by Bonnie Grove
I hop on one foot, trying to pull my shoe on. Where’s my purse?
“Let’s go!” He’s in the car now, window rolled down, thumping on the side panel with a fist, but he’s grinning. “Put some hustle in it, babe.”
I lock the front door and scurry to the car—my car, a green Ford Focus, perfect for bombing around town in. It may be my car, but Kevin is in the driver’s seat. He honks as I walk past the hood, and I scream. “What did you do that for?” I say as I pull my seat belt on. He laughs and backs out of the driveway before I can get it buckled. I’ve never seen him like this, acting like a child on the way to the circus. I can feel the excitement from him, like waves. Suddenly I can’t help but laugh too.
His right hand fumbles around near my leg, searching for the stick shift. He’s used to driving a manual transmission. He grabs the lever that sticks out of the steering wheel column and rolls his eyes. “Automatic transmission,” he mocks.
I cross my arms, pretending to be offended. “Technology exists to make driving simple. It should be utilized.”
He pulls a fast right, one finger on the steering wheel. “That technology makes driving dull.” He rubs his hands together above the wheel. Now he’s steering with his left leg. “But this beauty we’re going to pick up …” He lets out a slow whistle.
I smile at him. Not because we’re on our way to pick up a new car, but because he’s so happy about it. Happy? Try exuberant. Hands tapping to the beat of the song on the radio, head bobbing. He sings out an “uh-huh, uh-huh” along with the nearly incoherent words of the song. I feel the wind through my hair (both windows are down now) and the sun on my face as we speed through town toward the new-car dealership on the east side.
I reach across and squeeze his hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, a big, noisy smooch sound. “Mwah!” And tiny bubbles of contentment rise up from my stomach to my chest and fly from my mouth.
I giggle, not even sure what I’m so happy about.
I hadn’t wanted this second car, didn’t think we needed it. “What about our global footprint, or whatever it’s called? Reduce, reuse, you know?” I had argued.
Kevin had just grinned and replied, “It’s red and it has a sunroof.”
I told him we couldn’t afford it.
He smiled and said, “It’s the price of success, babe. You have to look successful to be successful.” I rolled my eyes at that bit of Tony Robbins advice, but he was convinced not only could we afford a new car, we couldn’t afford not to get a new car.
“What about saving for a down payment on a bigger house?” I said.
He got very excited talking about home equity, and said, “Besides, when I’m a veep, I’ll buy you three houses if you want.”
At the dealership Kevin is out of the car before I can unlatch my seat belt. I wonder if they will raise the price of the car simply because they can see how eager he is. In his current state of emotion, they could probably charge him an additional five thousand dollars with ease. I hurry to catch up. This isn’t difficult, because Kevin had suddenly slowed down, his giddy scuttle now a meandering slouch. I sidled up beside him. “Where’s your bounce, Tigger?”
He stares at the doors, slowing until we are at a standstill in front of them. “Hang on.” He turns and does a half jog to the show lot, me running behind him. He stops in front of a low, dark blue Audi, a serious car that looks like it might bite you if you stood too close. Kevin frowns at it, running a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. He lays two hands on the driver’s window and leans in, peering at the interior. Pushing away, he glances at the building where Gary, our salesman, is no doubt watching the door, awaiting our arrival.
I tap Kevin’s arm. “Hon, are you going to keep being weird, or are you going to go get your car?”
I scan the lot, but his brand-spanking-new Mazdaspeed3 is nowhere to be found. Probably in the garage getting its hubcaps polished or whatever they did just before handing over a new car. “Kev?”
“What do you think of this car?”
I point at the Audi. “This one? It looks like something my Great-Uncle Jonah would drive.”
Kevin pulls his eyebrows in until they meet in the middle of his forehead. “Your Great-Uncle Jonah can’t eat soup, never mind drive a car like this.”
I shrug one shoulder. “If he could drive, this would be his car.”
