After the End

by Alex Kidwell

  Cancer.

  An accident.

  Such stupid, weak words, to invoke such a reaction.

  “Brady?” I asked, barely getting his name out.

  “We’ve only just arrived ourselves,” Mrs. Banner was saying, but her voice was so tinny and far away I couldn't quite grasp hold of her meaning. “The doctors are with them now. You should come, dear. We’re at Saint James. Do you know it? I’d never heard of it, but the taxi driver, he was such a nice boy, he got us right here.”

  She was rambling now, just needing to talk. To have someone else who felt it too, that strange, twisted pulling in your gut, the ache in your throat that tightened so much you could hardly breathe. “Yes. Yes, I know it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Hanging up, I fumbled my phone into my pocket. Tracy was always going on and on about how I left my phone places when I wasn’t paying attention. I’d need that phone if something happened. I’d have to call people. Tracy. Annabeth. I’d need to tell someone what had happened.

  Numbly, I went up to the hostess. She flashed me a cheery, distracted smile, obviously busy. “Your party’s not here yet. I’ll call you when they come in, if you miss them.”

  “There’s… I’m sorry, I need a taxi. I have to get to the hospital.” I was having trouble asking the right thing, putting it the right way. She should know the Banner group wouldn’t be arriving. She shouldn’t keep looking for them all night, eyes going again and again to the door, with their name printed neatly next to 7:30 p.m. She wouldn’t cross them out if they never came. Their name would just sit there, frozen, and she’d wait for someone who wasn’t ever going to come.

  The hostess frowned a little at me, concern tightening her face. She looked nice. I suddenly found myself hoping she had someone to come home to. Like Tracy did. Tracy had Annabeth. I had Winston. It wasn’t quite the same. I hoped this woman with the kind eyes had an Anna and not a Winston.

  “I’ll call you a cab,” she told me, and I nodded, shuffling over to wait by the door.

  It was raining. Hard pebbles of water were pelting down from the sky, turning the slush of streetlights into blurs against the night. Absently, I realized I was clutching my scarf in white knuckles. Not my scarf, really. Brady’s scarf. The borrowed blue one I’d never given back.

  “God,” I prayed, I pleaded, staring sightlessly out into the street. “Or whoever’s out there. Please.” That was all I could say. No specifics, no hopes I dared give voice to. Just that one word. “Please.”

  The cab pulled up, brilliant yellow, garish against the muted, rain-soaked world. I got in and directed the driver to Saint James, sitting back in my seat, wondering at how numb I was. I was acting calm, but inside it was a raging tempest, a churning swirl of emotions I couldn’t quite feel. I knew they were there, I could almost taste the panic, the fear, the horror, but I hadn’t broken through to them yet.

  The hospital was a mess of people, of that calm kind of urgency as doctors and nurses moved through the hallways. There was the squeak of shoes, the sterile sharpness of antiseptic, the steady beep of machines from behind closed doors. It was all painfully familiar, and I had to swallow back bile as I passed elevators I’d ridden up a hundred times and rooms I knew better than my own.

  Finally I found the correct station and started to ask after Brady, voice cracking so much I couldn’t get the words out.

  “Quinn.”

  It was his voice, strong, steady, relieved. I turned and saw him rushing toward me, stark white of the bandage on his head drawing my eyes. But he was walking, he was collapsing into me, arms tight around me, and I felt that numb ache snap. Everything came rushing back, tears pricking my eyes as my stomach flipped with the force of relief. I clung to him, burying my face in his neck, taking deep, hungry breaths of him. “Oh my God,” I whispered, words cracking around the edges. “You’re okay. You’re alive.” I pulled back to search his face, desperate to see him, to feel him, to know he wasn’t going to fade away. My fingers brushed against the bandage. “Are you okay?”

  He frowned and flicked his eyes upward, like he’d forgotten that was there. “Yeah. Yeah, just a bump. Got a couple stitches, nothing major.”

  I guided him to sit down, my hands going over his arms, his chest, winding up cupping his neck. Letting out a breath I swore I’d been holding since the phone call, I tugged him in, kissing him, hard, joyful, greedy for him. Wanting him close.

