by Jason Pinter
The man under him had gone limp. His gun was on the sidewalk. Remy went for it, but saw another hand reach down and grab it. Remy looked up. It was the husband. He was shaking, his face pale, eyes large and terrified. The husband held the gun, fingers pinching the grip like it was a poisonous snake. The barrel hung downward towards the sidewalk.
The man underneath him stirred. Remy raised his fist to deliver one more blow, hopefully knock him out cold.
Then something occurred to Remy. The other gunman. Where was he?
The question was answered as another crack of thunder broke the air. Remy felt a burning sensation tear through his upper body near his left shoulder. He looked up at the terrified husband and saw flecks of red spattered against his face.
Remy thought, So that’s what it looks like when someone else is covered in your blood.
The husband whipped around, gun held out with a wobbly arm, and Remy could see the other man running away. He could not see the man’s face. A glint of light from a streetlamp illuminated him for a moment. Before he disappeared, Remy saw that he had an earlobe gouge with a large silver ring embedded in the hole.
Remy heard another loud noise, a car horn, somewhere close. Then a man’s voice yelled a word that sounded like stani! Then the street went silent.
A moment passed. No more gunshots. Nobody moved.
Remy tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness and nausea suddenly overwhelmed him. He fell back on the ground. His breathing was labored. He splayed out next to the first gunman. The man’s nose was crooked, his face covered in blood. Remy wondered whose blood made up the bulk of the mess. He couldn’t be sure.
Remy managed to prop himself up on his elbow, but saw something that caused panic and terror to surge through him.
Blood was pooling on the pavement. Not a drop here and there. A steady stream that was quickly spreading into a small puddle.
Remy felt his chest. His hand came away wet.
He felt his arm begin to tremble. His elbow could no longer hold his weight. Remy fell to the ground. The sounds around him seemed to fade out. The husband stood above him, petrified. His mouth was moving. Remy could barely hear the words he spoke: “What should I do?”
Remy turned his head. Saw the wife on her phone, talking animatedly. She was staring at Remy. He heard her say, “Oh god, please send an ambulance quick, he’s been shot and there’s blood everywhere. Please just come!”
She dropped the phone into her purse and ran towards Remy, the best she could in her heels, and knelt down next to him. She took his hand and stared at him. The fear in her eyes terrified Remy more than the blood.
“It’ll be okay,” she said, softly, her voice quivering. “It’ll be just fine.”
Her eyes told Remy that she was probably lying. She put her hands against Remy’s chest and pressed down, hard. He felt a distant pain, but the numbness spreading through his body drowned it out.
Remy felt like he recognized the woman from somewhere. Probably just his brain beginning to short circuit. Remy began to shiver.
“Stay with me,” the woman said. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.”
Then the shivering stopped and darkness consumed him.
The first sliver of light peeked through Remy’s eyelids softly, like morning sun filtered through thin curtains. It took a moment for him to realize he was awake, and even then, he was disoriented. It felt like there was Vaseline smeared over his eyes, grease swirling around his brain. He could feel his eyelids fluttering, but he had trouble focusing. Everything was blurry. There was a consistent thump thump on his left side, like a second heart had been transplanted somewhere under his armpit. A dull but solid pain radiated throughout the left half of his body and down to his hand.
Remy’s mouth was dry. He eased his eyes open, adjusting to the light. The blurriness began to clear.
The first thing he noticed was that he was in a hospital room. Clean white walls. An antiseptic smell. An IV ran from his left arm up to a bag of fluid that dripped continuously. Oxygen tubes were hooked into his nostrils. The oxygen was cool.
He tried to sit up, but realized his left arm was tucked across his body in a sling. His left hand was in a splint and padded. He could see speckles of blood seeping through a bandage wrapped around his shoulder and upper chest.
I’m a goddamn mess, he thought.
At first, Remy felt panic.
