Beautiful Disaster

by Laura Spinella

  “What do I—?” Roxanne continued to stare, looking wildly uncomfortable with the question. With her prim mouth agape, her eyes welled with tears. She looked forward into an endless pasture of simple scenery. “Well, at first I think about how things used to be. Rory’s three years older; she was my motivation for everything. If Rory was smart about something, I was going to be ten times smarter—and that was hard to do,” she said, an aimless smile and peaked cheekbones diverting a tear. “The truth is she was smarter. Of course Rory never let me know that.”

  Mia nodded, trying to fathom that kind of brilliance, still trying to grasp how one hit of LSD could snuff it out. “I find myself thinking about what she would have been—first a renowned surgeon, maybe later a mentor—a wife . . . somebody’s mother,” Roxanne said, her gaze dropping to her clenched hands. She turned toward Mia. “When I visit Rory, I let that stuff run through my head for a minute or two, then I let it go, or I’d go nuts.” She shrugged. “It’s pointless to focus on things that won’t happen . . . her graduation from Stanford, and the life she’ll never have. Besides,” she said, dense sarcasm doing its job, soaking up the hurt, “Rory demands my complete attention. We’re far too busy hot gluing macaroni to cardboard.”

  Mia sucked in a deep breath, her fury fading. She reached past Roxanne and closed the car door. Rory was the reason behind Roxanne’s every thought, her drive, her need to be the guard dog in someone else’s life—and you had to factor it in. She’d gone there once, to visit Rory, feeling privileged that Roxanne was willing to let her in so far. No one had that kind of access to Roxanne. Having seen the academic accolades that shrouded the Burke home, Mia was nervous as they entered Rory’s group home outside Atlanta. A woman wearing purple pajama pants and a shirt that was inside out bounded toward Roxanne, thrilled to see her.

  Rory was beautiful, every bit as stunning as her younger sister, but sadly possessing the mental capacity of a five-year-old. “One day she was taking a biochemistry midterm,” Roxanne had explained, “the next Rob dropped her off at the emergency room entrance—pretty much like this.” They went into the craft room, Rory’s favorite place. There Mia sat in a chair, dumbfounded, mostly watching, sporadically—at Rory’s insistence—hot gluing the round macaroni to construction paper. “A random experiment with LSD, courtesy of Rob—who probably hadn’t peddled all his wares that week,” Roxanne had said. “It’s a popular drug with some in the med-school community. But with LSD you never know what kind of bad trip you’re going to take. If it so happens that your brain’s wired a certain way, it’s your last trip. And it’s what happened to Rory, thanks to him.”

  Mia and Roxanne skipped the engagement party that night, neither of them able to feign happiness. They went back to the apartment, the evening ending on a somber note. But the conversation continued a day or so later, the two of them agreeing that they’d never agree on Flynn. Acquiescing as best she could, Roxanne made Mia a promise. Since Flynn was gone, since there was nothing to be done about it, out of respect for Mia’s loss, Roxanne would never bring him up again—not her theory, or a man whom she was sure meant certain harm.

  Chapter 24

  MARYLAND

  “Sitting here like this, making yourself sick, isn’t going to help anyone—not even him. I swear, I thought he was the most stubborn person I’d ever met.” Roxanne stood on the opposite side of the bed with Flynn between them. Her voice pulsated through Mia’s cobwebby head as if it were on a loudspeaker; there was no getting away from it. Reaching across his silent body, she thrust another box of Kleenex at Mia. “You passed unreasonable two days ago. You have to go home at some point, don’t you? And how are you planning to explain yourself? I know Michael’s been away on business, but he’s back tonight, right? From the stress level on your face, he’s going to think Aaron Hough dumped you and decided to go with the design team from Walmart. You look worse than he does.” As if on cue, both women’s eyes trailed over Flynn, who was back on the ventilator, life being pumped into him.

