She sat alone, empty seats flanking her on both sides. A man around her age sat directly behind her and rubbed her shoulders, but she continued to stoically observe the services as though he didn’t exist. The sheer black scarf around her head fluttered in the breeze, and the large, dark sunglasses either shielded her from prying stares or served to hide her emotionless eyes. Jason feared it was the latter. Something about her utter stillness and defiant posture troubled him.
Beneath the scarf, her hair was as black as the damp soil of the freshly dug graves. She resembled a picture of Jackie O. he had seen once. Maybe that’s how she sneaked through Jason’s grief and grabbed his attention while so many others had gone unnoticed. When her father’s casket disappeared from view into the fresh grave, she stood to toss in a single rose. Jason watched her movements and studied her face. The other mourners repeatedly lifted tissues to their eyes and noses, lifting their sunglasses if necessary. Not her. Her features were fresh and young, but she appeared worn, as though the compounding tragedies had aged her. Then why wasn’t she crying?
While ushers lowered the casket of the woman’s father into the plot beside her mother’s, another group of men transported Jason’s father’s casket to a separate part of the cemetery. The crowd split, and Jason noticed another young woman. She approached from the road, watching her footsteps. Is she just now arriving?
She stood alone, and he watched her as he had the other woman. She clung to the outskirts of the crowd, making no attempt to interact. She sobbed uncontrollably. The tears shimmered on her chocolate skin and made her eyes glisten like glass. Delicate, wide, grief-stricken, her eyes displayed the emotion he expected to see in the other detective’s daughter. Just as Jason wondered who she was, the outcast woman left without approaching either casket.
When he scanned the crowd a few minutes later, he noticed both women were gone as the bagpipers eased into “Danny Boy” to call the fallen men home.
***
Jason and his mother arrived home from the funeral. She sat in her husband’s favorite, worn-leather armchair in a near-catatonic state and stared at one of their wedding photos on the mantle. Jason thought about sitting on the carpet at her feet, to comfort her with his nearness, but he knew better. When he’d tried to console her on their way home from the funeral, she’d ignored him.
He turned to leave, but a sharp thwack, followed by the scattering of broken glass, startled him. Jason knew the source without turning around. Next to the wedding picture was a photo of a recent family camping trip. In the photo, his father tended a roaring fire. When Jason turned, the picture was gone from the mantle. He shifted his gaze to his mother. The image had overwhelmed her. He understood. Even the mere memory of the photo stirred his emotions. He was unwilling to associate his father with any kind of fire. Not anymore. Despite empathizing with his mother, he resisted the urge to stay with her. He trekked upstairs, harping on the last conversation he and his father had.
Jason had been poised on the edge of his father’s desk, toying with the various trinkets. “Dad, you’ve known for a long time that I want to follow in your footsteps. I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal of it now.” He’d dusted off a crystal pyramid bearing a plaque for outstanding service and gently replaced it near a sterling silver fountain pen. He’d lowered his gaze to meet his father’s warm, but cock-eyed, expression.
“Son, it’s the same old thing. Every father wants his children to take advantage of opportunities he never had, that’s all. You graduated high school two years ago. You’ve been working, taking classes. Your mom and I have been saving. All I’m saying is it’s time you pick a solid direction.”
Tears streamed from Jason’s eyes as he recalled how the rational discussion had quickly elevated into something more. Their baritone voices had carried throughout the house as they argued.
The fight had culminated in Jason screaming, “I can do whatever I want with my life!” He took a breath and puffed out his chest before adding, “You should be happy I even want to be like you! It’s not like you’re ever home with us. Maybe I don’t wanna be like you at all. Maybe I just want to show you that it is possible to be a cop and a father in the same lifetime!”
Jason opened the door to his father’s study, his fingers lingering on the doorknob. That day, Jason had slammed it with such force the frame shook. Several pictures had fallen from the walls, clattering to the floor.
Jason stood in the same spot in his father’s tiny office, sobbing, surrounded by reminders of their argument. Broken glass in the wastebasket. Fractured frames picked up and placed on the shelves. The remaining plaques and framed newspaper articles served as a mounted cemetery of his father’s esteemed career. With the setting sun filtering through the open drapes, the frames cast stretching shadows across the walls, like those of the headstones at the cemetery hours earlier.
Jason glanced at his father’s desk and the most prominent headstone of all: a custom wooden lock-box containing a replica badge and his original service weapon. His father, an old-school cop, favored revolvers. The Colt Python .357 sat snugly in the blue velvet nest of the lock-box. Jason couldn’t bring himself to touch it, to defile it with his intentions. He wanted to reach out and glide his fingers over the barrel’s grooves and notches, the textured wooden grip of the handle.