“Tony just picked one of these up,” he mumbles. I don’t know who Tony is, so I keep quiet.
I give his arm a tug. “It looks expensive. And the Mazda is expensive enough.” He doesn’t move. I give him my most alluring smile. “And it’s red.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, and he makes a snorty laugh through his nose. “Let’s go.” He scoops up my hand and he’s happy again, walking with a jagged beat in his step. I glance back at the Audi, so stern and grumpy on the lot. It looks like a banker’s car. Besides, the Mazda is a four-door, which will make it easier to get a baby seat in and out of.
Greenfield is a small town, which means that aimless driving has serious limits. I forced the Mazda into a too-sharp left turn and found the street was blocked by a farmer’s field. End of the road. I fumbled with the stick shift and gave it a shove.
I looked at the black-and-white street sign. Apple Tree Lane. I’d never been down Maggie’s street before. I hadn’t intended to end up there. Still, I slowed the car and began studying the houses I passed. It didn’t take long before I spotted a house that could only belong to Maggie. It was painted a painful shade of red and sported jaundice green shutters. The combination gave the house an odd aura. Like being sick at Christmastime. The sidewalk leading up to the house was bordered with deep purple delphiniums that stood at least five feet tall. As I drove past, I saw a riot of wildflowers growing along the front of the house. Bees and butterflies made equal time among the coneflowers, foxglove, and poppies.
I pushed my foot down on the accelerator while maneuvering the stick shift, but I forgot the clutch, and the gears made a horrible grinding sound. I looked down at the stick. I was in fourth gear. I glanced up, horrified to see I was speeding toward the fence that separated the road from the farmer’s field at the end of the street. In a panic I pulled a fast U-turn and the car accelerated as it came out of the turn.
Dead ahead a Mustang made a slow approach into one of the driveways. I stood on the brakes. They screamed as my car slammed into the side of the Mustang. The air bag exploded in my face, pushing me back hard against the headrest. I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I pushed at the air bag, trying to move it out of the way so I could see what had happened. Out the windshield I saw the Mustang neatly folded around the front of the Mazdaspeed. I blinked stupidly at the scene out my window.
I saw the dark outline of the driver through the other car’s shattered window. The driver sat motionless for a long moment, then leaned into the driver-side door and began rocking back and forth, pushing at it with a shoulder. Must be stuck, I thought.
The Mustang rocked back and forth, and then the door gave way and the driver emerged from the wreckage. Maggie.
She made slow but steady progress toward my car; her left leg seemed to jerk with each step. I scrambled for the door release, my hands shaking and weak. I pushed the door hard and it opened with a quick jerk. I fell into a tidy pile on the road.
I heard Maggie’s voice say “Oh” as I hit the pavement. Then she was beside me, bending down and saying, “Are you all right, miss?”
From my position on the asphalt, I could see a line of blood running down Maggie’s shoe. The blood started a small pool at her feet. There was a tear in her purple pants.
“Maggie, I’m so sorry.”
At the sound of her name she jerked as if surprised. She bent and peered down at me. “Who—?” she began.
I turned my face up to her. I felt a sharp jab in the back of my neck.
“Kate! Are you hurt?”
I pushed at the ground, trying to stand up. Maggie held her hand out, but I waved it away. “I don’t know. But you are,” I pointed to her leg. Maggie looked down, saw the blood leaching out of her body, and let out a small noise that sounded like “Geep.”
I stood, leaning hard against the ruined Mazda.
Maggie turned back toward her ruined car and hobbled toward it. “I have a cell phone in my purse.”
“Let me get it. You stay still,” I said as I lurched past her. Dizzy, I grabbed Maggie’s purse out of her car. I closed my eyes and leaned on the roof of her mangled Mustang for a long moment as spots exploded behind my eyes. Finally I wobbled back to Maggie and handed over her purse. She pawed the contents in what seemed like slow motion. I felt a wave of nausea rise up into my rib cage. I sat down hard on the curb as Maggie spoke into the phone. Her face matched her lime green cell phone.
