Fireside

by Cate Culpepper

  “Honest, Cleo, there has been decent music recorded since 1969.” Mac had to raise her voice to be heard over Creedence’s wailing of “Bad Moon Rising.”

  Cleo ignored her, jutting her chin to the beat. She shifted and dug a folded list out of her back pocket, peering at it between glances at the twisting road. “What, Abby has you on Similac now?”

  “That’s for our new mother’s baby, in West Two.”

  “Top Ramen. Breakfast cereal. Salad greens. Ooh, look, a leash!” Cleo rattled the page. “How much am I gonna have to pay to find out what Abby wants with a leash?”

  “It’s for Lena. For the puppy Inez plans to give her for her birthday, because we found out her new apartment complex accepts puppies.” Mac thought she’d pulled off an excellent imitation of Danny when she was in exasperation mode.

  Cleo snorted cheerfully. “Right.”

  Mac grinned. “What snapped your frilly garters today, Cleopatra? You’re in rare form.”

  Cleo shifted again and rummaged in her other pocket, and Mac put a steadying hand on the steering wheel. Traffic was pretty light considering the time of day, but Cleo tended to be lead-footed on the gas. Finally she pulled out a small, cream white envelope and passed it to Mac. “Looky, the school sent us three weeks’ notice.”

  “Hey!” Mac studied the embossed message on the card. “Is this a done deal?”

  “It is unless she bombs calculus tomorrow.” Cleo bounced lightly in her seat, the springs beneath them creaking. “Graduation ceremony, four o’clock p.m., May thirtieth.”

  “That’s fantastic, amiga.” Mac clapped Cleo’s shoulder. “This calls for a party.”

  “Or two. Danny turns eighteen the same week as her graduation. Guess what she’s asked for.”

  “What?”

  “A Ferrari. Guess what else. She wants a slumber party downstairs in front of the fireplace—you, me, Abby, Vivian, Mr. Vivian, everybody.”

  “Hey, that sounds kind of fun.”

  “We can set up cots for Scratch and Viv.” Cleo’s face softened as the pavement hummed beneath them. “You know, Macky-wai, when this time came, I thought it would be all about Lily, for me. About being sad for her, that she’s not here to see Danny graduate. And that’s there. But man, Mac, mostly I’m just damn happy for this kid. I’m so proud of her.”

  “You should be. I’m damn happy for Danny that she’ll have you in the audience.”

  “Thanks.” Cleo shrugged. “Makes me feel like a mom again.”

  Mac rested her elbow on the window of the Jeep and watched the countryside whistle by, remembering her own high school graduation. Her father had been there, clicking his camera at her every time she breathed. Mac still had a photo of them together, she in a blue gown, his arm around her shoulders.

  Most pictures from the major events in Mac’s childhood featured only her and her father. Her mother had often been hospitalized, battling a brutal, recurrent depression that no given combination of meds eased for long.

  She’d been better, in the years since Mac left home; the hospitalizations were further and further apart. When Mac visited her parents’ small adobe house outside Albuquerque now, her mother was the funny, gracious and loving woman she remembered from her family’s best times together.

  A sudden image appeared in her mind, a vision of taking Abby to New Mexico to meet her folks. Mac didn’t let herself question the fantasy, she just let it evolve. Her mom would make her immortal green chile enchiladas. Abby would convince her dad to take his damn blood pressure medication. The four of them would pack a basket with leftovers and picnic by the Rio Grande.

  “Hey, no fantasies about ravishing lady-doctors in my G-rated Jeep.” Cleo’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Danny rides in here sometimes.”

  “What, are you reading minds now?”

  “No trick to it, you had that sickly sweet smile plastered on your face.” Cleo glanced at her as she accelerated around a slow pickup truck. “So. You taking that little talk we had a few weeks back to heart, Mac?”

  Mac remembered it well. “Yeah, the night you left me no ham. I’ve been thinking about that talk. Abby and I were just discussing it.”

  “Good. Thinking’s good. Discussion’s good. But you did ask me for my sage opinion, and I don’t believe I advised you to engage your brain. That’s your hang-up sometimes, Mac, you and Abby both. You think too much.” Cleo patted Mac’s belt. “Cojones.”

