything. But this? Death? It really is the end. It really is forever. Only now, in this last moment of my life, as the colors and sky turn gray and begin to fade to black, only now do I fully understand how much time I wasted in my life. As the black pinpricks take over my vision, and my eyes start to close, I understand. This is actually the end.

  Like always, my need to be right cost me every last chance I had to be happy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sam

  The first time I really listened to Natalie’s plan to become a police officer was only days after our first kiss. The kiss that started all of this. We kept meeting in secret that summer, at my parents’ apartment after everyone fell asleep. We’d make–out. And make–out. And make–out. I knew Natalie had been having sex since she was seventeen and I was too. But we waited several months before we did it with each other. It was hot. Those long nights of that summer where only we knew what was going on, we waited and stared at each other in smoldering desire all evening, trying to conceal the urges our bodies craved. We denied ourselves, and totally became entrenched with each other. All the waiting and longing made us connect even better.

  She talked about the police academy and her rigorous training with the same excitement that I used to see when she beat me in a race or sport. It was the first time in years that I saw her have a real plan, and something that actually fit her. As much as my schooling and newfound friends suited me, I had to admit her idea totally suited her.

  It never really occurred to me how dangerous such a career could be. It was something I only started to consider after I got older. I suppose all young people believe they’re immortal, and maturity eventually proves them wrong. She faces violent people, sometimes on a daily basis who react in unpredictable and unforeseen ways. There are also drugs and violence and guns and knives to confront every day at work. As I got older, I thought more about it. But it still carries a surreal quality to me. Abstract. Yes, she could get hurt in the line of duty. But I believed it was far more likely that random violence would touch my life before she could get hurt on the job. Statistics favored her career, and I thought she wouldn’t be in any real danger. I looked up the odds years ago, and from what I could find, between one and two hundred officer–related shooting deaths occur per year with a few spikes in that figure, here and there. For the close to a million people employed in law enforcement in the United States, I should worry more about heart disease or cancer before thinking Natalie could die while on duty each day. It’s all a mental game. Learning the facts helped soothe my anxiety.

  She is impressive. I never once denied that. She’s physically superior and stronger than most men I know. She’s articulate and well-spoken and she knows her opinions and speaks her mind. Not once has she backed down from any argument. To do her job, she has developed a strong sense of right and wrong and she rarely waffles on it. I admire her defined sense of order and justice. And she spends one day a week at the shooting range, making her the second best shot in her precinct. Not good enough for her, however, and she has an ongoing, private contest with the guy in the number one slot. So I know she can handle her weapons. I also know she’s calm and solid in emergencies. I’m not. I know she’s a far better choice for a cop than I could ever dream of being.

  I really never had any cause to worry about her. She seems unstoppable to me.

  Until the day she wasn’t.

  It was three–fourteen on a Tuesday. I spent the sunny, pleasant afternoon tackling my morning graffiti and doing some light chores around the park. I was currently working with a team of basketball players at the youth center. There is no actual “team,” just some regular teens who often come there to use the facility. When my cell phone rings, I ignore it. When I finally look up and see an officer coming into the gym, he is looking around. I stop the basketball game. This isn’t just a random check, or a friendly visit to the youth of the neighborhood. It is an officer named Heisson whom I’ve met a few times having drinks with Natalie. His face is ashen. His jaw clenches as he straightens his posture.

  My stomach drops. My extremities go numb. No! Fuck no! I nearly fall to my knees. They are shaking. Natalie. It’s Natalie. He’s here to notify me… to let the next of kin know… because for now, legally, I’m still her next of kin.

  I start shaking my head when he spots me. I don’t really hear him. He suddenly grabs me by my shoulders and gives me a gentle shake. “She’s alive. Okay? She’s alive. She was shot, but help arrived almost immediately. It’s a stomach wound. They… it won’t be fatal. You’ll see. But it is gravely serious. Do you hear me, Sam? She’s alive. Okay?”

  I nod my head in comprehension, but close my eyes at the nausea and dizziness I instantly feel. Sucking in a long breath, I open my eyes. She would never fall apart. Not now. Only afterwards. Only after she did what was expected of her, with a stoicism and efficiency that everyone else can only envy. I take a cue from her and straighten my spine. My thoughts chant over and over She isn’t dead, and I cling to that mantra. She’s alive. It’s not fatal. But all my heart seems to repeat is She was shot.

  I go, obviously, with Heisson to the hospital. There I find my wife in surgery. I pace the reception area. The hospital floor is flooded with policemen and women. Some are in uniform, some in street clothes. Some wear the more professional attire of support staff. I don’t recognize three fourths of them. But I know. I get it. They are here for one of their own. Natalie is one of their best. Knowing that, my heart simply swells until it threatens to explode from my pride in her. I hang my head to hide my wimpy tears. None of these resolute people would cry. But I am. The stress of it and the shock are pretty overwhelming, but so is the profound effect she has on those around her. I see an entire community of professionals.