“They’re on the way. Police, and the ambulance, too,” Maggie said as she clicked the phone closed. She looked down at her leg again, then back at me. I was gently prodding the back of my neck with my right hand. I hit a tender spot and yelled out.
Maggie made a tsk sound. “I think we are headed for the hospital, dear.”
I started to cry. “I hate hospitals.”
13
I sat beside Maggie’s bed in the hospital ER.
A young, solemn doctor had declared me healthy and “lucky.” The pain in my neck and shoulders, caused by the force of the air bag throwing me back onto my seat and headrest, was muscular and would subside in a few days. He prescribed muscle relaxants with codeine.
I held Maggie’s hand as we sat in silence, waiting for a doctor to come and stitch up her leg. Other than the cut, she’d suffered only bruises, mostly on the left side of her body. She would be sore, but fine. We were assured it would be a short wait until a doctor could come and put the needed stitches in Maggie’s leg.
I rocked in my chair. “I’m so—”
Maggie threw me a hard look. She’d already told me to stop apologizing. She squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, hiding my apology in the soft pressure.
She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “It was a surprise, you know. To see it was you. Well,” she gave a snorting laugh, “the whole thing was a terrible surprise. But to see it was you driving the car. You’re the last person I expected to see lying in a heap on the road. In your living room, maybe. But not on the road.”
I opened my mouth to reply but my attention was caught by the actions of a nurse across the corridor from us. She was standing in front of the nurse’s desk, her hands full of clothing and a large plastic bag. I watched as she placed the bag on the desk and folded a pair of blue pants. She put the pants into the plastic bag, and then started folding what looked like a pair of boxer shorts. The hair raised up on the back of my neck as I watched the nurse carefully fold the articles of clothing and place them in the bag, which had the name “Zinik, Jaris” written across it in black, bold print.
I sprang up and half ran across the corridor toward the nurse. I heard Maggie call, “Kate, where are you going?”
I reached the nurse’s station and grabbed the bag, but, in an amazing show of reflex, the nurse managed to hang on to it. She pulled hard and we did a fast tug-of-war. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I let go. The nurse jerked and had to take a quick step backward to keep from falling.
I pointed. “What are you going to do with that?”
She stared down at the bag for a moment, then up at me with a look that said dangerous person. “Are you family?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m family. Not his family. Not Jaris Zini-whatever’s family.” I grabbed her arm. She pulled away, swinging her arm hard to the right. She’s scared of me. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m not crazy. I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to know what you are going to do with that bag of clothes.”
“What business is it of yours? I’m packaging them up for the family to take home.”
“He died, didn’t he?” I said, pointing to the name on the bag.
She crossed her arms, the bag flapping softly against her ribs. “I can’t discuss this with you. You need to leave. Now.”
“Please, I just need to know. My husband died two months ago, here, in this ER. When I left the hospital, they didn’t give me anything.” I gestured to her hands. “No bag of clothes. No nothing.” I saw her face soften. It wasn’t quite sympathy, but she wasn’t going to holler for security … yet. “My sister had to come back later to get his things.”
The nurse pulled a frown. “That’s unusual. But we’re a busy hospital, and sometimes mistakes happen. We try hard to make sure the family members have all of the deceased’s belongings before they leave the hospital.”
“I’m missing his watch,” I said. It was only after I had spoken the words I realized it was true. His watch. That’s what had been missing from the pile of his belongings left on my bed the morning after his funeral.
The nurse patted Jaris’s bag. “I have to go and give this to the family. If you like, you can talk to one of the nurses at the desk. Maybe one of them can help you.” She walked away.
I looked at the nurses behind the desk. One was on the phone; two others had their backs turned to me, talking. I cleared my throat.
“Kate?” I heard Maggie call from across the hall.
I poked my head in the door. “You okay?”