  Mac frowned. “I should engage my cojones?”

  “Absolutely. There comes a day when you’ve thought things into a stupor, and it’s time to make a choice. It’s usually a little scary, whenever that time comes. So when it does, hell yes, engage your cojones. Be brave.”

  “Why does that sound so easy, when you say it?” Mac rubbed her eyes. “You were right, it wasn’t easy for Abby. It’s not easy for—”

  “Mac!”

  Mac’s eyes flew open to see Cleo staring hard at the rearview mirror. Her arm flashed across Mac’s chest to brace her, and then a crashing impact threw them both back against the seat.

  The Jeep careened wildly as Cleo cursed and fought to steady the wheel, and Mac clutched the dashboard, blanching as they slid narrowly past a honking van on their left. She whipped around to look out the back window just as Sam Sherrill’s truck caught up and hit them again.

  Mac gasped and absorbed the jolt, gripping the back of the seat. “It’s Sherrill.”

  “No shit!” Cleo fought the Jeep out of a harrowing skid on the narrow road. There was a steep drop-off on their right, and they swerved perilously close to it.

  Mac grit her teeth hard. “Gun it, if you can.”

  The big utility truck was only inches behind them again, its front grill twisted and cracked. She could see Sherrill’s face through the windshield, his teeth bared in a rictus of glee rather than hate, which spooked her even more.

  “How does that fuck know Danny isn’t in here?” Cleo hissed, leaning on the accelerator, the Jeep’s motor thumping ominously now. “Tell me when he—”

  “Hang on!” Mac tried to brace her as the truck smashed into them again, and this time two cars were coming in the opposite lane. Cleo wrenched the wheel to miss them, and the momentum was too much. The steep embankment that bordered the right side of the road swam sickly into Mac’s view, and for ten breathless seconds they skimmed the edge of it.

  Then Sherrill struck them for the last time, and his truck hurtled after the Jeep, over the crumbling edge and down.

  Mac registered the first impact, a heavy detonation of airbags and steel and stone—a queasy rolling sensation, and then nothing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The chemical smell of disinfectant actually comforted Abby, as did the bright lighting and white tile of the critical care unit’s hallway, which she walked calmly, as if her heart weren’t about to explode from her chest. She donned the white jacket with its plastic ID badge quickly, to ward off unnecessary questions.

  Mac was alive and breathing and she was here, and Abby knew how to take care of her here. She had privileges to practice at Mary Washington Hospital, and knew the staff of the Neuro unit upstairs was competent and vigilant. She had left Mac in good hands. But she had left her, because she needed to see Cleo, and every cell of Abby’s body screamed to go back.

  “Abby.”

  She stepped back and swept open the curtain to a cubicle, and saw Cleo sitting up in an elevated white bed, her left leg encased thigh to ankle in a stabilizing brace. Abby almost burst into tears, a combination of relief at seeing her and the sheer terror of the last hour, but she contained herself. Cleo looked ashen and half dazed.

  “They won’t tell me much about Mac.” Cleo let Abby take her cold hand.

  “She’s still unconscious, honey.” Abby examined the IV tube taped to Cleo’s inner arm and checked the drip, plain glucose to keep her hydrated. “But we expect her to wake up soon. Her vitals are good. She has three broken ribs, on her right side. But she’ll be all right
, I’m sure of it.”

  “Why is she still unconscious?” Cleo hadn’t softened an inch. “Abby, it’s been hours.”

  “Well, she took a bad blow to the head. The CAT scan showed subdural bleeding, and after they operated to control it, they left a shunt in to relieve the pressure—”

  “Ah, Jesus.” Cleo rubbed her eyes.

  “I know. But the surgeon was pleased with the results, and things look good for a complete recovery. I’m with you, though, I’ll feel much better when she wakes up.” Abby looked down at the brace and winced. “Can we talk about you for a moment?”

  “It’s broken in two places.” Cleo scowled and shifted on the bed. “Guy said I was lucky I didn’t need surgery to set it, they’re just hairline fractures. I’m waiting for some orthopedic asshole to take a look at the x-rays.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Hell, yeah, but they put something in the IV earlier that makes me not care.” Cleo’s eyes darkened again. “What about Danny?”