  “I love you,” I told him, voice thick. “I mean, I do, this isn’t just… God, I thought you were gone. That’s not the only reason I’m saying it, but…. Fuck.” I kissed him again, wrapping him up in my embrace as tight as I could, holding on. “You’re okay.”

  As I got my brain back in order, as I cupped his face and searched his eyes, I realized Brady wasn’t smiling. There was a pinch to the corners of his mouth, a paleness to his complexion. His gaze dropped from mine and he shook his head, looking close to tears. “Yeah. But my sister was driving. Bea, she’s…. They don’t know, Quinn.”

  Just the way he said it broke my heart. I shoved everything else aside, everything except Brady. Taking his hand, I gripped it tightly until he looked up at me, eyes red rimmed, expression breaking. He leaned into me, head resting against my forehead; I gathered him as close as we could on the uncomfortable molded chairs of the waiting room, fingers threading through his hair.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I whispered. “I’m here. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

  THIS wasn’t how I’d envisioned meeting Brady’s parents. I’d wanted to be poised, to try and prove, somehow, that I was worth their son’s time. That I could do the whole family thing. Instead, I shook his father’s hand and hugged his mother tightly in the waiting room of the hospital. I went with his sisters, both looking wan and wrung-out, to find coffee. I held Brady’s hand as we all sat and numbly watched the television, no one caring at all what happened to be on.

  It was just the noise, I’d theorized a long time ago, on one of my midnight trips with Aaron into the emergency room. At the end, he’d found it so hard to breathe sometimes. Even a little cold could be devastating. That was what had done it, the doctors told me. A cold. Cancer, yes, but also a stupid cold, and Aaron had been gone.

  A driver hadn’t stopped, Beatrice hadn’t been familiar with the intersection, and now this beautiful family was sitting in the hospital, waiting. Watching the TV just to hear the noise. To have the lights flicker. To get close to a parody of normal. Such a stupid thing, to bring down so much life. To cause so much fear.

  “I’m sorry.” Brady’s mother interrupted the silence, turning to me. Her name was Claire. Her husband was Bruno; he was a big man who looked hollow, now, staring at the doors behind which things were happening he couldn’t change. He couldn’t fix this, and he was a big man with big hands. He probably fixed everything. Not this, though. I knew how that felt. “I’m sorry, Quinn, but I can’t remember what Brady said it was you did.”

  Brittany and Belinda, the two older sisters, were huddled together on the other side of Brady. They looked over at me with interest, Brittany clinging to Brady’s other arm. All eyes on me, I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous. “I, uh, I own a shop,” I told them, smiling slightly, expression mostly in my eyes. “I sell comics and graphic novels. I’m also an artist, of a sort. I paint, mostly. I used to draw my own graphic novel, but I, um, I got out of it for a while.”

  “He’s preparing for a show next month,” Brady said. He sounded exhausted, but there was pride in his voice, and he squeezed my hand, head tilted to rest against mine. It was like I was holding him up, literally, like he’d just sag to the floor in a puddle if I didn’t hang on. So I did, smile softening when I looked at him.

  “Yeah. It’s at a friend of ours’ gallery. Brady is doing the event, actually, so at least that part will be excellent.” There was pride in my words, too, shining in my eyes.

  He nudged me, adding, “See? Told you you’d change your mind about party planners.”r />
  I kissed his cheek. “Definitely.”

  His mom was looking at us with a content expression, her own hand stealing over to her husband’s. Bruno gave me a once-over and grunted, but he asked, “Own your own business, then?”

  “Yes, sir.” I nodded. “It’s not much, but it pays the bills.”

  Bruno nodded at me. “I like entrepreneurs. Built my own carpentry business when I was a little younger than you boys. Bea is going to take it over….” That rumbling, strong voice just shattered like heated glass, showering around us all as Bruno heaved in a huge, trembling breath, mustache twitching as he swallowed back tears. “Bea is going to take it over,” he repeated more firmly, like he could will that to happen. Defying fate to take his daughter away.

  “And you, ma’am?” I asked Mrs. Banner, and she tutted at me, though a pleased expression stole across her face.

