by Melinda Minx
“That murderer! Let me go! Let me go!” the man shouts.
They turn to me and scowl. “He’s back because of you!”
“Who?” I ask. I’m so tired that it feels all like some kind of waking dream. Or waking nightmare.
“Mason Steel,” the woman says. The nurses are still holding the two of them back, and I see a plump security officer scuttling over toward us.
“Good,” the husband says. “The police are finally taking this seriously.”
“I’m hospital security, ma’am, you’ll both need to calm down, or I’ll have to escort you out.”
“Our baby is dead,” the woman hisses. “And you’re going to take us away from his body?”
“Can you calm down?” the nurse asks. “Please calm down.”
“Fine,” the husband says, stepping out of the nurse’s grip.
“Who died?” I ask. “Who is your baby?”
“Samuel,” the wife says. “And Mason Steel killed our baby.”
24
Mason
I get everything packed up in just a few minutes. I don’t even know where I’m going to go, but wherever it is, I won’t need furniture. Or a bed.
Maybe the Special Forces will take me back. There are plenty of wars left to be fought. At some point, I will be too old for it, but not yet. I can still do what I’m best at.
Out! Now!
I can still see Sophie’s tearstained face, hissing at me with pure hatred.
I all but killed a man—no, I did kill him. It doesn’t matter if the police said it wasn’t my fault. I know it was. Samuel’s parents are right.
I can give half of my savings to them, and half to Sophie. It won’t make me right with either of them, but it’s all I can do.
I don’t need money to go wherever I’ll go. I never really needed money in the first place. It was only something I thought would matter when I pretended I could go back in time and be with Sophie.
I dump my clothes and toiletries into a big bag, and that’s all I need to get the hell out of Tuckett Bay, and Massachusetts, forever.
I throw it into my car, and a pang of something hits me. Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s my feelings for Sophie, or maybe it’s whatever the opposite of nostalgia is—but I know I’m fucking up right now. I’m watching my car drive off a bridge in slow motion, and my hands aren’t even on the fucking wheel.
How can I break my promise, again? Not even just one promise this time, but two. I told Sophie I wouldn’t leave her again, and I told Hank I’d get her to take that job.
I can’t just go, can I? I have to at least try. I can try to convince Sophie that she doesn’t want me, and I can make sure she goes to that fucking job interview.
I got it. It clicks. I’ll offer to watch over Hank while she interviews, and if she gets the job, I’ll stay with him. She might hate my guts, but I’ll do it for free. It’s all I’ve got, it’s the only thing I can think of other than running away. Again.
I drive to the hospital as fast as I can. She might still be there.
I get there in record time, and I run so fast through the hallways that a few nurses yell at me. But I don’t give a shit.
I reach Hank’s room...but it’s empty. They already airlifted him. Sophie is—
“I’m going to Boston.” It’s Sophie’s voice.
I turn around, and she shoves past me into the room.
She reaches down to one of the chairs and picks up a phone. “I forgot this.”
“Sophie…”
“Didn’t I tell you to get out? Why are you back here?”
“Look,” I say. “Forget me, forget you—”
She scowls. Okay, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Not forget,” I say, “but putting us aside, whatever problems and complications there are, I know how to give your dad the best shot at recovery.”
“Did you study neuroscience in the Special Forces, too?” She says, staring me down and crossing her arms.
“No,” I say, “but trust me Sophie, your Dad wants you to get that job. Look at it all from his perspective, just for a second. You spent your whole life working toward this goal, and you achieved it. Now you—”
“God,” she scoffs. “You’re going to judge me, too?”
“I’m not judging you. God knows I’m not in the place to judge a single soul. Not after what I did.”
Sophie looks at me with apprehension. She must have heard something by now.
“But Sophie,” I continue, “your dad wants to see you do something with yourself. Tell him you’re interviewing, then tell him you got the job. He can hear you, and it will motivate him to get better...so he can know you’re okay.”
She sighs. “I don’t feel okay. What happened, Mason?”
“If I hadn’t been on that boat,” I say, “Samuel would still be alive.”
“So you killed him?” she asks, her voice skeptical.
“I may as well have.”
“So you didn’t, then.”
Applying the same standards, I killed my own brother. I fought with that for over a decade before I finally forgave myself. Am I going to do that again?
“Right now,” I say, “I feel guilty. Like it was my fault. Maybe it was, or maybe it wasn’t. His family blames me. I blame me.”
“The police don’t blame you—”
“Look, Sophie,” I say. “Let me drive us to Boston. You must be exhausted. I want you to go for this job, if not for yourself, then for your dad. I’ll take care of him while you interview, and if you get the job, I’ll take care of him while you work.”
“Mason,” she says, shaking her head. “I couldn’t—”
“I will,” I say, taking her by the shoulders. “I need to do this.”
“Fine,” she says. “Your car or mine?”
“Mine.”
We get to Boston in just over two hours.
“You know,” Sophie says, “I could still live at home and commute here.”
“Four hours of driving per day?” I ask. “Come on.”
“I could,” she says. “At least while Dad is recovering.”
“Worry about that later.”
We park at the hospital and check in at the front desk.
