Golden Hour (Crescent City)

by Campbell Reinhardt

  His body, which I knew better than my own, was suddenly cold, lifeless, empty. Not Mike. Because Mike was, by very definition, the most alive person I’d ever met, always laughing, always joking. There was no way Mike could be dead.

  I don’t know if my brain ever truly processed that the man I knew and loved had become another patient, dying on the table in front of me.

  The time after a traumatic event in which you have the best chance of saving someone’s life is known as the golden hour. The precious seconds closed in too quickly for Mike though. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. No matter how much trauma training I’d had in the ER, I was completely powerless.

  I let the image of him on that table rise up in my mind, and I run over the sharp, ugly edges of it. Then I fold all into a tiny square and shove it deep down into the dregs of my brain so I forget about it. For a while.

  Until it rears up and tears my heart open again.

  I try my hardest to focus on the living. It’s all I have left.

  “Eat Charlie.”

  He picks up his sandwich and takes bites mechanically. My brother should talk more about what happened. As much guilt as I wrangle with over not being able to put Mike’s torn body back together again, Charlie has tons more heaped on his shoulders. He feels like he was supposed to protect Mike.

  But he couldn’t.

  I think he knows that, deep down. Just like I know I couldn’t have done any more than I did.

  It doesn’t mean we’re able to forgive ourselves. Even if we could get over the fact that Mike’s death was out of our control, there’s the grim fact that we’re alive and he’s dead.

  That single fact is enough of a lodestone around our necks to burden us with a lifetime of suffering.

  I shift in my chair and ask, “Do you want to talk about it?” My voice is cautious. Creaky. Like the old floorboards in this place.

  Charlie takes another bite and shakes his head back and forth slowly, his eyes flat. “No. But I will if you want to.”

  I watch him continue to eat even though I know his appetite is wrecked and his heart is breaking. It doesn’t matter how much time passes. I don’t think it will ever get better. Maybe a little easier for both of us to hide, but I can’t imagine real happiness in a world where Mike doesn’t exist anymore. I watch as Charlie fights to keep up appearances that everything is just fine, even in front of me—the one person who knows exactly how fucking bad this hurts.

  Yep. My brother and I definitely have the same stubborn blood running through our veins.

  “I don’t want to not talk about him. But I don’t want to—” I take another sip of beer. “Let’s talk about the party instead.”

  Charlie’s demeanor changes completely. He bites into his sandwich with relish and makes a big show of sighing like this is the topic that he can’t stand to talk about. “Why doesn’t Mama handle all that crap? It’s bad enough I gotta find an ironed shirt and show up for these things. Now I’m on the planning committee?”

  I roll my eyes and flip open my planner, where I already have a neat list of names with plenty of space for more. “Mama wants us to look over the guest list. When she originally planned this party—”

  My words screech to a stop, and I can’t will more of them out. I stare down, but I can’t see through the tears that hang off my eyelashes. Charlie reaches across the table and puts his hand over my wrist. “I’m an asshole. I’m such a fucking asshole. Your engagement party.”

  I pull my hand away from Charlie’s grip so I can swat at my tears.

  No crying, doll. You know it drives me crazy to see you cry. That’s what Mike said every time I teared up, his face always gripped with panic, his rough thumbs sweeping under my eyes to catch the tears before they fell. I became pro at holding back my tears so Mike wouldn’t have to freak out.

  Funny.

  The way it all worked out, I was just saving them up for when he was gone.

  “It’s fine. You know Mama and Daddy wanted to have a whole huge Dupuis family reunion. No point in wasting all the planning she already did. I guess the problem is that she doesn’t know if we should still ask Mike’s folks.” I twist my hands together, and notice, again, how empty my left ring finger feels without my engagement ring.

  A square cut diamond, flawless, set in platinum. I would have been happy with a chip of a stone in stainless steel if it had come from Mike, but that ring blew me away the day he proposed, two days before my pinning ceremony. He wanted to wait to get married until he had three years on the force, by which time he’d planned to be promoted. I was excited for a long engagement, because I had to make my mark at Crescent City Memorial, too. We were so ready to make the life we’ve always dreamed about as partners and best friends.

