“I ordered a set of weights a few weeks ago,” Bennett continued, lowering his voice to a self-conscious whisper. “They were so heavy they had to be delivered by the men in brown. I ripped open this giant box with an Iron Bodies label, bent down, and pulled out two thirty-pound dumbbell weights. Meanwhile, a whole pile of those packing noodles flew all over the carport.” Bennett scowled. “Took me half an hour to clean those damned things up. Anyway, I started lifting the weights by curling them inward toward my chest. Shoot, there was a time when I would stand in front of the TV, doing repetition after repetition while watching SportsCenter on ESPN. Man, my arms were once like pythons of muscle and my legs were thick as logs. Not anymore.”
“But you started working out right away. That’s great!” Lindy congratulated him.
“Hold the phone, Lindy. Those dumbbells were too damned heavy. After just a few reps, I had to drop them on the grass. Here I thought that loading and unloading that mail truck would have kept me in decent shape. Ha! I also got an exercise video to go with my weights. It’s called Thirty Days ’Til Iron. I haven’t watched it once and that’s the truth.”
“I didn’t go to college either, Bennett,” Gillian said. “But at thirty-seven, I’m smart enough to know that the human mind can accomplish wonders. And if you want to be an ironman, then you will be. Me, I just want to look like a woman. Right now, I am wearing a girdle under this top.” She pulled at her loose shirt and then let go. The sound of elastic snapping back into place caused everyone to blink in surprise. “On top of the girdle, I’m wearing another flesh-restraining shirt. They’re like control top pantyhose for your torso. It’s awful. I can barely breathe in all of these shirts and they make me all sweaty. I have marks all over my skin every night when I finally take them off, and I still look like Spongebob Squarepants.” She held out a tank top with horizontal rainbow stripes and a plunging neckline. “I’d like to wear this and look good in it. I have meditated on acquiring the strength to lose weight for months, but it wasn’t until I joined this supper club that I felt the power to reach this goal.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I am deeply grateful to have all of your support.”
The Flab Five planned their next dinner for the following Sunday at James’s house. Gillian would have offered her house but said she was having some remodeling done in her kitchen and asked for a week’s reprieve. James swallowed nervously as he realized that his private life was soon to be revealed to his friends. The leaky roof, torn kitchen chairs, and the knowledge that he had no idea how his father would react, had James sweating like a bridegroom. James decided to tell Jackson ahead of time so that he could determine what his father’s behavior would be before next Sunday rolled around. Maybe Jackson would stay out in the shed all night.
“Don’t forget to send e-mails after you’ve talked to Amelia,” Lucy reminded Lindy. “You might discover a clue. So far, Donovan is stumped and that means we’ve got as good a shot as he does in solving this mystery.”
James bid his friends goodnight and quickly shuffled out to his truck, getting unpleasantly wet beneath a curtain of chilly raindrops, which showed no sign of slackening. Bennett’s brick ranch was on the opposite end of town from the Henry house, and no one followed James as he headed directly west. The trick-or-treaters had long since gone home and there were no other cars on the road as James crossed over the Stony Creek Bridge.
Suddenly, a deer leapt out of the cover of trees at the far end of the bridge and James instinctively slammed on his brakes. The deer locked eyes with his car headlights, unblinkingly frozen in terror as James struggled to control his Bronco on the slick bridge. His tires could not seem to find purchase and the truck skidded sideways dangerously close to the rusted guardrail lining the low bridge. James jerked on the wheel and pumped the brakes desperately as the Bronco careened wildly across the bridge. Passing by the immobile deer, his truck came to an abrupt stop on the side of the road, its headlights facing downwards, illuminating the shallow gulley below.
Breathing heavily, James laid his forehead against the steering wheel and whispered a brief prayer of thanks. When he looked over his shoulder through the driver’s side window, the deer was gone. He sat still for a moment, calming himself and trying to cease the trembling of his limbs. Finally, he was composed enough to get out of his truck and survey his situation.