“Yes, fine. I thought the doctor would be here by now. Good thing I’m not bleeding to death,” she said with a small smile. She looked pale.
“I’ll go see if I can find one.” I left before she could protest.
I tapped the nurses’ desk with my knuckle and smiled when the nurse, still on the phone, turned toward me. She leaned back in her chair and laughed into the receiver. The other two nurses were gone. I turned and searched the hallway until I spotted another nurse marching toward me. I hurried to her, stopping just in front of her.
“Excuse me, I—” She brushed past me, not breaking her fast pace. I trotted behind her. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Yes?” She hustled down the hall, moving like she was in training for a triathlon. “What is it?”
I felt the effort of keeping pace with her in my lungs and aching muscles. When was the last time I’d gone for a walk? I was horribly out of shape. “I wanted to ask you what happens to people’s clothing, belongings, that sort of thing.” She was really moving fast.
“Lost and found is on the main floor, near the cafeteria.” She said as she turned a corner.
I followed. “No, not lost things. I mean—”
The nurse came to a sudden stop and turned to face me. “Main floor. By the cafeteria.” She spun and continued her one-person race.
I raised my chin and yelled to the ceiling. “I want my dead husband’s watch!” I cupped my hand over my mouth, embarrassed.
The nurse reversed track and walked back to me, eyebrows pushed together, mouth hanging down in a loose frown. She looked thoughtful and annoyed. “What’s his name?” she said.
“Kevin Davis,” I said softly, trying to make up for my outburst.
“Fine, you go sit in the waiting room and I’ll see what I can find.”
“Actually I’m here with a friend. I … we were in an accident. She’s in examination room 3. I’ll wait there.” I remembered that I was also supposed to find a doctor and see what was taking so long for him to treat Maggie.
The nurse gave a curt nod. “Kevin Davis. Exam 3. Okay. I’m busy, but when I can, I’ll pull the chart and see what happened.” She turned and walked away, hollering over her shoulder, “I can’t promise anything.”
I made my way back to the nurses’ station, on the hunt for a doctor.
An ho
ur later the doctor was putting a bandage on Maggie’s freshly stitched leg. Maggie kept smiling at the doctor and telling him what a wonderful job he was doing. It was a good strategy. The doctor seemed to take extra time and care with stitches. He was going over a list of dos and don’ts with Maggie when the nurse walked into the room. She held a file folder in her hand. She looked at me, then back at the file folder. “You’re Mrs. Davis?”
“Yes, Kate Davis.”
She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She’d gone to the trouble of digging up the chart and she was going to tell me what was in it regardless if I were Mrs. Davis or King Tut. “According to this,” she pushed her finger toward the folder, “there was no watch. Not only that, there weren’t any clothes, either.”
“I don’t understand.”
She glanced at the chart. “Kevin Davis arrived at this hospital naked.”
14
I turn the lock, closing the Wee Book Inn for the night. I’d pulled a double shift, covering for Percy. I hop in my car and turn up the radio loud. I drive with the windows down to stay awake and alert. When I pull into the driveway, my legs protest. I’m happy to be home, but too exhausted to want to get out of the car. I haul myself out, check the mailbox—bills, should have left them where they were—and open the front door. “I’m home,” I call.
Kevin runs to the door; he’s bare-chested, holding a dark blue dress shirt. “Did you wash this in hot water?”
I kick my shoes off. “No. I don’t wash much of anything in hot water. And hello to you, too.”
He holds it out. “It’s shrunk.”
I take the shirt and examine the tag. “It says dry clean only.” I toss it back to him. “Did you dry clean only?”
Kevin follows me into the kitchen. “Not funny, Kate. This shirt cost more than a hundred dollars.”
My mouth is full of croissant. It’s nine-thirty and I’d missed dinner. “What? Why on earth did you buy a shirt that costs that much and then toss it in the laundry?” I shake my head, staring at the shirt. “Scratch that. Why did you buy a shirt that costs that much, period?”