  The vigil had turned ugly. For three days Mia sat at Flynn’s side in tense negotiations with God, bargaining with the devil in the off hours. It was too bad she was already burning in hell, she thought; it left her little to work with in the way of sacrificial offerings. She did look worse than he did, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes and a red runny nose. She was in desperate need of a shower. Mia had left Flynn’s side only to use the bathroom. Food was barely a consideration; she forced down a morsel or two to keep Roxanne quiet. At some point, she’d decided to join the vigil. Mia figured that somewhere there was a stalemate in the offertory of souls; Flynn’s hanging in the balance. Real sleep had been an absurd notion, dozing here and there in the chair and never letting go of Flynn’s hand.

  “Enough, Roxanne,” Mia said in a hoarse voice that didn’t sound like her own. “You can’t stop me from being here. Aren’t you getting the least bit tired of this argument? Are you sure no one has come in asking about him? The police, maybe someone from the DA’s office? They know to tell me, right?”

  Roxanne heaved a frustrated sigh as she leaned against the wall, pounding the heel of her hand on her forehead. It was the way the conversation had gone since she, of all people, managed to shock Flynn back from the dead. “No, Mia, no one has come in. I told you, the DNA test will take weeks. And yes, the desk has strict instructions to inform you, not if but when the cops show up looking for him. Maybe that will finally knock some sense into you.”

  “I told you, I’m not worried about the DNA and those girls.” What I’m concerned about, Roxanne, is the prison they’re going to ship him off to when he wakes up, the look of satisfaction on your face when you find out he’s a fugitive, that he confessed to killing a woman. The microscopic chance that you—or anyone else—will believe what really happened. Mia sighed, scrubbing a hand over her tired face. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said, straightening the blanket that had been straightened at least twenty times in the last hour. “All these weeks and you still haven’t told me what you meant the night you called. You said you owed me that much. It’s not something you say, Roxanne; it’s not something you do. What do you owe me?”

  Roxanne pushed herself off the wall, now straightening the blanket on her side of the bed. “Nothing. It’s not important anymore.” There was a sympathetic smile as her tone softened. “How about something to eat? Will you at least let me get you a sandwich? Cheese fries? Something?”

  Mia ignored her as if she hadn’t said a word. “I keep thinking, if only he would wake up—just long enough for me to say good-bye. Like you said, if I got the chance to say it this time, maybe I could let him go.” Mia tipped her head to one side, her mouth turned down as she stroked Flynn’s arm. She looked over the monitors that she really couldn’t read, but understood enough by now to know good numbers from bad. “Yes, there is something you can get for me. Michael.”

  Roxanne’s blue eyes bugged out of her head. “You want me to call Michael. And tell him what?”

  “Tell him to come to the hospital. I’d do it myself, but I can’t use my cell phone in here.”

  “Mia, I—exactly where would you like me to start?” she said, her arms widening at the awesome prospect. “ ‘Gee, Michael, I hope you won big in Vegas because your luck’s just about run out here. In fact, you won’t believe what your wife has waiting for you.’ Better yet, why don’t I just shoot him in the head when he comes through the door, save the poor guy some misery?”

  “Are you finished?” Mia asked, her eyes narrowing, her hoarse voice rigid.

  “Quite.”

  “Tell him whatever you have to, as long as he comes.”

  Michael was on his way to the ICU; that was the text message Mia received from Roxanne before she had been paged to the ER. A five-car pileup was going to keep her occupied for some time. Maybe that alone was a token reply from God—or someone else. Mia took a few moments in the restroom and splashed cold water on her face as she made final peace w
ith her decision. It was a grim reflection. Whatever happened to that unaffected college girl with no problems, no worries? She had been so care-free, such a silly flirt. Mia offered herself half a smile, mumbling into the mirror, “She went for a ride on a motorcycle and everything changed.” A quivering breath blew from her lungs, her bangs flying up from her face. It wasn’t her best moment.

