Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One
Page 8
Silence.
“So what,” more coughing. “What can we do?”
The banker looked over at me. Then back at his forms. “Well if you are willing to sign the forms over to your son, we can transfer the mortgage into his name. Once there he can buy extra health insurance and we would be willing to extend him the same generous interest rate you already carry.”
Mom looked at me with panic in her eyes.
WHAM.
“We’re losing him!”
“Sixty seconds! A room is already cleared!”
“How long on the AED?”
“Almost ready!”
WHAM.
Mom watched me as I reorganized my clothes into the closet. My old closet. The one Dad had built for me when I was twelve. Donald’s room was across the way. Untouched in years.
Her face was sad. Her housecoat wrapped tightly around her, though it was a hot summer day.
“Thank you, Joseph.” She whispered, her eyes red. A high pitched whine rang in my ears. Her cheeks were already sinking in. “Your father and I, we never wanted this for you.”
Nothing to say. The lamps all began to flicker.
Wait.
That’s new.
I don’t remember that.
“One day,” Mom coughed, the lamplight behind her flickered harder. She never fell into shadow. Always illuminated. “Hopefully you can find time to finish college when I start to feel better.”
What’s that whine?
Where am I?
Lights flickering.
Whining. Electronic whining.
What … What the hell is going on?
WHAM.
“Holy shit!”
“What the fuck was that?”
Smoke.
Squealing tires.
“Hang on! I can’t control it!”
Pain.
“Did you overload it?”
“I got it, we’re cool. I’m pulling up now.”
“This thing's fried!”
“Re-starting compressions.”
WHAM.
Where am I?
Dad.
Donald.
They’ve been gone for years.
Hit and run. Semi-trailer on their way to a ballgame in Minneapolis.
What the fuck is going on?
Isn’t there supposed to be a light? A tunnel?
What is that whining sound?
Shit.
Mom.
Who’s gonna watch out for….
WHAM
WHAM-WHAM
WHAM-WHAM-WHAM
“Jesus Christ!”
“Somebody get a fire extinguisher!”
More smoke.
“Did we blow a circuit breaker?”
Heat.
“Get the generator online.”
Light.
Smoke.
Dad’s cigarettes?
No. Actual smoke. Burning my lungs.
Coughing.
Mom?
No.
Me.
“We’ve got a pulse!”
“He’s breathing!”
“Get him under! We gotta get that bullet out of ……”
Cold.
Black.
Rest.
Chapter 8
Hospital food gets a bad rep.
Sure it wasn’t a night out at Rae and Jerry’s. But for a guy recovering from a triple gunshot wound it was pretty darned fine.
Not having to cook it myself also went a long way.
Plus, I like Jell-O.
April had given away to May and the sun had melted most of the snow off the streets. At least from what I could see out my hospital room window. I leaned against the cool frame with one arm and stared into the Old St. Boniface neighborhood with a bit of tightness across the right side of my chest. Not painful really, but noticeable when I stretched like that..
I rubbed at my chest, feeling at my scars through the old school Star Wars logo emblazoned on my tee-shirt. Two of the GSW’s were classic TV-style through-and-throughs, high through my trapezius and lower through my guts. The third one was more center mass and got caught trying to exit out the back of my ribcage.
Lots of tissue damage. Blood loss was severe. Over eighty percent of my red stuff spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of Cowboy Shotz. Made quite a mess I was told.
Surgeons called me lucky. Damage to my guts was bad but repairable. Sure, they had to remove about a foot of my intestine that was beyond stitching. That left a pretty scar just below my ribs a good 6 inches long. My right lung was grazed but not punctured. Two millimeters to the right and “death by sucking chest wound” would’ve been the opening line of my obituary.
I didn’t feel lucky. Hospital rehabilitation exercises with nurses and therapists all around were rather humiliating. So was needing two one-hundred pound girls to hold my arms as I stood up out of a wheelchair to take some handrail assisted steps like a ninety year old man. Thankfully after the first day I was able to walk unassisted.
Plus, the TV in my room didn’t work so I missed the final Jets games of the season. Though since they missed the playoffs again I probably didn’t miss that much.
Flowers overflowed the tiny table in my surprisingly private room. Given the perpetual overcrowding of Winnipeg’s hospitals I figured for sure I’d be sharing the room with an octogenarian emphysemic who wheezed into an air mask all night. But I guess being a front page news gunshot survivor had some perks.
A copy of the Winnipeg Sun sat on my bed. I grimaced re-reading the splash page headline.
BOUNCING BACK
Nightclub Security Survives Gangland Shooting
There was a story on the inside flap with lots of pictures from the scene and more. I couldn’t bring myself to read it.
Outside on the street I could make out a Global TV van and a few other people hanging around conspicuously holding cameras and chatting. The hospital had acquiesced to my insistence on privacy, though I’d been approached directly by one of the Regional Health Authority vice presidents of the asking me to reconsider.
Hey, I was exceptionally grateful for the hard work and medical expertise of the personnel responsible for my being able to stand and breathe without assistance. But I wasn’t a side show freak for people to take pictures of and gawk at. No matter how crazy the story might be.
I snatched the paper off the bed and folded it up, tucking it into the gym bag Mark had brought me from home. A few extra shirts and my toiletries were already packed in there so it took some jostling.
Absently I pulled out the belt tucked in under my skivvies and started threading it through the loops on my Old Navy brand jeans, pleased that I was able to notch it a bit tighter than usual. Turns out recovering in a hospital is an unknown weight loss method.
‘Course I don’t think Dr. Oz would recommend “intestinal reduction” on his show.
Not without a significant sponsorship of course.
I used the tiny hospital bathroom and washed my face, trying to shake some cobwebs from my brain. My knees were bent slightly in order to get myself in frame as I gave my reflection the once over.