He had been hospitalized twice in his life. The first time he was nine and learning how to ride a bike. He rode over a patch of sand near home, skidded as the wheels kicked out from under him, toppled over, smacked his head on the asphalt, and knocked himself unconscious. The second was how he got the faint white scar on his upper lip. Made kissy noises to the neighbor’s ferocious eighteen-pound Lhasa Apso and ended up in the emergency room at eleven o’clock at night holding a bloody rag to his face, getting a rabies shot, and waiting for a plastic surgeon to be called in from dinner. He ended up with thirty stitches in his lip. It could have been worse, given that Remy could smell the brandy on the doctor’s breath before he put his lip back together.
But he’d never woken up being given oxygen.
As he adjusted to being awake, the room came into better focus. Immediately, Remy could tell that a few things were very strange.
First off, the room was filled with flowers. Not a few flowers, or a couple of vases here and there, but literally filled nearly floor to ceiling with bouquets. They lined the windowsill, covered the floor, crowded against each other, seemingly fighting for space.
Roses and lilacs and chrysanthemums and flowers he couldn’t even name. Remy managed to push himself into a seated position in his hospital bed and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. He didn’t have nearly enough friends to explain all the flowers, and the folks at Pulaski weren’t exactly the sentimental type.
But an even stranger sight than the greenhouse of plants choking his hospital room was the woman sitting in the chair next to the door.
Her eyes were closed. She appeared to be sleeping. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, but there were enough disparate, frizzy strands that Remy could tell she’d been there a while. She wore jeans and flat shoes and a lightweight leather jacket. Makeup appeared to have crusted slightly around her eyes. She was pretty, naturally so, a hint of contour and blush to outline her cheekbones. A smidge of concealer. Remy watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out. He had no idea how long she’d been there. Or how long he’d been there.
Then Remy felt a glimmer of recognition. And it all came back to him.
The girl sleeping in his hospital room was the wife from the street. The one who’d called 911 and tried to stem his bleeding. And now she was asleep in his hospital room, which was covered in enough plant life to be rechristened the medical wing at Versailles.
The woman must have heard Remy stirring, because she shifted in her seat, opened her eyes, and stretched. She checked her watched and yawned. Then she locked eyes with Remy and smiled at him the way one might if they woke up presented with a gorgeous sunrise and a hot cup of coffee.
“Hey there,” she said. Her voice was soft and pleasant.
“Um, hi,” Remy replied, unsure if he was actually awake or having some sort of bizarre erotic botanical dream.
She stood up, bracing herself against her chair. Her muscles were stiff. She must have been there a while.
She walked over to Remy’s bed and leaned over him. She gently placed her hand on his. She smelled good. Vanilla and deodorant. If such a combination could be appealing.
“Good morning,” she said.
“It’s you,” Remy said. There was still a lag time between his brain and mouth, and neither was in perfect working condition at the moment. He looked at her left hand. He remembered seeing that massive wedding ring glimmering in the dark. Now, seeing it up close, it was even more impressive. The diamond looked flawless and close to four carats, in a channel set band filled with smaller gemst
ones. A setting like that must have run close to a hundred grand. This woman wasn’t some random. She was somebody.
He looked into her face. And even through the drugged haze, he felt like he knew her, had seen her somewhere. She obviously sensed he was searching for answers.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re going to be fine. This time I mean it.”
“Was I…not fine?” Remy asked.
She laughed softly. “I’ll let the doctors fill you in. But we were worried for a while.”
“We…were worried. We…who is we?”
“My husband and I. And, well, a lot of other people too.”
“Other people?”
Remy searched his memory. The only people on the street that night were this woman, her husband, and the two gunmen. He doubted that the gunmen really gave two craps about his well-being, and generally speaking, “people” referred to a larger group than one couple.
“Your friend, Trevor Mayhew, was listed as your emergency contact. He came right away. Slept here for two nights. He said he had to teach a triple today, whatever that means, but to let him know when you woke up.”
