Never Too Late

by Robyn Carr

  He came into the room and pulled a bunch of flowers inside a cellophane wrap from behind his back. The kind you’d pick up at a convenience store. “Hi,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  She struggled to lift herself in the bed. “I’m…Well, I’ve been better. But coming along. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Well, that’s something. You’ve been on my mind, too.”

  “About that night…I think I need to thank you. I was going to track you down, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Sam,” he said. “Jankowski.” He glanced about the room. “Is there anywhere to put these? I’m such a dunce, I never thought about a vase….”

  “Don’t worry. Just put them here,” she said, touching the tray table. “One of the nurses will bring an extra water jug later. So, thank you.”

  “For…?”

  “I don’t really know. For catching me speeding before I caused the accident. For not giving me a ticket when I deserved one. For—Were you the witness who said it wasn’t my fault?”

  “What I saw was in my report. It was an awful wreck. I sure was relieved you made it.”

  She giggled stupidly and then covered her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “I might be a little loopy. I just had a pain shot.”

  He stood right over her bed, where her sisters and Jason had all done so much time. But his presence seemed out of place.

  “How much longer do you have to be in the hospital?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’m going home in a few days. Depending on the doctor. And then I’ll have physical therapy for a long time. Probably months.”

  “Jeez, good thing I stopped by. I didn’t want to miss you.”

  “Thanks. But as you can see, even though I look like hell, I’m going to be fine. Eventually.”

  “You look pretty good, as a matter of fact. Total recovery?”

  “Probably. Ninety-five percent chance, as long as nothing weird happens.”

  “Fantastic. Damn, that was lucky.”

  “Well, depending on your perspective….”

  “I mean, you could’ve been killed. Do you remember the accident?”

  “Not a bit. Not a piece. I remember the light turning green. Otherwise, nothing.”

  “Good.”

  “I was unconscious….”

  “Not the whole time,” he said. “You drifted in and out. Asked for someone named Jason.”

  “My son.”

  “And…Mike, I think.”

  “Oh, God,” she said weakly.

  “The husband?” he asked.

  “No.” Could it be she was seeing Mike at that moment? At the accident and not later, in the hospital? Was time altogether different when visiting the other side? “Mike,” she repeated. “An old fiancé. Many years ago. Nineteen. He was in the Air Force and was killed in a plane crash.”

  “Wow. He must be someone you think about all the time.”

  “No. No, I don’t anymore. Years ago I did. I couldn’t seem to run him out of my mind, but then I married, had a child and…Listen, can I tell you something crazy? And you wouldn’t burst out laughing or tell anyone or anything?”

  He shrugged. “If you want.”

  “I saw him. Mike. Right before I woke up in the trauma center. I was in a foggy place with some light out there in the distance. And he came right out of the mist, said, ‘Hi, Clare,’ and then when I cried out to him and tried to reach for him, he said, ‘You have to go back. You have things to do. I’ll see you next time.’”

  To his credit, his eyes didn’t take on that bug-eyed, shocked expression that said he thought she was nuts. Instead, he smiled. “I heard that sort of thing can happen.”

  “Maybe I dreamed it,” she offered.

  “Or maybe it happened,” he said. “I never rule anything out.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling back at him. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t trying to be nice. Seriously, I’ve heard those stories. You never know, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  They were quiet a moment, looking at each other. Then he cleared his throat. “Mmm. This is kind of awkward, but maybe after you get a little better, maybe we could meet for coffee.”

  Dumbfounded, she stared at him, gape mouthed, until she realized she must look as if she’d just been hit in the back of the head with a two-by-four. “Coffee?”

  “Whatever.” He shrugged. “How about you give me a phone number where I can reach you. At the very least, I’d like to check up on you, see how your recovery is going.”

  Oh, that was it, she thought. Her features recovered. It wasn’t as if he was asking her out on a date. He was bonded to her by that accident, which probably shook him up. “God, forgive me,” she said. “It must be the drugs. I thought you were asking me out on a date.”

  There was that smile again. Dazzling. “Just coffee. Something like a date could take as many as two coffees.” Then he laughed. And she laughed.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine,” he said. “And you’re thirty-nine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve gotten really good at that driver’s license thing,” he said. “So, when you’re up to coffee?” She nodded. “How about that phone number?”

  That was kind of cool, she thought. That fantasy, though brief, that this drop-dead gorgeous young guy was asking her out, even though she was feeling really old, not to mention greasy haired and makeupless. But, he didn’t really look all that young. He could even pass for thirty-two.

  Thirty-two, Clare? she thought. Get over yourself. The guy wants to have coffee to assure himself that the banged-up heap they pulled out of a wreck was going to be fine. Just fine.

  “Sure,” she said. “Got a pencil?”

  The nurse stuck her head in. “Visiting hours are ending, sir,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said. Then to Clare he said, “I thought about badging her so she’d let me stay longer, but I’m really not here on official business. And you probably need the rest.” He reached over to the bedside commode where the clipboard and pen sat. Then like a kid, felt-tip poised over the palm of his hand, he said, “Shoot.”