“Your father is getting a CT scan, and then he’s due for an MRI,” the receptionist tells us. “If you’d like to have a seat, we will have a doctor come talk to you when he’s done.”
Sophie starts to cry.
I pull her toward me with one arm, and she presses her face into my chest. I feel her warm tears stain through my shirt.
“It’s okay,” I say.
I guide her toward one of the chairs and get her to sit down.
“No,” she says. “It’s not. I knew Dad wasn’t eating healthy enough, and I finally convinced him to see the doctor a few months ago. He ducked out of the appointment while I was at work. He kept rescheduling and pushing it back. They could have caught whatever this was.”
I shake my head. “Men are stubborn. Trust me. You can’t get a man to do something he doesn’t want to do.”
She glares at me. “So when we are both old, you’re going to do the same thing to me? God, I should just live alone.”
When we’re both old? I thought she wanted me gone. Maybe not. Still, I’m not convinced that I’m any good for her. Right now, I just have to help her get through this. That’s all I’ve got in me right now. The urge to run again—to break all my promises—is almost visceral. I have to fight it every moment, and knowing just how bad Sophie needs someone right now is the only thing holding me down here. I pray that the feeling will pass. I pray that after the memory of Eric—fuck, no, Samuel—dead in my arms dies down, that this need to run will pass. That I will realize I’m where I need to be. That I should be with Sophie.
But I’m not there yet.
“When he’s better,” I say, “I’ll give him a man-to-man. I hated the doctor, too—all men do—until a wicked piece of shrapnel got stuck in my leg. I tried t
o just bear the pain for a few days. I just kept marching on, doing what I had to do, and it just go worse and worse. It was only later—when I finally saw a medic—that I learned each step I took was making the shrapnel dig deeper into my leg. If I had just gotten seen right away, they could have pulled it out while it was still in my fatty tissue. But since I was a stubborn dumbass, it started cutting through muscle. If I had delayed it any longer, it would have gnawed through bone.” I reach down and press into where the shrapnel entered my leg. “It still hurts when it gets really cold.”
Sophie scoffs. “You really are an idiot. Just as stupid as my dad.”
I shrug.
Sophie falls asleep with her head on my shoulder. She slept some in the car, but she kept jolting back awake. She’s been awake way too long, her body is working in overdrive. When I first got deployed, I had the same problem. How was I supposed to sleep when there were bad guys out there who wanted me dead? My adrenaline never stopped flowing, and I slept for only a few minutes at a time. I’d jolt awake and grab my rifle.
That passed after a few weeks. Afterwards I realized that being groggy, exhausted, and half asleep all the time was more likely to get me killed than just sleeping for a few solid hours would.
Sophie doesn’t have to worry about getting killed, but she may soon realize she needs to get her rest if she really wants to be there for her dad in the best way possible.
Hours pass, and I try not to think about Samuel. Finally a doctor approaches us. I nudge Sophie awake.
“Sophie,” a doctor says, “and...is this your husband?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “This is my husband, Mason.”
I realize then that she has to say I’m family. Otherwise they’ll give me a hard time about visiting.
“I’m Dr. Hessen,” she says. “Nice to meet you both. I’ll get right to it. We’ve finished imaging your father’s brain. And we’ve run a number of other tests to try to figure out what happened, and where we go from here.”
“Is he okay?” Sophie asks, clutching my arm with a vice-like grip.
“It’s too early to say,” Dr. Hessen says. Sophie’s nails dig into my arm. “But, I can give you an initial assessment. The stroke was caused by a blood clot, and while there was some brain damage, the clot cleared up fast enough that it wasn’t severe. A nearly full recovery is not unlikely, but I cannot promise anything at this stage.”
“Full recovery,” Sophie says. “What are the chances?”
Dr. Hessen shakes her head. “I can’t give you a percentage chance, but if you’re there for him, and if he’s motivated, he could very well recover. Of course, this is an initial assessment, and we may discover something later on that changes things, but I’m tentatively optimistic.”
“Can we see him?” I ask.
Dr. Hessen purses her lips. “Maybe in a few hours. We’re still doing some tests. We think the blood clot was likely caused by high blood pressure. We’re trying to figure out which medications to put him on so that he doesn’t have another episode like this.”
Once Dr. Hessen is gone, I take Sophie outside for some fresh air. She’s been breathing in the harsh antiseptic air of the hospital for hours.
“They’ve got some trees and benches over this way,” I say, pointing. “You can get set up, and I’ll go get us something to eat. We can eat out here and—”
“You think you can run from me?” a voice shouts.
I look up and see Samuel’s father barreling toward me from the parking lot.
“You think Boston will keep you safe?” he asks. “The law won’t give me justice, so I’ll have to take it into my own hands.”
I freeze. Fear sinks its tendrils into me. If he has a gun, and if he’s a bad shot—he will be a bad shot—he could hit Sophie instead of me.
I grab Sophie and put her behind me. I say in a too-calm voice to her, without taking my eyes off Samuel’s father, “Back up, go back into the hospital.”
“But—” she stammers.
The calm is gone now from my voice. “Go!”