“Trevor,” Remy said. “My best friend. Old roommate. He’s a fitness instructor.”
“Ah. I thought he might be your…”
“No. He’s not my…whatever. But he is married. Not to me. To another guy, though. What’s going on?”
Remy was missing something. And his mind wasn’t functioning well enough to understand what the hell it was.
As Remy was trying to battle through the medicated fog, a doctor entered the room. He was in his mid-fifties, with a crown of thinning gray hair and a weathered face with kind eyes. He looked at Remy with a mixture of sympathy and relief.
“I see we’re awake,” the doctor said. He approached Remy’s bed. The woman shook the doctor’s hand.
“Thank you for everything, Dr. Kurzweil,” she said. She took a few steps back, allowing the doctor access to Remy’s beside. The doctor did not ask her for privacy, and seemed to have no hesitations about her being in the room at all. Remy felt even more confused.
“Mr. Stanton. Jeremy,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Kurzweil. You’re at Lenox Hill Hospital. You’ve been here about forty eight hours. How are you feeling?”
“Remy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s…Remy. Nobody calls me Jeremy.”
The doctor laughed. “Apologies for the formalities. We’re all playing a little catch up, Remy.”
“Two days,” Remy said. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain everything. But first off, how are you feeling?”
“Out of it,” Remy said. “There’s pain. It feels like it’s on the inside. Here.” He gestured towards his left shoulder area.
Kurzweil said, “What do you remember?”
Remy could see the blonde woman standing a few steps behind Kurzweil, listening to everything he said. Why was she allowed to be here?
Remy’s left arm was immobile, but he gestured with his head towards the woman.
“She…she here?”
Kurzweil turned around. “Alena and her family were very concerned. They’re very grateful and have taken an active role in your well-being. That’s why…” Kurzweil spread his arms out, gesturing to Remy’s hospital room greenhouse.
Remy had the room to himself. He knew you didn’t get a solo room in a Manhattan hospital unless you paid extra. A lot extra. And his hospital room was bigger than his studio apartment. There was a decent size flat screen television mounted to the wall, and a small refrigerator in the corner.
“The fridge is pretty full,” the woman now known as Alena said. “But I don’t think the doctors will let you drink champagne just yet.”
“Champagne?”
“At least three or four bottles. Good ones. From well-wishers. For when you’re back on your feet.”
Well-wishers?
Alena. Why did that name sound familiar? Who was this woman?
“What…” Remy said, then erupted in a coughing fit. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his lips were chapped, and his throat burned.
“That’s from the intubation,” Kurzweil said. “That scratchiness in your throat will go away in time.”
Kurzweil went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water. He handed it to Remy, who sipped it slowly.
“Better?”
Remy swallowed, grimacing at the pain. He nodded.
“A little. Thanks. What happened?”
“You’re very lucky,” Kurzweil said. “One centimeter higher and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Remy’s eyes grew wide.
“What…what do you mean?”
“You suffered a traumatic gunshot wound,” Kurzweil said. “If I may...” He motioned towards Remy’s left arm. “May I?”
Remy nodded hesitantly, fear rising.
The doctor gently lifted Remy’s left arm. Remy felt a dull pain. He was still heavily medicated, but there was a palpable tightness.
“Due to the angle of the wound, I believe your arm must have been raised at the time.”
Remy nodded. He remembered punching the downed man in the face, and the thunderclap when he raised his hand for one more blow.
“The bullet entered your left deltoid at a slightly elevated angle. It then partially severed your axillary artery.”
All that blood, Remy thought. He remembered the pool of blood spreading below him on the concrete. It came out so fast, so red. No wonder. It was arterial blood. Jesus.
He could see Alena standing behind Kurzweil, listening.
“Your hand isn’t too bad. A fracture of the fourth metacarpal. We had to insert a screw to set the bones, but it should heal well. A clean break. We call it a boxer’s fracture. Just don’t get any ideas, Pacquiao.”