Instead, he opened the top drawer. Nestled among the pens and paper clips was another, smaller revolver: a Colt Cobra .38. It resembled the commemorative one, but it had a stubbier barrel. Jason removed it. It felt cool, but heavier than he remembered. Loaded. Jason had never held a loaded gun before. Though he’d often nagged his father to take him to the shooting range, his father never found the time. But he’d taught Jason how to use this particular gun, in case he had to protect his mother. His father had always unloaded it first. Now the added weight paralleled his heavy decision.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
Jason cocked the hammer. His father’s soothing instructions played in his head, step by step.
Keep your finger off the trigger until you have made a conscious decision to shoot.
Jason gulped and placed his index finger inside the trigger guard and onto the trigger.
Be sure of your target and everything in your line of fire.
Jason shifted his gaze to the wall on his left. Nothing of consequence was on the other side.
Press, don’t pull. Squeeze until you feel resistance.
Jason pulled the trigger.
At the last second, he flinched. Just a flicker of indecision, but it was too late. His blood sprayed the walls. The gun clanged to the floor. Jason’s body crumpled. In the end, he laid in front of the door he had last slammed in his father’s face.
***
Jason awoke to bright fluorescent lights and the smell of bleach, pine, and general sterility. A nurse scurried about his bedside. Her dark hair and eyes were somewhat familiar. That was all he could see through the haze. Why is there a haze? Suddenly, he was aware he wasn’t wearing contact lenses. The woman greeted him cheerfully. He moaned an unintelligible response and looked around.
Jason eyed a roll-away bed tray to his right and a thick curtain divider beyond it. A cacophony of beeping and whirring fell on his ears. Jason realized he was lying in a hospital room. On his left, his mother dozed in one of two orange, plastic chairs near the window. Jason thought it was odd that his mother was asleep.
“Excuse me, nurse? How long have I been here?” Jason’s voice startled him. It didn’t sound like his, and the words themselves didn’t sound right. His throat felt like he’d just eaten an entire pack of saltines. The dark-haired woman must have noticed the croak to his voice. She hurried out of the room and returned in a minute with a ridged, plastic cup full of ice chips. What a beautiful woman. A familiar beautiful. Where have I seen her before?
“Doctor,” his mother corrected, apparently awakened by her son’s voice. She rushed to his side with a broad smile and misty eyes.
“Huh
?”
“She’s a doctor, not a nurse.” She brushed Jason’s curls back soothingly, careful to avoid the bandages. She looked haggard and sleep-deprived. An image of her with messy hair and teary eyes flashed across Jason’s mind, but he couldn’t recall anything else about the image. It felt recent. But what is recent? He didn’t even know what had happened that brought him there.
“Sorry, I guess that sounded sexist.” Jason felt his cheeks flush but forced a smile.
“And I didn’t raise you like that,” his mother chided. She returned to the ugly orange chair and stretched. The chair squeaked in protest.
“It’s okay,” the dark-haired woman said with a chuckle. She fluttered around him, checking monitors and jotting readings down on a clipboard. Jason tried to read the name on her lab coat, but she moved too fast. He could barely focus his eyes.
“I’m just a resident,” she continued. “And to answer your question, you’ve been here for”—she paused uncomfortably for a few seconds—“several days.”
Her hesitation unnerved him. He watched her set the clipboard down and waited for her to elaborate. Instead, she reached into the plastic cup and placed an ice chip in his mouth. Her fingers glanced against his bottom lip. Suddenly hot, Jason appreciated the ice.
“What happened?” Jason’s voice already felt foreign, as if he was speaking with a bucket on his head. Juggling the ice chip garbled his speech further. Frustrated, he moved to rub his forehead. Raising his hand took great effort, and it immediately met the soft roughness of gauze bandages.
Jason’s face contorted in confusion. “What happened to me?” he demanded again, his voice frantic as he probed his head for answers. He tried to sit up, but his movements were sluggish and IVs tugged at his arms.
“Calm down, kid. You beat the odds. That’s what happened.” The doctor checked the lines in his arms, making sure they were still securely attached. “But I think I should let your mom explain the rest. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks,” Jason answered, anxious to be alone with his mother and find out what had happened to him.
“No, thank you, doctor,” his mother corrected again, on cue.
“Well, Jason, you’re going to be transferred to our inpatient rehab center soon. If I don’t see you again, have a speedy recovery. And if I do see you again, please call me Lyla.”
The dark-haired doctor left Jason’s hospital room. His mother left her orange chair and perched on the edge of his bed to stroke his brown curls again. He stared at her, wide-eyed and awaiting her explanation, grateful the chirping machines prevented a maddening silence.
“Jason, sweetheart,” she said finally, “you had an accident.”
“I know that, Mom. What kind of accident? Please, you’re scaring me. Was I driving? Where’s Dad?”
His mother swallowed hard, and her eyes blinked back tears. “Your father was killed, remember? Trying to save another detective from his burning home.”