  Heisson tells me what happened. The woman who shot Natalie was insta
ntly subdued and arrested. She used an unregistered S&W M&P Bodyguard .38 Special. A small revolver, I’m told, and often carried by women. It happened to catch Natalie just at the edge of her ballistic vest and entered her pretty low on her belly area. They immediately apprehended the woman and were confident of a conviction if she could be proven sane. She appears to be severely mentally ill, however, so there is a good chance that could alter her trial and sentencing. I know Natalie often talks about mental illness and how she often comes into contact with it on the job. The situations can be highly unstable. But she feels a huge amount of sympathy and compassion for the victims who suffer from it. More so probably, since her dad got ill and she personally witnessed his slow deterioration, which so changed and altered him. Something over which he has no control. So I don’t know how comforting that fact will be to Natalie. She doesn’t see mental illness and violence as anything cut and dried anymore.

  But as for the officers here? It’s good news. It fairly soothes and helps many around me. They need that semblance of order. Right versus wrong and justice for all. I just want my wife to live. I just want another chance to be with her again. No, that’s too selfish of me. I just want her to live and be healthy and strong. I want her to live however she wants and for her life to be happy. I’m scared. My hands are cold. My thoughts are scattered. I feel like a fraud. Most don’t know we are separated or why. She is that private. It shames me to get so much feedback and consideration from people who respect and work with Natalie, when all the while, I’m the only one who betrayed her.

  When she comes out of surgery, I am the first one the doctors report to. All I can concentrate on is she’s alive! By then, my family shows up and Dustin and my dad take on all the stress of acting responsible. I wearily fall on a chair, and bury my head in my hands.

  Natalie

  I wake up. There is a machine beside me. Blip… blip, it goes. Others click and clack. It’s so noisy, and constant. Where am I? I remember screaming. Falling. Blood. I cringe and try to open my eyes. It must mean I’m still alive. That’s my profound thought as I come to. I hear the machine monitoring my life signs so I must be alive. I hear someone’s shoe scuffling across the floor. I blink and open my eyes to a light. And then… I see Sam’s face over me.

  “Natalie?” His eyes are red and his voice is hoarse and scratchy. He’s been crying. I’ve only ever seen Sam cry a few times: when my mom died, when his grandfather died, when we had to put my dad in the home… and when he cheated. But that was more like just tearing up. Not this. He leans over me, so gently, holding my hand. He is sobbing against the side of me. He says my name over and over again.

  It must be bad. He’s worried I might die. He finally lifts his head off the bed and his liquid–filled eyes stare into my face. He’s so beautiful. Like the sun breaking through the clouds after the worst storm. That’s what his face does to me. Cheesy? Sentimental? Maybe. But that’s where I’m at. I almost died, and I think I really appreciate the gravity of knowing that.

  I shuffle around and point at my throat.

  It hurts. There is a tube stuck in my throat. He notices that and suddenly disappears. He comes back with a doctor, or at least, someone in scrubs, who starts fussing over me. The tech or the doc asks me questions I can’t answer as he starts to work around me. I feel exhausted and confused. I can’t keep my eyes open. I fade in and out, in and out. I’m doped up. I must be. I can’t think. I don’t know what I feel physically… mentally… or emotionally. But every time I open my eyes, I see Sam…

  ****

  I don’t know how much time passes before the tube is taken out of my throat. I try to talk, but it takes a few hours, or is it a day? I don’t know. My sense of time is hazy as I fade in and out. But alone now with Sam, I’m desperate to talk. My throat on fire, I whisper, “S—”

  He leans closer. “Shh. Don’t talk.” I nod, my eyes pleading. I must say what happened. I fell to the ground and was sure I was dying. I need to say that to him.

  “I… tell… you… something…” Burning. Aching. I can’t raise the volume.

  “You forgive me? You love me? Please don’t say you hate me or want me to leave. Please, Nat. Not after this.”

  “Love,” I whisper. It’s a struggle to get the words out. Tears fill his eyes and he nods his head over and over as if taking it all in. “Not forgive.”

  He jerks up and his eyes go round. “That’s okay, I understand.”

  “No. I s-sorry too. For what I did. For the baby stuff.”

  My voice is warming up. Or I just need to get this out. He cups my jaw in his hands. “We’ll talk about it all later. It only matters that you’re alive.” Tears gather in his eyes. He touches my chin. “You should have seen how many people came here. I think every cop within a fifty–mile radius showed up to pay their respects. And Dustin and my parents and…”

  “You. I—”

  “Don’t worry; nothing matters right now. Just you. Just getting better.”

  “Matters. I don’t forgive…you,” I croak out. His expression falls, but he nods. He is trying to hold in his shock and hurt. I move my fingers, but can barely lift them three inches off the bed. He notices and grabs them in his hand. “But… I want to. I want to learn how to. And… I want you to learn how to forgive me.”