Remy laughed at that. The first punch he’d thrown since a bar fight in college and he broke his hand. Fitting.
“Thankfully, Alena called 9-1-1 immediately. Several people heard the gunshot from their apartments and did the same. Saved your life. Had that bullet shifted just a centimeter or two, it could have completely severed your axillary artery. And then, well…”
“I’m not in this bed,” Remy replied.
“No,” the doctor said. “Probably not.”
“That’s what I get for trying to be a good Samaritan,” Remy said. He coughed, and a searing pain shot down the left side of his body that made him cry out. He heard Alena gasp. She took a step forward.
“That’s alright,” Kurzweil said. “You have both interior and exterior sutures from the surgery. We had to sew the artery itself, and then both the entrance and exit wound. You actually got double lucky. The bullet didn’t touch any of the nerves in the brachial plexus, and didn’t hit any bone. Clean entry and exit. You could have been looking at permanent nerve damage otherwise.”
“Kind of hard to feel lucky when you’re lying in a hospital bed unable to remember the last four days.”
“I understand,” Kurzweil said, “but you’re going to make a full recovery. We’ll go over the next steps, but for now your vitals are solid. You suffered significant blood loss, however, so we are going to keep you for a few days so you can rest and heal.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“One thing,” he said, “is there anyone else we can call? We contacted your friend, Trevor Mayhew. Parents? Your records state that your mother is deceased.”
“That’s right,” Remy said.
“And your father…”
“I don’t want anyone contacting him. That’s my right as a patient, isn’t it?”
Kurzweil nodded. “That is your prerogative. Is there anyone else we can call for you, then? We did inform your employer. Pulaski & Associates, correct?”
“That’s right.”
Alena said, “I spoke to Andrew Pulaski. He sent some chocolates. They’re in the fridge.”
Remy laughed, causing more pain to lance through his arm.
<
br /> “Chocolates,” he said. “Figures.”
“They’re not even especially good chocolates,” Alena said with a mischievous smile. “We’ll do better.”
“We?” Remy said. “We’ll do better?”
“My husband,” she said. “My father. We owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”
“Anybody in my situation would have done the same thing. There’s no debt,” Remy said, though he wasn’t quite sure if that was true. All he knew at that point was he had a luxury private hospital room with enough overflowing bouquets to start his own flower shop and a fridge full of champagne, somehow because of this woman, Alena. She had money. There were clearly a lot of people who cared about her safety enough to send gifts to a complete stranger out of gratitude.
“Not everybody would have done the same thing,” Alena said. “You saw a gun. You acted. You knew the risks. And you ignored them.”
Remy shrugged. At least tried to.
The door opened, and a tall, slender man entered the room. He wore a black fleece zipped up all the way to his chin, with rimless glasses perched atop a sharp nose. His wavy black hair looked like it had been parted with a straight edge razor, and his eyes darted around the room. There was a hesitant, anxious look on his face, like he was waiting for a piano to fall on his head. This was a man who looked like he was born to carry worry.
He walked over to Alena and kissed her quickly on the lips. Then he approached Remy.
“Mr. Stanton,” he said. “Paul Bracewell. Thank you for what you did for me.”
For me? Remy thought. Doesn’t he mean us?
“I’ll leave you alone,” Dr. Kurzweil said. “A nurse will be by soon to refresh the drip bag and check your levels. Take it easy, Remy. No marathons or boxing matches.”
“No promises,” Remy replied. He was starting to come out of the fog. He recognized Paul Bracewell, remembered him picking up the assailant’s gun after Remy had knocked it away. Bracewell held it like he was handling a rattlesnake. Paul didn’t strike Remy as the kind of person who would have intervened. He seemed nervous, shaky, literally teetering from foot to foot. Even in his medicated state, Remy could tell Bracewell was uneasy.