  I try not to sugarcoat things in my memory. The truth is, Mike and I could fight like crazy, get on each other’s nerves, and take each other for granted. But we made damn good sense together. And we loved each other with a passion that took my breath away on a daily basis. I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved that man.

  And I know I never will.

  “Shit. Mike’s parents.” Charlie leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “Have you talked to his mother lately?”

  I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t. “Not since the day I gave the ring back.”

  “That long ago?” My brother doesn’t bother to hide his disapproval.

  “Not the first time.” I feel the grip of a headache lancing behind my eyes. “She kept inviting me over and giving it back. Crying. Taking out photo albums from when Mike and Lawson were kids.” I hold my hands up, and my brother’s face is judgment free. “I want to, Charlie. I want to be there for her. But I need some space, too. I need to grieve my own way.”

  Mrs. Bazanac tried to give me the engagement ring back three times before I finally sat her down and insisted she keep it. I told her it was the right thing to do. It was what Mike would have wanted, and definitely what I wanted: that ring needed to go back to their family.

  Mike’s younger brother, Lawson may be a slacker who’s been sinking into a heroin addiction since his brother died, but I truly believe he’ll clean up his act. And when he finds the girl he wants to marry someday, he should be able to have his great-grandmother’s ring to ask her with.

  That ring has to stay with the Bazanac family, and since I’m not going to be a part of it, it had to go back. No matter how much it broke me to slide it off the finger Mike had slid it on that star-filled night he asked me to be his wife.

  “I went to see his father last weekend.” My brother rubs a hand over his face, his gruff voice cutting through some painful memories and into a painful present. “Same thing. It’s hard to see him. Hard to be around that much pain that’s still so raw. He’s not doing good, Lise.”

  I bite my lip and nod. Mike was always the apple of his father’s eye. But it was like all that pride and admiration he had for his eldest son got twisted into something hateful the day Mike died. His father went from a hard-nosed but generally cheerful guy to one full of blame, rage, and sadness.

  “Is he doing worse? Is that even possible?” I ask, swallowing hard.

  “Now that Lawson moved out, and he doesn’t have him to use as a punching bag anymore,” Charlie says, not able to keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

  “Mike would have been furious. He would have hated to see his father take this out on Lawson. You know, I used to think Mike was the only thing keeping Lawson from sinking. I really hate how right I was about that.” I clench my hands into tight fists. “So much has gone to shit since Mike died. I feel like I find new ways to let him down every day. Isn’t there anything we can do for Lawson? Anything? Because I don’t think I can watch another person I love die, Charlie. I can’t sit by and let this happen.”

  “You got him to the methadone clinic and did all the paperwork for him. This is a serious addiction, and there’s no way we can get him through it without the pros. It sucks, it reall
y does, but if he doesn’t want our help, there’s really nothing else we can do.” Charlie grimaces and drinks his beer in a few heavy gulps. “I hate it, Lise. Don’t think I’m brushing this off. I love Lawson like a brother. It pissed me off the way Mr. Bazanac always treated him like shit, but Mike was right there to jump to his defense. I knew things would get bad once Mike was gone, but I never thought…”

  This time I take Charlie’s hand and squeeze tight. “I know. I know what you’re saying.” My voice quivers. “You can’t be hard on yourself, Charlie. I know—”

  “You don’t know a damn thing, Lise,” Charlie growls all of a sudden, crushing the beer can in his hand as he cuts me off and shocks me silent. “Not a damn thing.” He drops his head and presses his fist to his mouth.

  There isn’t a single noise in the house except for the quick, uneven hitches of Charlie’s breathing over the thump of my heart, thundering in my ears. I wait to see if he’s going to cry, praying he won’t. I haven’t seen my big brother cry since we were kids. Except on the day he told Mike’s mom that she couldn’t take him home.

  That Mike was never going home again.

  I expect to feel relief when he looks up, and I see he’s not crying.

  But that makes it even worse, somehow.