  He stills. I finally have his full attention and he quits trying to quiet me with banal platitudes. “From the ground up, Sam. We start over and rebuild this all. We figure out the baby thing and cheating and trust and we do it all together. Slowly. It will be hard. It will be exhausting.”

  He is gripping my hand and nearly clinging to the side of me. He whispers to me, his eyes still glazed in tears, “I’m there, Nat. Ground up. Forever.”

  I fall back on the pillow, too exhausted to say anymore. I look at him and he’s still staring at me. We don’t smile. We don’t talk. There are no more words. Just staring. Only it’s not awkward. It goes on for long minutes. Funny how trauma and a close scrape with death can so quickly and easily put things into perspective when all the talking in the world cannot.

  He brushes his hand on my forehead and into my hair. Still staring, he says in the softest, whisper, “I love you.”

  I know that. I think I’ve always known it. But I never believed it. Not to the extent that he loves me as desperately as I do him. And of course, I don’t like to desperately need or want anyone. So it probably made me resentful. But seeing him now, I feel his desperation for me to be okay, and as strong as I feel my own heart beating, I finally realize, somehow, I am the love of his life.

  I am barely out of surgery. That is all I can manage to tell him as my strength begins to wane. But it is the greatest epiphany of my life. After being shot, as I was fading from consciousness, believing my mortality was over… at that very moment, I wanted nothing more than to learn to forgive the man I love.

  Chapter Twenty

  Natalie

  I started to heal and soon came out of the ICU. I was assigned a regular hospital room for several weeks and later went on to a rehabilitation center. Sam was my point person. He kept my sisters, his family and Jessie updated on my progress. I didn’t want to talk to anyone else. I took the visits from the officers I worked with, however, which helped lift my spirits. I was amazed by how much support I received.

  But I didn’t want anyone close to me. Except Sam. I let him very close.

  While trying to make my way a little farther around the hallway a few weeks later, I glanced up since I sensed someone watching me. I lift up my head and spot Jessie. She is standing about half the length down the hospital corridor, watching my progress. When her gaze meets mine, I notice all the fear, concern and uncertainty she must feel. She isn’t sure how I feel about her being here. I close my eyes, and allow a wave of dizziness to wash over me. That’s all it takes before I suddenly feel her arms and shoulder as she nearly catches me from falling. I open my eyes and we stare at each other with the same eyes. I study her face and for the first time, feel
a kind of bump from my heart in my chest. I recognize something in her. Is it familiarity now that I met her? Or the way her eyes look exactly like mine? Or is it… just because she is here and I feel so vulnerable still? I feel almost like a research rat being let loose and running through a maze, when up until now, I was the damn scientist putting the rat in the maze.

  “What are you doing here? I told you not to come,” I whisper. It takes too much energy to utter more than a whisper. I am so weak, it scares me. I’ve never before felt so out of control, or so unable to buck up and overcome a physical ailment or injury.

  Her gaze searches my face and her entire expression changes as something shines in her eyes. Her tears glisten and I can read her feelings on her face, and how she feels towards me. “You were shot. Bleeding. Your blood is something we share. I know you don’t need me, Natalie, but I think I need to be here for myself. So I came. The girls want to come too. I’d like to stay with you, for however long you need home care. I’m pretty good at this stuff. I can take care of you for however long you need it. Let me, please? Just let me take care of you. Let me, for now, just this once, be a mother to you.”

  Normally, my back would stiffen in disdain at her suggestion that I need a mother. Or that I’m weak and incapable of caring for myself. Do I need her? I don’t have it in me anymore to say no. Something has shifted, and it goes all the way down inside my very core. The fighting me, with the fierce need for independence, seems to be malfunctioning. Gratefully, I lean on her small stature. I allow more of my weight on her until finally, after all these years, and all my life, I am hugging my mother. “Okay,” I whisper. My head is resting on her shoulder and I feel her lungs sighing a deep breath. She holds me so gently and with such care.

  “Okay.” Her tone is much stronger and snappier than mine. She seems shocked… as well as pleased by my compliance.

  She carefully leads me back into my room without another mushy word. It’s all business from there. I appreciate that about Jessie. She doesn’t ever try to force a lot of sentiment on me. She takes care of me for several weeks, and Christina, Melissa and Emily all visit on separate occasions so as to not overwhelm me, or make my miniscule apartment too overcrowded. It’s crazy to have sisters, especially in the plural. I want to feel better, and I look forward to exploring the city with them as each one discovers little pockets of interest while they stay with me. I tell them the best places to go while longing for the day when I’ll feel strong enough to escort them there myself. Terms like next time, and next year and when you come next… all those positive and hopeful aspirations soon become a basic part of my vocabulary with these women. They once were strangers, but now they’re my sisters and they are all starting to feel very special to me.