Dark black skid marks made an erratic track like that of a roller coaster across half of the bridge. The tires of his truck had bit deep into the muddy embankment, but James felt confident that once he put the Bronco in four-wheel drive he could easily back out of the mud using low gear. He couldn’t help gazing down into the gulley, which was destined to fill with water if the rain continued at its current pace.
James turned his face into the rain, welcoming the sharp points of moisture on his skin. As he did so, a glint of metal was caught in the glare of his headlights. He peered into the darkness of the sloping hill, trying to make out what object was shining in the copse of trees. Torn between fear and curiosity, James took a step down into the long, soggy grass, and then another. As his eyes registered that the wink of metal came from the twisted spike of an umbrella, his mind tried to comprehend that an outstretched hand lay just a few feet away from the broken apparatus.
“Hold on! I’m coming!” James called, a sense of desperation flooding through him as he moved forward. The hand lay immobile as James raced down the hill, tripping and absurdly repeating his cry, “Hold on! I’m coming!” His fright completely forgotten, James reached the inert form and paused over the mat of dark tangled hair. He reached for a hand. The thin fingers were cold and unresponsive. James gently pushed back a mass of wet hair from the face, noting that it was clotted not only with mud, but also with a thicker, stickier substance that could only be blood.
As the visage became visible, James gasped in horror. “NO!” he cried, looking down at the smooth skin and the lovely and youthful features belonging to someone he knew. It was the face of Whitney Livingstone.
James drove his Bronco as fast as he could down the dark, slick roads of Quincy’s Gap, heading for the Shenandoah Valley Memorial Hospital. Back on the rainy slopes, he had hesitated to move Whitney, but after listening to what sounded like awfully shallow breaths, James checked her neck for any obvious breaks or injuries and loaded her into the Bronco. He could reach the hospital in the same amount of time it would take the paramedics to arrive at the scene.
At the moment, James was questioning the wisdom of his actions. He knew nothing about medicine and was filled with fear that he had caused Whitney more harm than good. After wrapping her in a woolen blanket and laying her as gently as a wounded bird in the back seat, her shallow breathing developed a liquid sound that bothered James immensely. His focus was torn between the road and the nearly inaudible sounds of life coming from the seat behind him.
Once the Bronco reached the highway, James was able to pick up speed. A luminescent moon broke through a collection of spidery clouds and momentarily illuminated the shadowed horizon. James used the eerie moonlight to dial 9-1-1 on his cell phone. He alerted the dispatcher that he would be arriving at Shenandoah Memorial with a seriously injured woman within ten minutes.
“Can you identify the extent of her injuries, sir?” the dispatcher asked calmly.
“No, but her breathing is funny—it sounds wet—and her color isn’t good. She’s way too pale.”
“Does she respond when you speak to her?”
James shook his head and then remembered that he was on the phone. “No,” he spoke so low that it was almost a whisper. “She can’t hear me.”
He was greatly relieved to see a team standing by as he pulled up to a screeching halt in front of the red Emergency doors. Two male nurses whisked Whitney onto a gurney and rolled her into the recesses of the hospital before James could even close the Bronco’s back door.
“I’ll just park!” he feebly called after one of the nurses and drove into the parking garage. As he pulled into a
space in the nearly empty facility, his hands began to shake. Staring at them as if they were foreign objects, he noticed traces of wet dirt mixed with dried blood on his fingers. It was apparent that the shock of finding Whitney had finally set in. Without thinking about what time it was, James pulled out his cell phone again and dialed the only number his distressed brain could concentrate on.
“Hello?” a voice croaked.
“Lucy? It’s James. I’m sorry to call so late. I . . . I just . . .”
James could hear Lucy sit up in bed. Next, he heard the switch of a lamp being turned on. “James? What is it?” Lucy’s voice seeped into James’s ear like a balm and he immediately felt himself clinging to her like a lifeline.
“Something awful has happened.” He paused, letting his emotions take charge of his words. “Could you come be with me? I need a . . .” James broke off and told her briefly what had happened.
“I’ll be right there. Just sit tight,” Lucy assured him as soon as he was finished.