  She gave him a number and added, “That’s a cell phone.”

  “Good then. So, take it easy and I’ll be in touch.”

  Clare nurtured that little fantasy about the younger man for a good twenty-four hours. Then when Maggie dropped by the next day it got wiped away by a bigger matter. “Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you—Pete Rayburn called me. He heard about the accident and wanted to know if you were all right.”

  Clare instantly turned her head away, almost a reflex now. That discomfort, that shame. She wouldn’t want anyone to see it in her eyes.

  Maggie touched her hair. “Does Mike’s death still hurt so much? Even after all these years?”

  Clare looked back at her sister. “Sometimes at the strangest moment it will come back—a suggestion, a name, like Pete’s—and I remember how much it hurt then. You know?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That you were going to be fine—but there would be some serious recovering to do and it could take months.”

  “Good. And how is he?”

  “You know, I didn’t even think to ask. But I assume he’s fine. Divorced a few years ago I heard, and still teaching and coaching. Do you ever see him or his parents?”

  “I’ve run into him a few times,” she said. In fact, if there hadn’t been that terrible indiscretion, she might’ve spent a lot of time with the Rayburns, when they could have helped each other get through Mike’s death. “That was nice of him. To call.”

  And that’s another thing to take care of, she thought. Put it on the to-do list. Get divorced, find a job and make a point of seeing Pete to put that whole business finally in the past. He probably needed it as much as she did.

  Three

  Sarah’s little shop w
as in the center of town, and she typically put in very long days there. It was customary for her to open the art supply store at around ten in the morning and close at six, but after dinner with her dad she would go back to work in her studio, which was behind the store, sometimes until quite late. In fact, she could get lost in some project—a woven throw, an oil painting, a sculpture—and forget time altogether, looking up only when her eyes burned with exhaustion, finding suddenly it was two or three in the morning. She was so focused when creating, the outside world seldom intruded.

  That was before the accident, three weeks ago. Since then, Sarah had spent minimal time at the shop. She put a sign in the window: Illness In The Family: Call 555-2323 For Today’s Hours Of Operation. Most of her customers were regulars who knew the family and were aware of the accident. Most of the town had heard about the accident—it made the papers.

  Sarah opened the shop for the sale of art supplies a few hours a day, spending the rest of her time with Clare at the hospital. Worry had clouded her usual single-minded drive to create.

  But today, a beautiful and sunny April day, as she closed the shop before five, there was a special lift in her heart because after three weeks, Clare was finally coming home. Clare’s town house was out of the question, given the stairs to the bedrooms, so George was bringing her home to his house. His and Sarah’s house. And the relief Sarah was feeling was tremendous. The whole family would be at George’s to welcome her.

  Of course, Clare wasn’t well yet. She was up walking, but still in pain, unable to sleep through the night without drugs. Sarah would gladly get up to make sure she was medicated and comfortable. The bed in her old bedroom at Dad’s was too soft and low, so George rented a hospital bed. It could be a long and difficult few months, most of the summer at least, through which Clare would struggle with pain, physical therapy, making slow but steady progress; Sarah would do anything to help.

  But Clare would be home. After nearly losing her, this was paramount.

  Of course Jason was coming to stay, as well. He’d been at Maggie’s for three weeks and Lindsey and Hillary were on his last nerve.

  When Sarah got home she was so happy to see all the cars in the drive and on the street. It looked as though everyone was present and accounted for, including Clare. No one would ever know how much seeing Clare in that hospital bed had shaken her. Besides her art and her shop, all she had in her life was the family. She didn’t have girlfriends or boyfriends, and that was perfectly all right with her because her days and nights were busy with her little business and her creative projects. Her dad, sisters, nieces and nephew were everything to her! Her sisters were always trying to coax her into being more social, but she honestly didn’t know where she’d find the time. And she certainly wouldn’t take it from family.

  Her sisters were her best friends.

  When she walked in the house she met that wonderful noise of family making things happen in the kitchen. She spied Clare at the end of the long oak table in the large kitchen. She’d spent many an hour studying there, before and after what she’d come to refer to as the dark years. Clare was sitting on a pillow, a strained look on her face, as though she might be in pain. Sarah went straight to her, leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’m so happy you’re home. Are you okay?”

  Clare grimaced. “My pain pill hasn’t quite kicked in yet. I’ll be okay.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you, honey.”

  Sarah went to the stove, where Maggie, George’s housekeeper, Dotty, and Maggie’s thirteen-year-old, Hillary, were surrounding a big pot. “What’s happening over here?” she asked.

  “Stew. Aunt Clare’s request.” She lifted a spoon. “Taste?”

  “Hmm,” she said appreciatively. “Not enough salt.”

  “Told you,” Hillary said to Dotty.

  Maggie slipped an arm around Sarah’s waist and kissed her cheek. “How’s the shop, sweetie?”

  “The same.” She shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Are you losing weight?”