She waited while Jason processed the information for a second time. He vaguely remembered the solemn detectives delivering the news. Perhaps that’s where the image of her, disheveled and crying, had originated. He said nothing but strained to remember more.
“After the funeral, you...” Her voice trailed off. Tears overwhelmed them both.
“What, Mom? Please.” Jason wrestled with the IVs to reach for her hand. He squeezed it, imploring her to continue.
“You were in your father’s office, with his...things...and accidentally shot yourself. The doctors gave a fancier explanation, but basically, the bullet penetrated your skull. Fortunately, it did minimal damage. Thank God for that.” She crossed herself. Jason had only ever seen her do that when speaking of the dead. Then it hit him: he had almost died. But what was I doing in my father’s office? With my father’s gun?
“It was an...accident?” he asked.
“I was sitting downstairs when I heard the gunshot. I ran upstairs, and there you were, blood everywhere. Your father’s revolver was on the floor.” She shielded her eyes from him. “It was an accident, Jason. I found you, and I thought I’d lost you too, but it was just an accident.”
***
The chairs weren’t orange.
Jason couldn’t believe how something so small, something he felt so sure of, could be so wrong. He stared at the card in front of him. Dots. Lots of colored dots. According to the occupational therapist holding the card, a number was hidden in there somewhere, but he couldn’t see it. Then again, he’d also thought that the visitors’ chairs in his hospital room were orange, not blue. The confusion was a product of the bullet’s path. The doctors said it traveled beneath the bony calvarium, around the circumference of his skull, and nicked his occipital lobe prior to its exit. Luckily, the bullet had avoided all his major blood vessels and only partially affected the portion of the brain responsible for sight and color perception.
“Apparently I’m missing more than just my contacts,” he chuckled.
The therapist didn’t laugh. She just pointed at the card again with earnest.
“I’m sorry, I don’t see anything.”
She grunted and flipped to a different card. More dots. Jason sighed with exasperation and let his eyes wander over her shoulder instead of undertaking the task before him. He spotted a burly, dark-skinned man with gray hair and a matching goatee. He stared straight at Jason. Is he one of the hallucinations the doctors warned me about? The man nodded and walked away, leaving Jason to turn down yet another card full of dots.
When Jason’s session concluded, the therapist brought him back to his room. The inpatient rehab facility was separate from the hospital, but one could hardly tell the difference between the two. Residency rooms lined the halls. A hub of connected counters with people buzzing about stood in the center of each floor. Jason still slept on a hospital bed, the thin mattress lumpy from previous patients, but after just a few days, it showed signs of conforming to his frame. He looked forward to being helped into his room’s faux-leather armchair, which could be quite comfortable with a few added pillows, but from the doorway, he saw that seat was already occupied.
He’s waiting for me? Jason peered over at the therapist, who had guided him through the halls after his session. Though mentally and physically exhausted, the staff still forced him to walk as part of his rehab. He watched her eyes and swallowed his anxiety when she acknowledged the seated man with a smile. Jason hadn’t imagined him after all.
Upon Jason’s entry, the man stood and sat on one of the not-orange visitors’ chairs. “How ya doin’, son?” he asked after Jason settled into the armchair. It was uncomfortably warm after holding the large man who reached out a hand made of tree roots. “My name is Chief Albert Tunney. I worked—”
“With my dad,” Jason finished.
“Yes. When I checked up on your mom the other day, she mentioned that you toyed with the idea of being a cop. Like your dad.”
Right to business. Jason turned to the window. In the last couple of days, he’d regained flashes of memories of being in his dad’s study, of their last encounter. He felt no desire to discuss any of it with his father’s boss.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Junior—”
“No one calls me that,” Jason said harshly.
“I’m sorry. Your dad always called you that. Ya know, around the station.”
“Not to my face,” Jason spat. The doctors said he might experience inappropriate irritability, but he could swear he felt genuinely angry.
“Because he knew you hated it.” Chief Tunney leaned forward, his interlaced fingers hanging between his knees. “He loved you very much, Jason. He was a good man and...Well, quite frankly, I would be honored to help you in any way I can. That is, if you still want to become a cop.”
Jason slowly turned his head from the window and studied the man. His eyes were kind, but they were buried beneath his sturdy, authoritative demeanor. Jason realized that, outside of a full recovery, he hadn’t thought about
what he wanted to do. No matter what, his future depended on his present.
“With all due respect, Chief Tunney, what good am I to the force like this?” Jason extended his arms to indicate his surroundings. “My vision’s blurry. I can’t tell orange from blue or yellow from red. My speech only became clear a few days ago. I’m tired all the time. They say I might hallucinate. Hell, I thought you were a figment of my imagination when I saw you outside of my occupational therapy session.”
The chief nodded, taking in the young man’s concerns before responding. “I talked to your mom. You know what else they say? They say all of those issues are temporary.”
Blood in the Past (Blood for Blood Series) Page 6
