Working for Alex Stewart with Ky and the guys had been the highlight of his life after the war. He’d belonged with those men and women. He fit in. Despite his reluctance to befriend many of them apart from Ky, he’d understood them. They talked the same language and they’d lived through the same crap. But now...
Life on the Deuces Wild Team was an endurance test, a trial by one fire after another. A gauntlet he couldn’t escape. He wasn’t psychic and he didn’t belong. There seemed no limit to the beating the universe exacted from him.
Tate scrubbed his fist over his sternum. The hollow spot below the bone ached. That pain never went away, but today, it felt like a sucking black hole had opened beneath his ribs.
In his kitchen, Tate flipped on the light over his stove and set up a food and water station for Pepe alongside the butcher-block counter. He doffed his clothes on his way through his darkened living room to his bedroom, needing a shower and to be far from the world. A tiled fortress would have to do for now. If only it held sorrow at bay.
Cranking the water to hot, he ripped the bloody bandage off his bicep. Stepping into the shower, he lathered up, head, shoulders, knees, and toes. Rinse one. He lathered up again. Same drill. The tears started on the third reiteration, somewhere between shoulders and knees. Tate put his forearm to the tile beneath the scalding water and leaned his head to his arm.
He wasn’t a soft man. Never had been. Didn’t know how to start. But this damned day had resurrected every last ghost from his past, tenderizing him to his limits. Until today, there’d only been one that mattered, and he relived her last moments on earth in brilliant three-dimension Technicolor. Now there were two.
Losing Winslow amplified the other loss. The guilt. He’d been what, twelve when the first happened? What was he now, twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Going on ninety? He’d lost track. Birthdays ceased counting the day she fell.
Weary and battle sore, Tate ended the shower, redressed his wound, and pulled on a clean pair of black workout pants and a charcoal-gray T-shirt. Back in the kitchen, he turned off the light, searching for Pepe. “Where are you, boy?”
A quiet whine and a scratch sounded at the door. Tate rounded the corner to his living room, the big empty room with windows. “What are you doing in here? Come on. I’m beat. Let’s hit the sack.”
Pepe jitterbugged, cast his eyes to the doorknob, then back at Tate. Guess the dog needed to go outside, as in right damned now. Tate didn’t have a leash. Did he dare take the chance?
Scooping Pepe up, he told the dog as he retraced his steps down to the parking lot and entered the chain-link fenced in dog run, “If you take off on me, you’ll be lost. You don’t want that, do you? I sure don’t.” Like it or not, I need you, little guy. You’re all I have left of Winslow.
Great. He was talking to a dog, out loud and in his head. Tate scrubbed his face and yawned. So damned tired. He shut the gate before he let Pepe loose. The little guy didn’t need to do his business. No sir. He’d no sooner hit the ground than he ran to the farthest side of the play area, scratched at the chain link, and yapped like he wanted out. Not happening.
“I brought you here to pee, little guy. Get it done or we’re going back inside.” Maybe I will have a drink.
Yap, yap, yap. More fence scratching. No leg action and no peeing.
Tate made short work of the distance between him and the dog. Scooping Pepe up, he’d just cleared the gate when the little guy wiggled out of his arms and took off for the road. “No!” he yelled, running after the dog. “Come back. You’ll get hit by a car!”
The dog kept going. Tate could barely keep up. He yelled at the disappearing Chihuahua’s backside with every pounding step. “Pepe, stop! Come back.” Damn it, not you too!
When that failed to work, he bellowed, “Winslow!”
Damed if that little guy didn’t stop in his tracks and spin in a couple of tight ADHD-type circles. Still posed to run, Pepe stopped, his ears perked up.
Tate’s heart sprang to life, a snare drum trapped in his chest. Did Pepe know something he didn’t? Like last night when the dog led him to the water tower. If he’d found Winslow then...
Tate crouched to one knee, his hand extended, his palm up and his fingers curled to entice the dog forward. “That’s what you were trying to tell Harley, isn’t it? You’re not hungry; you know where Winslow is. She’s not in the river, is she?”