Feeling much stronger knowing that Lucy was on the way, James headed into the hospital and told his story again to the triage nurse.
“We’ll inform her parents immediately.” The nurse quickly located the Livingstones in the white pages, picked up a phone, and began dialing. James could feel the fist in his stomach tighten into a hard knot. What if the Livingstones were told that James had harmed their daughter by moving her? Assailed by doubt and anxiety, he paced the hall like a caged tiger until he saw the pear-shaped and comfortingly maternal figure of Lucy Hanover hurrying down the hall toward him.
Wordlessly, she enfolded him in a hug. James was engulfed by feelings of warmth and safety. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. “Thank you for coming.”
When she pulled away, her eyes were glistening. “Anytime, James. I’m right here.”
At that moment, the nurse arrived to tell James that Whitney’s parents were on their way. James sighed heavily and expressed his concerns to Lucy.
“You did the right thing, James. She was freezing cold and, from what it sounds like, in grave shape. If you had left her out there another moment, who knows what would have happened?” She tugged on his damp sleeve. “Look! You’re soaked to the bone yourself. I’m going to get us some coffee and dig up a blanket for you.” And before James could protest that he didn’t need a blanket, she was gone.
Minutes later she returned, wrapped a blue blanket around his shoulders, and handed him a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee with the most delicious aroma.
“It’s hazelnut.” Lucy took a tentative sip of the scalding coffee. “My favorite. I just added a drop of half-and-half for you. I don’t know if you take cream. And I’ve got some rat killer here for you, too.”
James looked at the pink, blue, and yellow packets of artificial sweeteners displayed on her palm. “Rat killer,” he smiled for what felt like the first time in ages. “I like that.”
They sat and sipped their coffee in comfortable silence. James thought a better cup of coffee didn’t exist anywhere.
“Here comes Beau and Caroline.” Lucy pointed and then put her cup down. “I’ll tell them what happened, James. It’ll be easier for you that way.”
James watched helplessly as the panicked couple entered the waiting area. Lucy met them and gestured toward the cluster of seats where she and James were sitting and began to explain how James had found Whitney in the gulley. Caroline burst into tears at the image of her daughter, lying helpless and hurt in the rain. Beau gathered his wife in his arms as Lucy finished relaying the kind of story every parent dreads to hear.
“We haven’t had word from the doctors yet.” Lucy got the couple seated in the waiting room’s uncomfortable plastic chairs and handed Caroline a tissue from one of the boxes on a nearby table.
James leaned forward and said, “I am deeply sorry that this has happened. I hope that I did the right thing in moving her. I’d never forgive myself if I made things worse.”
Beau reached across the empty space between the seats and clasped James’s hand. “My friend, my little girl would still be lyin’ there if it weren’t for you. No matter what happens, we sure are grateful that you got spooked by that deer.” For a moment, Beau’s deep voice got stuck in his throat. “We’re just thanking the good Lord that you were out when you were.” He turned to Lucy. “And thanks to you, for being here for all of us.”
Caroline nodded her head in tearful agreement. Lucy rose and went to get two more coffees. While she was gone, James asked Whitney’s parents what she had been doing out on a rainy night.
“She worked the dinner shift tonight,” Caroline answered eagerly. Talking made the waiting easier. “She usually rides her bike home afterwards. It’s only a ten-minute ride and she’s ridden into town since she was seven. If it’s raining real hard, I go get her or she gets a ride home from Dolly or Clint. I guess the rain just caught her by surprise tonight.”
James frowned. “I didn’t see a bike.”
The Livingstones exchanged looks. “That’s funny.” Beau was perplexed. “I saw her ride off on it. I can’t imagine what happened to it.”
“But does that mean”—Caroline’s face filled with horror—“someone ran her off the road while she was walking home? How else would she end up in a . . . ditch!” She cupped her hands together and held them over her mouth, as if to contain the anguish that continued to rise like a tide inside of her.
“Now, honey. We don’t know nothin’ yet. That nice nurse said the doc would be out soon. He’ll tell us everything is gonna be just fine. I know it.”