  “You ask me that once a week.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t think so.” But she was, and she knew it. Thing was, she could get involved in some art project and forget to eat. She could be consumed by a bust or throw or painting. Her work didn’t bring in a lot of money, but she did have a following. And her major accomplishment of late was to have a tapestry of a towering brown bear on a snowy ledge hanging in a ski lodge in Lake Tahoe.

  But it wasn’t art that had cost her a few pounds. It was the fear and worry Clare’s accident had brought on.

  Jason came into the kitchen with a sweater for his mother, draping it around her shoulders. “Hi, Aunt Sarah,” he said.

  She smiled her greeting.

  Maggie got her girls setting the table for nine. This kind of gathering didn’t usually happen during the week, but it was a tradition to have Sunday dinner together whenever possible. While Maggie had the biggest house and Clare’s home with Roger had been larger than George’s, everyone still liked coming back here every week, cooking together, spending a few hours with family, sitting around that long oak table. A few years ago they had started having Dotty from time to time, as well; she was as much family as anyone.

  Maggie’s husband, Bob, came into the kitchen carrying two drinks. He handed one to Maggie and dropped an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “How’s my little artsy-fartsy?”

  She merely leaned against him. Bob was so steady, dependable.

  No one had to be called. As the plates began to land on the tabletop, George appeared from the living room with Lindsey, and people began to take their places. Maggie and Dotty brought the stew, salad and bread. Bob poured milk into the kids’ glasses; George fetched himself a beer. There was a little scuffle between Jason and Hillary for the seat next to Clare; Jason won. Sarah could’ve gotten up and yielded hers next to her sister, but no. She wouldn’t give it up.

  Before the plates were full, someone’s cell phone chimed. Lindsey looked at her phone and said, “I have to get this,” and jumped up from the table.

  “‘I have to get this,’” Bob repeated, humorously. “She’s fifteen.”

  “There’s a guy,” Hillary said, clearly having no intention of protecting her sister’s secrets.

  “What guy?” Maggie asked.

  “He’s a junior,” she said meanly. “A football player.”

  “Christopher Mattingly,” Jason said. “He’s gonna start next year.”

  Sarah felt herself smile. Her nieces were so gorgeous and smart, there would be no shortage of young men. Hopefully they would handle these years better than she had. With the force of Maggie and Bob to watch over them, surely they would be safe.

  There was passing and chatter, except that Clare, who was often talkative, was quieter than usual. That was okay, Sarah thought. Because she was getting better; things were getting back to normal. She folded her hands over her plate and let her eyes gently close for a moment, enjoying the sounds of her family around her.

  “You okay, honey?” Clare asked.

  “Yes. I’m just so relieved that everyone is back together again.”

  “You don’t do so well with change, do you, kiddo?” Clare asked.

  “Oh, I’m not as fragile as everyone thinks,” she said. But because of this close call in her family, she realized she had kept herself too isolated. Too safe. She vowed to take more chances. A little risk now and then. Maybe open up her life a little so that art and family wasn’t the totality of her existence.

  However, she wasn’t sure how that was done.

  Leaving the hospital was far more complicated than Clare imagined. First of all, when she left Roger months before, she found herself that cute little town house to rent—a town house full of stairs with a community washer and dryer. She didn’t know how long it was going to take to be pain free. “Everybody is different, healing time varies,” the orthopedist had said. No one knew how long a person’
s cracked pelvis was going to hurt, how long walking and lifting and climbing stairs would be impossible and then merely difficult.

  Because her recovery would involve many weeks, maybe months, Maggie immediately and without being asked, stepped in on Clare’s behalf and negotiated with the landlord to cancel her lease. It was very quickly done. Clare had rented the town house as a temporary base anyway. Part of her plan had been to eventually find a larger, more permanent home for herself and Jason, with her share of equity from the house she and Roger shared, an amount to be determined later, in a divorce. Now there would be more than one settlement to help pad her purse—one from the accident, one from the divorce. Both of those would take as long to settle as her recovery would be, if not longer. Maggie had warned her that dealing with the insurance company would be simple, but not fast. And she hadn’t even filed for divorce from Roger yet.

  But as May came in bright and warm, Clare found that living with George, Sarah and Jason, with Dotty ever present, was getting a little crowded. She liked her space; she’d get a little bristly when surrounded by too many people. Yet, the prospect of house hunting was too daunting to even imagine.

  Dotty came to George’s place almost every day, to make sure Clare had everything she needed. But she talked constantly and bleached Jason’s undershorts with such gusto they turned into mere threads in no time. When the good housekeeper went out to replace them, she bought them too small. “I don’t know if I’m better off going commando or having my nuts squished all day,” he complained. “Besides that, if she doesn’t quit asking me who I’m talking to on the phone, I might kill her.”

  “Patience,” Clare said. “This is temporary.”

  After a month with George, Clare could see that very soon she could live on her own with a little help around the house, a problem she could throw a little money at—preferably Roger’s money. But she had no house.