Pepe offered one short sharp yelp, his nose still tending toward the road, as if to say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about but come on! We gotta hurry!”
Tate swatted his thigh. “Then come here, boy. Let’s go get Winslow together.”
Pepe glanced at the open road, then came running with a, “Yap! Yap! Yap!”
Damned if Tate didn’t hear: Yes! Yes! Yes!
Holy hell. I am psychic. With dogs.
That was how he and Pepe ended up back on Maple. Pepe was the missing eight ball, now in play at the final hour. Tate didn’t need an address to locate Winslow and he didn’t need GPS. He had Winslow’s best friend. At least, her ‘second’ best friend.
It made sense on a morbid level. Not the road trip, but her mother orchestrating an assisted suicide for her cancer-ridden child. All the pain would end. Winslow would be at peace. Joyce would finally, after seventeen arduous years of torture and self-sacrifice, be free to build a real life. She could marry that loser Ike if she wanted to. Winslow cringed at the thought, but if that was what her mom wanted…
Or Joyce could leave town. Obviously, she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding a dog she didn’t like. There was nothing to hold her in Silver Spring except her job at the spa. Yes. Assisted suicide certainly put a nice big, black bow on Winslow’s cancer, once and for all. Except Tate said he’d find Pepe, and Winslow believed him. He was kind and caring, and he liked her Honey Munchkin and…
A sob croaked out of her. I don’t want to die yet. I’m not ready. Tate’s not here yet, and I don’t even know if he knows where I am and… Please. I don’t want to die.
Tate had made her cancer sound like a challenge last night, instead of the death sentence Winslow thought it was. He was the only person who’d brought real comfort into a dark and dreary world where a girl needed to climb a water tower just to get an uplifting perspective on a life that really, really sucked.
And those stars in the sky when he’d kissed her. The fire that roared to life when she’d kissed him back. With her eyes closed, Winslow let her tongue slip over her bottom lip and got lost in the memory. It certainly couldn’t hurt to dwell on Tate, not here at the end of time. It wasn’t like she was going anywhere.
I’ll pray harder, she promised her Heavenly Father. I’ll go to church. I’ll be kinder to my mother. I’ll try harder. I promise...
Another sob eked out. There was no way she could pray harder. Already, she sensed how close the Lord was to her when she’d lain on the bathroom floor that morning, so ill she’d wanted to die. He was there when she awakened, day after day, to lethargy and exhaustion that robbed the joy out of snuggling with Pepe. If anyone knew what she was going through, He did.
There was no sense in bargaining what she didn’t have to offer.
Lifting one heavy arm, she touched a finger to her lips, savoring the memory of Tate’s lips on hers. He’d smelled so good, so manly, of cedar and wind and—life. But the taste of his mouth was what she missed now. Breath-mint and spice. The prickly brush of his close-shaven chin. The scent of his warm breath in her face. The gentlemanly way he’d asked permission before he’d kissed her. The curl of heat in the pit of her belly, when he’d pressed his lips to hers. It seemed, for a moment there, to bring her body back from the edge of the grave she’d been standing at for years. Then he’d slipped his tongue between her lips and he’d kissed her.
My first kiss. She clenched her legs together as the same sensual response flared even now in that dark hopeless hospital room where people like her were stuck until they—died.
Aaaannndddddd
dd... Bullshit! burst through the daze in her downward spiraling brain. It was Tate’s word, and a good word. It was a strong word. The ragged image of him in all his angry glory when he’d challenged her mother sprang to throbbing vivid life. What the fuck is wrong with you, Winslow? Stand up for yourself. Fight for what you believe in. Shit, stop kissing her ass!
“B-b-but you’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m... I’m dying here.”
Bullshit!
My heavens. This shadow of Tate, or memory, or whatever it was, didn’t seem to have many words in its thesaurus.
“You think this is living?” Okay, now she was getting downright maudlin, arguing with herself and imagining talking to Tate. It had to be the drugs the nurse had put in her IV.
Winslow traced her tongue over her bottom lip, surprised at the taunting memory her brain had summoned in this her final hour. The taste of him and that single dynamic word—bullshit—changed everything.