My beard was in serious need of a trim. Despite my deep seated fatigue the bags under my eyes actually looked smaller than I’d seen in recent months. Amazing what days of nothing but rest and recovery will do for you. My arms had the usual bandages at my elbows where tubes for saline and blood transfusions had done their work. There was slight bruising underneath those bandages and in various other spots, specifically on the right side of my chest. I peeled off my shirt to check on their progress.
Compression bruising from CPR can stick around for weeks according to the nurses, but already the deep purple just to the left of my sternum was a faded yellow. The bandages covering my abdominal scar and my entry wounds had been freshly applied this morning. There were two matching bandages on my back that I couldn’t see. I was under strict orders not to get them wet no matter how well the wounds were healing.
I shoulda got shot months ago. Been trying to shed that weight for years.
It’s not like I suddenly had abs or anything but the belly was definitely reduced. ‘Course my arms, back and shoulders were all shrunken as well so odds are I was in for a long road back to power lifting.
My reduced belly rumbled loudly. I grimaced and stared down at it. The last two days I had been asking for extra meals to keep up with my ignorant stomach’s demands. Just couldn’t manage to keep it sated. Doctors called this a wonderful sign, that my metabolism was responding well to the therapy and surgery. Trying to speed up the process of healing.
All I knew was that my granny sized portions of food were not getting the job done.
Ugh.
Why couldn’t I get a pizza delivered?
I went through all the cards that came with the flowers. One from Tamara that was very sweet, though I had still been unconscious when she dropped it off. Aaron and the security crew from Cowboy Shotz had come in together a few days back, dropping off a huge bouquet and one of those giant novelty cards that they had all signed. Aaron had left a personal note, thanking me for my diligence and sacrifice and wanting me to take as much time as I needed before coming back.
Other cards and miscellany. Mom’s church. Ones from CTV News, the Free Press, the Sun. A teeny one liner from Canada-Pharm wishing me well; no flowers from them.
Shocker.
I packed up all the cards, folding the giant one in two to get it squished into my gear bag. Then I eyeballed the flowers carefully, trying to decide which ones were best to …
Someone knocked on my door.
I checked back over my shoulder and froze.
A shade over five and a half feet tall in flats, taller than that now in her fashionable heeled boots. Dark slacks with a matching blazer. A modest purple top with a high neckline that failed to minimize the significance of her bust. Long brown hair in waves just past her shoulders. Very professional attire for a very professional woman.
And I was standing in front of her bare to the waist in my faded blue jeans and sneakers.
Shit.
I scrambled to get my ratty t-shirt back over my head, hoping it hid the sudden hot flush that scored my cheeks. If she laughed I might’ve crawled under the hospital bed like a kid and cried.
She didn’t laugh. Her eyes turned away modestly, a slight flush on her lightly made up cheeks. “I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t mean to …”
“It’s fine!” I blurted, getting the shirt down over my sagging belly and running my fingers self-consciously through my disheveled hair. “I just wasn’t expecting … I mean ….”
“I can go, come back later if you want me to.”
“No. No, it’s fine.”
“Really it’s ... I should’ve tried calling, maybe. I …”
“It’s fine, Cathy.” Anything to end the awkward standoff. I took a deep breath, swallowed my embarrassment and buried it deep where my pride and dreams made begrudging room for it. “Really. No harm done.”
She met my gaze. I’d forgotten how blue her eyes were. Startling contrast with her dark hair and complexion.
“So you do remember me?” She smiled slightly, dimples and all. “After the other night I wasn’t sure.” She paused then, a little concerned. “ Oh I’m sorry. Can you even remember the other night? When you …”
“I remember.” I shuddered. Aches in my chest, phantom pain mixed with real pain. The dream catcher tattoo. Flashes. Dad and Donald. Smoke. Blood. Pain.
I shook my head.
“Yeah, I remember it all.”
She crossed her arms, hugging herself as if getting a chill. I’m told the sight of me topless does that to women, though not in a good way.
“That’s scary. The whole thing is scary.”
What do you say to that?
Silence.
We stared at each other. Then the floor. Back at each other.
“So,” I started, clapping my hands together in front of me and pointing at her with my index fingers, the small smile in place. “Good to see you.”
“You too. What’s it been, ten years?”
“Almost twelve, since college.” I turned to fuss with a bag that needed no more fussing, hoping the small smile on my face wasn’t getting bitter. “Save for seeing you at the club, yeah. Twelve years.”
“That’s weird. It’s only been ten since we graduated hasn’t it?”
I stifled a sigh, zipped up my gear back firmly and turned back to her.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of CTV’s Weather Specialist Cathy Greenburg?” My small smile back in place as I crossed the room to where my light coat was hanging on a hook. “Or do I already owe you for the sunny weather and you’ve come to collect?”
Cathy smiled, the pink rising in her cheekbones again. “I take payment in cash and coffee for nice weather.”
“Duly noted.” My scars pulled tight as I slid the jacket over one arm. Manfully I managed not to wince. I think. “Docs’ say I should lay off the coffee another few weeks so you’ll have to settle for whatever’s in my wallet.”
“Do I even want to know what’s in there?”
“Driver’s license. Library card. A bank card that doesn’t work and maybe thirty-five cents in loose change.”
“No condom?”
My voice got bitter quick. “Hah. Do I look like I get laid a lot?” I flushed. Damn quick reflexes burning me again. “Sorry. Don’t answer that.”
Cathy walked across the room, stopping in front of the flower arrangements. “Don’t worry about it.” She looked over the bouquets, touching a few of the more intricate ones.
Flowers are such a chick thing. Like jewelry. I’ll never get it the way they do.
“You want one?”
“One what?”
“Of my flower … things?”