  “You just call me Claire,” she told me. “Lord knows the first man my Brady introduces us to is not going to call me ma’am. Makes me feel old.” She fussed with her purse, pulling out some tissues and dabbing at her eyes. “I was a schoolteacher, before I had Brittany. And then again once they were all older. Just retired last year, and Bruno and I are going to go traveling this summer. To France. Brady and the girls surprised us with a trip for our anniversary.”

  Of course they did. Belinda offered, “They deserve a vacation. I can’t remember the last time they took one.”

  The coffee from the machine was bitter and lukewarm, but I took a swallow, using it to hide the fact I was studying them all intently. They were just so… comfortable. They loved each other, that was evident, and in their worry they were all literally leaning on one another.

  Whatever disagreements they might have—and I was sure there were some, every family had them—they were a unit. A clan. I felt like a kid with his nose pressed to the window, taking it all in before I was dragged away.

  “Brittany is an accountant,” Brady told me. “And Belinda is a teacher, like Mom. Her husband, George, is driving in with Britt’s boyfriend, Clint. So it’s about to get much more crowded.”

  I nodded. “Good.” He gave me a look and one corner of my lips tilted up, a bit ruefully. “You should have family here, Brady. It’s good they’re coming.”

  “You’re not going to get overwhelmed?” he asked me.

  “How about you don’t worry about my delicate sensibilities.” I kissed him lightly, just the corner of his mouth, and nudged my shoulder against his. Turning back to the room at large, I asked, “Okay, so George belongs to Belinda?”

  “He’s an art teacher,” Belinda told me, smiling, tired but genuine. “You two will get on wonderfully.”

  “And Clint’s mine,” Brittany told me, shoving her hair back and absently rubbing her neck. “He is a marketing consultant who really wants to be a fireman. Which is why he and George didn’t come with us. Clint’s a volunteer firefighter, and he had his on-call shift this week, and George had classes.”

  “Are you coming to Christmas?” Claire asked me, and I froze a little. “I don’t know how much Brady has told you, but we have a little farmhouse a few hours upstate. It gets gorgeous once the snow comes, and the kids always come and spend the week with us. We’d love to have you, Quinn.”

  “We hadn’t talked about that yet, Mom,” Brady said, sighing. But he was smiling at his mom and Claire hardly seemed deterred.

  “Well, we’re all just sitting here. Might as well talk about it now.”

  I couldn’t argue with that logic. “I, uh. I hadn’t really thought about Christmas this year,” I told her honestly.

  “Then it’s settled.” Which wasn’t exactly how I remembered things going, but I just breathed out a laugh at her self-satisfied smile. “I’ll have Brady give you the details. We’ll put up an extra stocking.”

  “Don’t fight it.” Brittany leaned across Brady to squeeze my hand with a smile. “She did the same to Clint and George. You’re pretty much doomed.”

  “How do you feel about children?” Claire’s question set off a chorus of “Mom!” and she just looked innocently around. “What? It’s a perfectly legitimate question.”

  The mood had eased slightly and I shook my head, amazed. Brady was giving his mother a look. “How long have you been sitting on that question?” he asked her.

  “I’m simply pointing out I’m not exactly getting any younger. I’d like to hold my first grandchild before I’m too frail to lift them.” Claire gave me a pleading look, but the whole thing was ruined by Bruno snorting, fondly wrapping his arm around his wife.

  “I always said my Claire could talk an Eskimo into skinny-dipping,” he said, and I couldn’t help it. I laughed. The pall of worry that was hanging over everyone lessened a bit, and Brady leaned into me, shaking his head and kissing my cheek, chuckling softly. Even Claire was laughing, Brittany and Belinda giggling together. It was a slightly hysterical kind of laughter, the sort that came when you were stretched too thin to do anything else, but it felt like a form of release.

  The swinging doors flipped open and a doctor strode out, blood on his scrubs, tugging a face mask down. The laughter died as suddenly as it started, and I was left sitting as the family surged forward, surrounding the man. I didn’t watch them, though. I knew this game. I studied the doctor’s face instead.

  Internal bleeding.

  Surgery.

  Unconscious.