Almost. She was still flat on her back with an IV drip silently feeding nutrients—or something—into her depleted system. She was still headed for Oregon. Wasn’t that where they were going on their one and only mother/daughter road trip? Winslow couldn’t remember. Funny how they’d never gone anywhere before, but now they were. The faster-than-fast, pack-up-and-leave-town trips every other year didn’t count. Those mad dashes from one place to another had only been to evade bill collectors or nosy neighbors, and they weren’t fun.
What changed? Why assisted suicide now when Winslow’s death seemed so imminent? Was Joyce desperate to be done with this awful burden-of-a-child she’d been stuck with? Had she come into some extra money that made this trip feasible?
Bullshit!
Winslow allowed a small smile. She could almost see Tate spitting that word at her. His brows would clash together. His pupils would turn black and fierce. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re mad because you don’t understand my mother, and that’s okay bec—”
Bullshit!
Winslow stopped making excuses to the annoying shadow in her head. It seemed intent on having the last word, so she let it win. I have got to be on drugs.
The question remained though. Why hadn’t her mother ever taken her on a road trip before, just for the fun of it? If she could do it now, if she could finally afford to facilitate the end of her daughter’s life with a cross country road trip, surely she could’ve done something to enhance that same life, you know, to liven things up in a pleasant, fun, mother/daughter kind of way?
Winslow might not have gone to school like normal people, but she’d seen happy parents with their happy children. Everything in the world wasn’t unfair. Life wasn’t one cheat after another though it might seem that way to the single parent of a dying child.
For that matter, why no movie nights or picnics or walks in parks? Those things didn’t cost much. Why no holiday celebrations that didn’t include booze? Ever? It was almost as if Joyce had kept Winslow out of sight and in the shadows. Or down...
Was she ashamed of her daughter? Winslow tried that conclusion on for size. No. Joyce wasn’t ashamed of her daughter or she wouldn’t have set up the whole television debacle over the Dreams-Come-True prom thing. And yet, Winslow knew to her soul that her mother loved the spotlight. Who could blame her? Winslow couldn’t. Her mom deserved a little attention now and then.
But so do I...
She cocked her head, expecting another wicked blast from her favorite memory, but there was none, so she followed the train of thought Tate’s shadow had set loose from the station. Fight for what you believe in.
He made it sound easy, but honestly, Winslow had never fought for a thing in her life, not with her energy tied up in her battle with cancer. Her mother was a strong and vicious adversary. Case in point: Pepe. Joyce meant to win her battles, and she wasn’t above kicking a person when they were down. Or smacking a helpless little dog that only wanted to snuggle in Winslow’s bed.
Now that the assisted suicide engine was also on the track and picking up steam, Winslow didn’t want to die. It was one thing to stand at the top of a water tower and think about it, but quite another to have someone else planning it on your behalf.
Oh yeah, Vermont. That was the other state that allowed assisted suicide. It was a lot closer than Oregon, California, or Washington. Too close for comfort.
I have to get out of here. Winslow opened her eyes and lifted up to her elbows. Exit door straight ahead, just beyond her feet. IV to the left. A closet or maybe a bathroom door at her right. No overhead light fixture. Just the ambient glow from an outside light showing through the blinds on the window to her left.
A little thing called curiosity wiggled to life way down deep in the basement of Winslow’s trusting, only child’s heart. Assisted suicide, huh? That was to be her first real foray into the world, to let some guy she’d never met before help her die? Not a pleasant trip to the ocean so she could run headlong into the surf? Not a night out on the town, whatever that entailed? But assisted suicide, huh? Nothing says motherly love like—that.
Winslow glanced at her IV line. Whatever drug was in that light golden fluid, it seemed to be helping. She could think, and she actually felt like standing on her own two feet.
Tugging the blanket off her legs, she swung both feet over the edge of the mattress. I feel—good. Her toes wiggled. They’d look good with toenail polish, bright turquoise maybe.
“Bullshit.” She kept her voice low, but that word tasted good on her tongue. It had a certain zing to it. A touch of defiance. She wanted to go to Florida, not Vermont. No! To borrow Tate’s salty vernacular, what the fuck was her mother thinking getting rid of Pepe? Who died and made her God?