I hear her footsteps moving away from me. And I keep my body between her and Samuel’s father. There’s nothing in his hands, but he’s wearing a thick coat. He could have anything in there.
“You gonna’ kill me?” I ask.
“I should!” he shouts. He’s still over twenty feet away. It would be an easy shot for me, but for someone inexperienced and this upset, it won’t be easy. If he really wanted to shoot me, why did he shout at me from so far out?
“So you’re not going to kill me,” I say. He’s stopped moving closer to me. I take a big step toward him, putting me on the offensive. Maybe that will make him reconsider. “What then? What did you drive all the way up to Boston for?”
“Fight me!” he shouts. He raises his fists.
“You drunk?” I ask, taking another step toward him.
“Of course I’m fucking drunk!” he shouts. “Where you think Samuel got it from?”
I take another step. I’m close to him now. “All right, Mr. Lightner, I’ll fight you.”
He just needs to hit something. It might as well be me.
I run forward and take a swing, intentionally missing him by a good foot.
He slams a fist into my gut.
I hit him with my elbow, putting no real power into it. It shoves him back a bit, and he raises his fists again. I step forward, my fists up, and I get close enough that he can get a good swing in. He does.
His fist cracks against my jaw—I didn’t bother to block—and pain lances across my face. My head spins. Another hit, and another.
I’m dazed, and I stumble backward. Mr. Lightner jumps and tackles me to the ground. I let it happen.
He hits me a few more times, but then I hear him sobbing.
“You guilty son of a bitch!” he shouts through tears. “You’re letting me win. I said I wanted to fight you! You’re not even trying!”
“Will you feel better if I hit you?” I ask. I can taste the blood all over my teeth.
“Maybe,” he says.
“You won’t,” I say, shoving him off me.
I stand up, reach a hand down, and help him to his feet.
“Was Samuel like this?” Mr. Lightner asks, looking down at his bloody knuckles and stinking like a bottle of rum left open all night.
“No,” I say, wiping the blood off my face. “Samuel was a good kid.”
25
Sophie
I help clean all the blood off Mason’s face, and I call up Mrs. Lightner to come get her husband. I’m not letting him drive himself home.
I babysit Mr. Lightner while Mason goes to buy some clean clothes since his are covered in blood.
“I raised a dumbass,” Mr. Lightner says. “The police said Samuel was too drunk to be walking around, let alone fishing.”
“We all make mistakes,” I say. “Samuel wasn’t a dumbass, Mr. Lightner.”
“He got it from me,” he says. “It should have been me.”
He passes out soon after that. I lay him down on the bench and stay with him. If hospital security found a drunk with bloody hands sleeping on the bench alone, they would probably call the police.
Mason comes back wearing new clothes and holding a big shopping bag. “I got us both some extra clothes, toothbrushes, all that stuff.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Mason’s face is still a mess. He’s washed the blood away, but the bruises will just get worse.
“Go check and see if you can see your dad yet,” he says. “I’ll stay with Mr. Lightner.”
“You should—” I start to say, but looking down at Mr. Lightner, I realize that Mason is right. We can’t leave him alone. I want Mason there with me when I see my dad, but it wouldn’t be right to abandon Mr. Lightner.”
I head into the lobby, my chest feeling heavy. The last I heard was that Dad would probably make a full recovery. That the doctors are cautiously optimistic. So long as I don’t hear any further news, t
he relief is still there. As soon as I go in there, everything could change. My whole world could change in a second.
I walk into the lobby and ask the receptionist if he’s ready for visitors.
“Mmm,” she says. “Let me call Dr. Hessen.”
She lifts up the phone, asks some questions, then hangs up. “You can go see him in Room 32C.”
I consider going to get Mason, but I need to see Dad. I can’t wait.
I text him as I walk down the corridors toward his room. When I step inside, he’s still flat on his back, but his eyes are open.
He looks over at me, and he looks extremely confused for a brief moment. But then recognition flashes across his face, and he smiles. His whole face smiles—not just half of it.
“Dad!” I rush over to his bed and wrap my arms around him.
I feel his hands touch my back, and I know then that everything will be okay. He’s still there, he’s still my dad. And I’ll make sure he recovers.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
There’s a nurse in the room. I’ve barely noticed her.
“He’s still slurring his words,” she says. “He seems embarrassed about it and won’t speak.”
I look at Dad, and he guiltily avoids my eyes.
“He needs to speak,” the nurse says, “in order to recover. The slurring usually goes away quickly, but only if you practice.”
I take Dad’s hand and squeeze. “Dad, come on. You can’t be so stubborn anymore. You need to do what the nurses and doctors tell you.”
“Will you go to the inter—inter—interview?” he asks, his voice heavy as if he was drunk.
“What?” I ask.
“Promise you’rr get the job,” he mutters, “and I’ll listen to the nursesh.”
“Fine,” I say. “Deal. I’m getting that job.”
He nods, then reaches out his hand.
The nurse smiles and places a cup of orange juice onto his tray. “He was refusing to drink this, but I guess he’s cooperating now.”
“Yesh,” he says, looking at the nurse. “Sophie ish gonna do research again. In Boshton.”