  “She’s home.” Abby patted Cleo’s arm. “Vivian and Scratch are with her.”

  Cleo was silent a moment. “Sam Sherrill is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “The cop at the scene told me, but he didn’t have to. I saw his truck. Cop said there were beer cans all over the cab. He was blitzed.”

  Abby nodded. She hadn’t seen the body, but she’d spoken with the ER physician who had signed it over to the morgue, and he had been honest. Sam Sherrill’s death had been neither immediate nor painless. He had bled out. Abby hoped Danny would never ask for details.

  “Does she know?” Cleo asked.

  “Not yet. Morning will be soon enough. You need to be there when she finds out.”

  “You think I’d be any better than Vivian at giving Danny this news?”

  “I think Danny will need her mother with her when she hears this news.”

  Breath sighed out of Cleo, and she lay back against the brace of pillows. “That kid’s lost too much for her tender years, Abby.”

  “Yes, she has. But Danny isn’t alone.” Abby leaned in and kissed Cleo’s forehead. “I want to take a look at your x-rays. Will you be all right?”

  “Fine, Ab, check the x-rays, but then get back to Mac, okay?” Cleo’s tone was both stern and pleading. “And come tell me the minute she wakes up.”

  “You know I will. Rest easy, honey. I’ll be back soon.”

  *

  Night had fallen sometime in the last few disorienting hours, and the hospital had emptied of its daily commerce. Abby could hear her steps echo in the hallway before she turned into the room where Mac lay, surrounded by banks of monitors. A nurse was standing by her bed, entering data in a handheld digital chart. The look she gave Abby when she joined her was sympathetic.

  “Still no response, Dr. Glenn.” The nurse handed Abby the chart, and she surveyed the latest entries. She nodded.

  “Keep a close watch on her readings from your station, please. I’ll stay with her and do regular neuro checks.”

  “Can I bring you some coffee? You might be in for a long night.”

  “Thank you, Karen. I’d appreciate that.” Abby didn’t particularly want or need the caffeine; she was alert to the point of trembling rigidity. But she did need badly to be alone with her patient, and fetching coffee would accomplish that. She eased onto the high chair next to the bed.

  “Hey.” She reached over the railing and rested her hand on Mac’s forearm. “Are you in there, Macawai? Open your eyes.”

  Mac’s dusky lashes lay still against her cheek. Her chest lifted and fell slowly beneath the neat blanket. There was a shallow scrape at the base of her jaw, but she looked otherwise untouched by the crash, a miracle in itself. But it was unnatural, seeing this strong, vital body, always so flush with energy, hushed and motionless now, and Abby’s stomach knotted.

  “Mac.” Abby lifted Mac’s hand in her own and held it against her breast. “You’re starting to scare me a little. Please, sweetheart. Look at me.”

  But Mac’s sleep continued, deep and relentless. Abby kissed the silver turquoise ring on her finger, then held her palm to her cheek.

  A few minutes later, she heard a slow step behind her.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on you, Abby. That nice young nurse allowed me to bring you this.” Scratch rested a steaming Styrofoam cup carefully on the table beside the bed, then lowered himself stiffly into the only other chair in the crowded room, at Mac’s other side. “I’m happy to say being an ex-pastor does help me circumvent visiting hours, when it’s important.”

  “Oh, Scratch. It’s good to see you.” Abby meant it. His calm demeanor loosened some of the fearful tightness in her gut. “I was going to call you again, soon. Vivian’s still with Danny, at Fireside?”

  “She is. She’ll pass the night there with her.” Scratch reached across Mac’s still form and patted Abby’s hand. “Danny only knows that our friends were in an accident. We passed on what you told us, that Cleo will be fine and Mac is being well looked after. Nothing about her father being involved.”

  “Danny’s father is dead, Scratch.”

  “Ah.” Scratch sat back in his chair and shook his grizzled head. “Samuel Sherrill was a poor, misguided monster of a man. May the good Lord forgive him, Abby, because I just can’t find that kind of grace in my heart tonight.”

  “I can’t either, I’m afraid.”