Anger rippled proud and strong up Winslow’s backbone, leaving a surge of self-righteousness in its wake. Sweet little Pepe had never done anything to merit Joyce’s temper. Okay, so maybe once or twice he’d had an accident as a puppy, but Winslow was the one who’d cleaned up after him, fed and cuddled him.
“Bullshit,” she said as she eased cautiously off the mattress. She was tired of hearing how hard things had always been for her poor, poor mother. Newsflash, Mommy Dearest. Trade places with me for a while, why don’tcha? Let cancer eat up your life, steal your energy, and, oh yeah, all of your hair. You think having a baby out of wedlock was the end of the world? Get over it already. I’ve been a good kid.
Sheesh. Where had all this self-actualization come from? Winslow giggled. From Tate. Who else?
Careful so as not to tug the line to her catheter, she settled both feet to the cool linoleum floor and stood. How hard could it be to remove an IV line and a catheter? She intended to find out.
The IV line was easy. She simply peeled the tape off the back of her hand, pulled out the needle, and just like that, she bled a little, but she was free. Winslow draped the plastic line over the tree and left it there. Now for the tricky part. Tipping her butt to the bed, she pulled her hospital gown up and tucked it under her chin to keep it clear in case this little foray into medical land didn’t quite work out. But seriously? This was her body. Not the nurse’s. Not the doctor’s. And come to think of it, not her mother’s. Another newsflash—I can do this.
Winslow grasped the plastic tubing that ended somewhere up inside her very private parts and... out it came, as easily as one, two—ow, that pinched a little—three. She figured quickly how to keep the business end of that plastic tube high above the bag attached to the side of her bed, but seriously? Once she tied the plastic tubing into a knot, the problem was solved.
She headed to the door to her right that had to be a bathroom with a sink to wash her hands, maybe take a shower. Along the way, she spied a brown paper bag stuffed with some of her clothes. Good enough. I’m already packed and I’m on my way.
With shaky fingers, she sank to her knees and selected her light purple T-shirt with BOSTON splashed in bright violet, caps across the front, and an old pair of washed-too-many-times Rider jeans, the hems ragged and stringy. More digging in the
bag revealed several clean pairs of cotton panties and a bra, not that she had much to put in it. But that was what distinguished girls from women: They dressed appropriately, and if there was one thing Winslow was sure of since she’d met Tate, she was all woman.
Sucking in a deep breath of freedom, Winslow squared her shoulders against the inevitable battle. She had places to go that didn’t include a road trip to death, thank you very much, Mom.
The ceiling-to-floor tiled bathroom housed a simple sink attached to the wall inside the door and a full tub/shower combination at the far wall, all in that lovely institutional shade of mint green, the kind that screams they’re-coming-to-take-me-away, ha-ha. A silver commode hung between the tub and the sink, which was good since the alignment of those facilities gave Winslow handholds on her way to the shower. A floor drain marred the floor, but it made sense in a creepy way. The janitor probably hosed the place down between patients.
At the shower, she turned the shower spray to warm and stripped. The sight of the hospital gown floating to the floor brought her special word to the tip of her tongue. “Bullshit,” she told that item of clothing with a certain sense of relish. “You’ve taken too much this time, Mom. I’m out of here.”
With her sassy attitude in place, Winslow lifted one shaky foot after the other and climbed into the tub. She made quick use of the hotel-sized bar of Dial soap resting in the wire rack beneath the showerhead. Shampoo would’ve been nice once upon a time, but she didn’t waste time crying over spilled milk—or lost locks. Hair didn’t make the woman. Fortitude did. She slicked a layer of suds over her bare head, rinsed, and called it good.
Bowed beneath the shower spray with her palms splayed to the wall, she watched the suds slide over her scrawny body to her toes before they escaped down the drain. Each one of those tiny, foamy bubbles carried a piece of her old self away. She wasn’t a spineless, sickly woman anymore. She was Winslow Arizona Parrish, and damned proud of it. She might be shaky, but she felt good for a change. And squeaky clean.
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 15