  She thought about putting on a little makeup. The wild-eyed, unkempt look wasn’t going to help matters. Michael always did favor a neat appearance. In a halfhearted effort to look like Michael Wells’s wife, Mia snatched her purse off the narrow ledge, the contents tumbling into the sink. Her hand bypassed the tube of lipstick, reaching for the leather change purse she’d carried for the past twelve years. Inside there wasn’t a penny’s worth of change, only a worn piece of Christmas paper. She ran her finger over the smooth edges. It was neatly preserved, folded into a small square—somewhat like the past. Well, before Flynn had turned up again.

  Mia tilted her forehead against the cool glass. She was so tired, her mind drenched in exhaustion, not quite sure how she was going to get through the next few hours. Still, it had to be done right now. She was sure about everything, but worn through, dismissing visions of her own bed, thick downy comforter, and fluffy pillows. A near-perfect husband and a comfortable existence; it was a worthy temptation. She shook her head. I can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair to Michael or to Flynn.

  On the way back to Flynn’s room, Mia shot a pensive glance toward the elevators. Michael wasn’t there yet. She had every intention of meeting him in the privacy of the conference room and starting from there. What’s the point? She sighed, stopping at the nurse’s station. When somebody blows your life apart, does the location really matter?

  “Excuse me, Margaret.”

  “Yes, Mia, what can I do for you?”

  A most compassionate nurse, Mia was always pleased to find Flynn assigned to her shift. “I’m expecting my husband in a few minutes. Would you please tell him I’m in with . . . you know.”

  “Your husband? But I thought . . . Never mind. Of course, I’ll send him right in.”

  The future was being coolly disregarded as the past and present prepared to get reacquainted. Mia sat; she stood; she adjusted the pillow under Flynn’s head. She looked around the room at the many sketches she’d pinned to his walls, appreciating the support he’d provided, even from his prone state. Her fingers were caught around the new chain on his cross, smoothing it over Flynn’s chest when Michael showed up at the door.

  Still dressed in a suit, the red tie that hung open around Michael’s neck was the only casual thing about him. He was his own breathless state of nerves as he rushed through the door. “Mia! What’s going on? Are you all right? I’ve gotten nothing but vague messages from you for days. And then on my way from the airport I get this crazy text from Roxanne to meet you in the ICU.” Michael’s dark eyes jerked from his wife’s face to her hands splayed across the body that lay between them. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Shh, come to the lounge with me. We have to talk.”

  Michael followed Mia down the corridor, past the nurse’s station where Nurse Margaret hid a slack-jawed gaze. Mia looked straight ahead, keeping a step in front of her husband. Her heart thumped hard as she carefully held his in her hands. They sat together on the sofa in the vacant lounge. Even his bewildered expression was more than she anticipated.

  Michael Wells was the kind of guy who always had the answer without being condescending, a natural-born success. He had been on a winning streak his whole life—business deals, calc equations, the first grade—and got a little more than he bargained for when he captured the hand of the girl who just wouldn’t say yes.

  For a split second Mia wanted to keep the streak alive, just tell him everything was fine, go home and fall into that downy bed. She didn’t want to do this to him. But it would be the biggest lie of all. There didn’t seem to be a starting point that offered the rational explanation he would need. She hesitated too long and he leapt to his own conclusions.

  “What happened, Mia? Did you have an accident? Wreck the Mercedes? Did you hit that guy? Jesus, you look awful. How long have you been here?” She put her hand up to stop him, but his fingers automatically locked with hers, his face looking just as it should. A husband gone mad with concern over the wife he loved. “You’re scaring me, baby. What’s going on?”

  Mia focused on her hands, which were clasped loosely in his. Michael pulled her forward into a tight hug that was so familiar she couldn’t help but fall into it.

  “It’s okay, Mia, I’m here now. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

  Exhaustion crushed down on her. Mia’s tears fell onto his broad, welcoming shoulder. There hadn’t been a shoulder, nothing in recent weeks on which to rest her grief. God, she had never, ever meant to use him like this. Mia pulled back, the gross unfairness of it all making her stomach sick. She struggled to gather her resolve. Like she’d told Roxanne, she owned this.

  “It can’t be that bad.” He was smiling now, assuming the worst had passed. “You’re here, you’re in one piece. How awful could it be? Please talk to me.” Capturing a wild strand of hair, he tucked it into submission.