  They were silent, listening to the muted beeps of the monitors.

  “Well, Dr. Glenn,” Scratch said finally. “I came down to sit with Miss Cleo for a while, to keep you from wearing yourself out running back and forth. What can you tell me about this child here?” Scratch rested his long fingers on Mac’s smooth forehead, his touch tender as a father’s.

  “She’s so far away, Scratch.” Abby knew her worry showed in her voice, and she didn’t try to hide it. “She should have responded by now. She should be awake.”

  “Abby, Mac’s going to come back to us.” Scratch spoke with certainty. “The universe has too much need of this fine young woman to let her leave us now. Do you mind if I make an entreaty along those lines, on Mac’s behalf?”

  “Of course not,” Abby whispered. Prayer didn’t come as naturally to her as it did to Scratch, but she realized she’d been making fervent, silent entreaties of her own ever since the police called Fireside.

  Scratch lifted his head and closed his eyes, and his lips curved in a smile as he prayed, as if having an intimate talk with a close friend.

  Abby checked Mac’s pulse at the throat, and then she bowed her head, and tried to find words to describe what this woman meant to her. She wanted to explain things properly, to Scratch’s God or anyone else out there who would listen, but her tears started to fall at last, and she had to be content with letting Scratch speak for them both.

  *

  Mac wandered.

  Judging by the fog swirling around her, she thought she must be on her early morning walk, but it was a crazy, thick fog. The trees and shrubbery on all sides were barely visible through the billowing white mist, lit a diffuse blue by the dawn light. The air was so silent she could hear her footsteps in the snow.

  Had she awakened with Abby in her arms that morning? What did they have for breakfast? Mac frowned. She couldn’t remember, but she wasn’t hungry and she wasn’t cold, and she was out here in shirtsleeves. Snow blanketed the ground, but it hadn’t snowed hard in weeks. She stopped as a curving bank of trees appeared in front of her, and turned in a slow circle.

  She knew where she was. This was the grassy enclosure not far from Fireside, the cushioning arc of trees that had become Mac’s favorite retreat for reflection.

  Her gaze fell on something above her head, an object held in place between two twining branches.

  Mac stared at it, puzzled. Danny’s drawing, the one she had left behind for her dead mother, had disappeared without a trace, the very next time Mac had visited this spot. She didn’t know if it had been carried off by anim
als or blown away by a fierce wind, but in any case, it was gone…and now it was back.

  Mac stepped closer. The rolled drawing hadn’t just returned, it seemed perfect, untouched by these weeks in the elements. And the paper itself had changed. Mac had seen Danny tear the page from an ordinary drawing pad, but this scroll looked richer, finer, a creamy vellum held closed by a slender silk ribbon. Mac stretched on her toes and reached up to brush a finger across it. Definitely real.

  She heard the sound of flowing water and turned, startled. It wasn’t that water had been flowing ever since Mac walked into this strange grove, and she just became aware of it. The lapping of slow-running waves simply began out of the silence, and continued, and Mac’s disorientation grew. She knew the topography of the property pretty well now. There were no streams cutting through it. They were a good two miles from the nearest river.

  Mac couldn’t place the direction of the sound, and she started to walk out of the grove to try to find this mysterious creek. Then she stopped abruptly.

  A little girl was sitting cross-legged in the snow on the other side of the circle.

  Apparently she didn’t feel the cold either. She was dressed in the kind of skirt and blouse Mac’s mother had made her wear to school when she was very young. She sat slumped with her chin in her hands, peering up at Mac through dark, spiky bangs. Until Mac met her eyes, and then she sat up.

  They stared at each other in what seemed to be mutual astonishment.

  “Hey.” Mac’s voice shook. “Is it you?” She took a step toward the little girl, who shot to her feet. “Whoa.” Mac held up both hands. “Slow down, kid. I won’t hurt you.”

  The child hovered, as if she still might bolt. She clutched her hands together across her chest and watched Mac warily.

  If Abby had asked her to describe the little girl she had created to be her friend when she was five years old, Mac wasn’t sure she could have. She honestly didn’t remember if her imaginary amiga wore skirts or had bangs. But Mac had seen this child before. She knew her.