Caroline gazed at her husband with renewed hope. Even James was comforted by the strength and determination of Beau’s pronouncement. The minutes dragged by. James and Lucy absently flipped through the pile of random magazines spread around the waiting room. Beau sketched something on the back of a piece of paperwork given to him by the triage nurse. As James walked over to Beau’s chair, hoping to find a magazine that wasn’t about investing or fly-fishing, he noticed that the older man had drawn blueprints and the exterior of what looked like a Tudor-style doghouse.
“That’s some house,” James said with admiration. “Good enough for the president’s dog.”
Beau looked pleased. “Think so? I call them ‘Pet Palaces.’ I’ve been building a few cat and dog houses to sell at the big Veteran’s Day parade in Harrisonburg next month. I started with birdhouses.” Lucy put down her magazine and came over to look as Beau continued. “I began selling those out of my truck. Caroline drives me to a busy shopping area and drops me off for a few hours with just a table and a chair. I set up my stuff and sit and wait. We’ve hit most of the towns in the county, so I decided to try to expand my product line a bit.”
“He’s done very well,” Caroline added proudly. “Sold every single birdhouse he’s built.”
“Were the birdhouses in different architectural styles, like this Tudor doghouse?” James asked, pointing at Beau’s sketch.
“Yep. Mostly red and white Amish barns or real colorful Victorians. Those sold the best.” Beau gave them an ironic grin. “Figures. All those tiny pieces of gingerbread take me forever to make.”
“I’d like a Pet Palace for my dogs!” Lucy exclaimed. “You know what? Our friend Gillian owns the Yuppie Puppy, the grooming place in town. I bet she would love to see your products. Maybe you two could go into business together or something.”
A spark lit in Beau’s eye. “That would sure be great. I don’t even want to think about the cost of . . .” He trailed off, embarrassed about bringing up the expense of medical care while his daughter’s condition remained unknown. Lucy quickly distracted him by asking for the sketch he had made to show Gillian. Once again, James was amazed by Lucy’s ability to say the perfect thing during a difficult moment.
Finally, close to two in the morning, a doctor wearing royal-blue scrubs came out of the operating room area and approached Whitney’s parents.
“How is she? How is my baby?” Caro
line jumped up, clinging to the doctor’s scrubs.
The doctor gently removed her hand and held it with his own. His bright blue eyes were filled with intelligence and compassion. He eased Caroline back into her chair and sat down beside her. “I’m Doctor Stauffer, the ER doctor on call. Your daughter is alive, but she’s in a coma.” Caroline’s tense shoulders sagged in defeat and she uttered a painful moan. Dr. Stauffer placed a warm hand over her trembling fingers. “Whitney sustained some swelling to her brain, which may be the cause of the coma. We see that in cases with head trauma. She must have hit the ground rather hard, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean?” Beau leaned forward, holding his hands out helplessly toward the doctor. “Will she have . . . will she be able to . . . ?”
Dr. Stauffer gave Beau a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The anguished father sank back into his chair. “I have a few more things to tell you.” The Livingstones drew in a deep breath and held it. “Whitney suffered three broken ribs, puncturing her lung. We had to put in a chest tube to re-inflate the lung. She has also sustained a broken arm. I’ve got an orthopedic surgeon coming in the take a look at that arm—”
“Can we see her?” Caroline asked numbly, her eyes glazed over in shock.
“Of course,” Dr. Stauffer answered sympathetically. “The good news is that your daughter is both young and strong. That will make a world of difference. We are really hoping for the best.” The doctor rubbed his hands together. “I hate to use this phrase as it seems like a cliché, but as in many cases, only time will tell.”
The Livingstones gave an imperceptible nod.
“I’ll take you to see your daughter now,” the doctor added softly, steering the stunned parents to their only child’s room in the intensive care unit.
James and Lucy stared after them, trying to absorb all of the medical details that they had both overheard.
“This sounds pretty bad,” James said, feeling a twisting inside his stomach as he thought about Whitney’s blood-encrusted hair and chilled limbs.
Carbs & Cadavers Page 12