  She shook her head, loosening it. “I thought I knew where to start . . .” she said, her nose running again. “How to make you understand, but . . .”

  Preparedness always a given, Michael pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her nose, at the dripping tears, and planted a soothing kiss on her forehead. “Listen, let’s go home. You can tell me all about it—”

  This time she pulled away. “No! I can’t leave here. I can’t go with you, Michael.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t go with me? Why in the world not?”

  “I have to stay with him.”

  “Him, who? The Jesus look-alike on the vent?” He stopped dabbing, the frustration beginning to mount. “Mia, start making sense. Roxanne said you were upset, but I think hysterical would have been a better description—this isn’t like you. Maybe we should call her.”

  It was the last thing she needed, Roxanne and Michael tag-teaming her. “No, don’t call Roxanne. I’m sure you’ll hear plenty from her later.” Stifling down the last sob, Mia wiped her nose with the back of her hand, twisting the narrow end of his tie tight around two fingers—like a tourniquet trying to stop a hemorrhage. “Michael, let me start by saying that I understand that you’re going to walk away from this hospital hating me. And so you hear me now, while you’re willing to listen, I want you to know that I’m so incredibly sorry—sorry for what I’m about to do.”

  “Okay, Mia, I’m already bordering on irritated. Who is that man and what does he have to do with you?”

  “Everything,” she said, the word sounding like a gushing dam. The tie unraveled from her fingers, and she pressed her sweaty palms into her skirt. It was the first word that made sense. Mia’s gaze jutted up from her lap, meeting his. “You . . . you don’t remember him?” she asked, searching for a starting point.

  For a moment there was a blank look on Michael’s face that said he had no clue about the stranger in the room down the hall. Slowly his breath drew in; maybe calling forward something that lingered in the back of his mind. “He’s, um, he’s not a stranger.” Mia shook her head. “He’s not some random, meaningless man that you’ve never seen before.”

  “No,” Mia said, her voice a featherbed under a furious fall. “He’s not.”

  “Flynn,” he offered, the sharpness in his voice startling her.

  “I . . . I wasn’t sure how much . . . if you remembered that much,” she said, sucking in her own deep breath.

  “Sometimes the less someone is willing to share, the more there is to know. And you were never willing to share—were you? Let’s just say I’m aware.”

  “How aware?”

  “That’s a hell of a scary question, Mia.” But the panic in his voice was gone, replaced by something so serious it made
her skin prickle. “He’s an old boyfriend,” Michael said, labeling Flynn as little more than the guy from a high school reunion. She stared, expressionless. “Okay, someone who fascinated you back then—dark, mysterious . . . I can see it.” A hard swallow rolled through Michael’s throat as Mia’s eyes filled with tears. “All right, if you want to make me say it, your ex-lover. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, looking as if your entire life is hanging in the balance.”

  “Michael, I have to tell you something you’re not going to want to believe. You’re going to have a lot of questions, and I’ll try to answer them all. Flynn wasn’t just an old boyfriend, or even my ex-lover. If it was that simple, I would have told you weeks ago that he was here, in a coma.” Inching back, Michael’s brow knitted the way it did when tough negotiations weren’t going his way. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if that’s all there was to it.”

  “I don’t understand, Mia. What more could it possibly be? You haven’t seen the guy in years.” He stopped, his brow knitting tighter than she thought possible. “You haven’t—have you?”

  “No,” she said quickly, claiming the honesty she could bring to the conversation. “I haven’t seen Flynn since the day he vanished, right before I graduated. I haven’t heard from him, or known where he was, or even if he was alive.” She stopped, weighing her next thought. Owning up to things was just a tad more difficult than silently living with them. “But I do know that if given a choice all those years ago, I’d still be with him.” It was cold and hard and unfeeling, and he didn’t deserve a word of it. But it was the only way Mia could think of to make it big enough, to keep Michael from dismissing it as an old flame she’d gone a little mental over.