  Wait and see.

  Brady turned around and met my eyes, his whole expression crumpling. I just nodded. The doctor’s demeanor told me more than the words—the careful, clinical neutrality, the way he hedged his bets. It was bad. Whatever the medical details, it was bad.

  The family went in to see Beatrice. I puttered around the waiting room, throwing away half-empty Styrofoam cups, rearranging magazines. Twenty minutes later, Brady came back, scrubbing a hand across his face. He just looked so tired. I hauled him into a hug, resting my chin on his shoulder.

  “Mom and Dad are staying the night,” he mumbled into my neck, hands fisted into my shirt. “Britt and Bel are waiting for the guys, and then they’re going back to the hotel.”

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  Brady heaved out a low sigh. “Just take me home.”

  WE WOUND up back at my place. If not for Winston, I would have had the cab take us to Brady’s, but in the end, I thought it might be a good thing. The fluffball could be good for comfort, if nothing else. He’d had enough practice at it. Winston was there to greet us at the door, fat tail waving as he weaved between our legs. He followed Brady into the living room, plopping happily down on his lap when Brady collapsed onto the couch.

  I kissed his forehead and took his coat, shaking out the rain and hanging it up next to mine. “Relax,” I told him. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry.”

  One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “My head kind of hurts,” he admitted. “I’m just feeling a little woozy.”

  “Did they give you anything for the pain?” Worried, I sat next to him, nudging Winston aside with my hip. The cat gave me a grumbling meow, turning around a few times to get comfortable, resting on Brady’s stomach as the man slouched back on the couch.

  “Nah.” His hand caught mine, holding on tightly. “They just said regular aspirin would be fine.” He searched my face, those beautiful brown eyes troubled. “I really am okay, Quinn.”

  “I know.” I didn’t, though. I knew he was there, with me, and I was clinging to him hungrily. But he wasn’t okay. Of course he wasn’t. Giving him a slight smile, I went to the kitchen to dig through my cupboards, searching for food. Where Brady could whip up homemade bread and delicious fresh pasta, I was lucky most days to work my can opener without major injury. I did manage, though, to get some soup in a pan. Tomato with toasted cheese sandwiches, I thought, would be mild enough to tempt him.

  It wasn’t the homey Italian meal we’d been planning on. There would be no wine, no family introductions over garlic bread. But it was soup while i
t was raining out. It would be warm and filling. It would be comforting. That was really all I could hope for.

  Waiting for the sandwiches to toast, I looked across the living room, out the window that had seemed to catch Brady’s attention as well. It was still storming; no thunder or lightning, though. Just a monotonous, relentless gray stream, dredging the world in colorless wet. It was wearying, the hard pellets of water pounding down onto the earth. No beauty or magnificent outpouring; no Thor with his hammer. Just the rain.

  I dished up the food and carried a tray carefully into the living room. We curled up together, Brady’s shoulder tucked under mine as I encouraged him to eat. He looked so quiet, so very small, that bold exuberance that he wore so well faded into worry.

  “What happened?” I asked, finger-combing some wayward curls off his forehead.

  Sighing, he dragged his spoon through the soup, watching the path of it, the creamy red liquid folding in on itself in the wake of it. “We were all carpooling to the restaurant. Mom and Dad and them went into one car, but we wouldn’t all fit, so Bea asked to drive mine. It’s just….”

  His face crumpled slightly and I hastily reached out, putting the bowl aside, gathering him in close. “One second everything was fine, but this truck came out of nowhere and then we were upside down.” Shuddering in a breath, he buried his face against my chest. “Oh, Christ. My car. I don’t even know where my car is.”

  “It’s okay,” I soothed him, sliding my hand through his hair, my cheek tucked against his. “I’ll call around in the morning. You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you right here.” I could feel him taking in deep breaths, his shoulders rising and falling with each one. For a while we just sat there, me rocking him, back and forth, the thrum of the rain against the windows whispering into a gray noise in the background.

  “Can I just stay here tonight?” he asked me, voice muffled.

  “I’m insisting on it,” I told him, kissing his jaw, just under his ear, sighing softly when I finally could sense him relaxing into me.