  “Forget it.” Charlie tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it comes out too tight. “I just—listen, I think we should send the invite to Mike’s family out of respect. His mama will come up with a polite way to bow out, and we’ll all keep doing our part, marching along like everything’s just fucking dandy.” He gets up, tosses the crushed beer can into the garbage and clears off his table, wiping it down with one of the cleaning rags he always keeps ready. He avoids eye contact with me. “Look, I really appreciate lunch, but I actually need to head out.”

  I could point out the fact that he’s wearing workout clothes and clearly just had a shower—very typical signs that Charlie’s only plans involve watching ESPN and drinking beer all day. But I respect his need for privacy and don’t press.

  “You’re right. I’ll send the invite. And I was happy to bring lunch today, but don’t count on me coming by with po-boys for you on a regular basis. Go to the grocery store. Buy real food. End of lecture. I should get ready for my shift, so I’ll get out of your hair. See you soon.”

  I love you. I hope you’re okay. I wish you’d talk about Mike and everything else with me. It might help us both.

  I don’t have the guts to say what I want to, but I hope he understands.

  Charlie nods and sticks his hands into his pockets. “Will do. I’ll come by and replace that busted screen door for you soon. Take care, sis.”

  Which I’ll take to mean, I love you too. Maybe someday we will have that talk. I’m serious about those groceries.

  My plan didn’t work.

  Dean is sitting in the back of the truck doing inventory when I pull into my parking place outside the station. I got a call this morning from our boss, Sarge, telling me that I wasn’t getting the shift change he knew I was looking for. That Dean—being green as can be—could learn a thing or two from me.

  I wanted to argue that all I had to offer this kid in terms of lessons was how to polish off a fifth of whiskey and still make it to work ten hours later, but I left that out.

  The truth is, I don’t have anything to offer Dean. Apart from my buying drinks for the gorgeous ladies in Orleans Parish, I don’t have anything much to offer anyone at all.

  “Everything good?” I ask, leaning into the back of the truck. The floor is damp. Dean must have gone all out and washed it down. Probably more concerned with washing away any part of my rendezvous with Chelsea than any blood that may have been spilled.

  “Depends. You sober today?” he asks. I expect a sneer, but it’s more like he’s just taking stock of the situation. Like maybe he’s worried about me.

  I tuck my clipboard under my arm and tip my head. “I’ve got paperwork to do,” I say, avoiding the question. I don’t need IV hydration to make it through the shift, but calling myself sober would be a little overly generous.

  I make my way through the station—past the guys sleeping on the sofas, the TV that’s constantly blaring Fox News, and the piles of take-out boxes heaped on every surface—and into the quiet back room that we use for an office. I sit down at one of the three rickety desks and wait for one of the old-as-hell computers to boot up. The hum of the crappy thing does a good job acting as a lullaby. It actually lulls me back to the sleep that was cut way too short when I had to drag my ass out of bed to come here.

  “I heard you were back home. Glad to see you made it in one piece,” a voice with annoying amounts of cheer says. I begrudgingly let my eyes slit open.

  I recognize the round face, the bobbed haircut, the kind eyes, but I can’t remember her name. Grace something-or-other, I think. She was in my medic class a couple of years ago. Back before I screwed up and got that damn ultimatum: enlist or go to jail.

  Neither option sounded appealing, but I chose to enlist. To voluntarily go to a war-torn desert. I didn’t realize I was electing to go to Hell on earth.

  A six-by-eight cell would have allowed for more freedom than I experienced over there.

  “Lucky me,” I say.

  Nothing about how I ended back here in New Orleans feels lucky. Not by a long shot.

  “You working with Harper?” she asks, shuffling her paperwork on the desk next to mine.

  I nod.

  “That guy’s a trip, huh? About as ate up as they come, but he means well.” She grins so hard her eyes about disappear.

  I nod again in agreement.

  I know what Dean’s game is. He wants to prove he’s better than me. What he doesn’t realize yet is that that’s nothing but a huge waste of time. I already know he is.

  He’s a better medic, a better person, a better everything. He’s in this job for the right reasons.

  I’m doing it because I’m a derelict who has no choice.

  “Go easy on him though,” Maybe-Grace says, that big grin slipping a little. “He hasn’t seen much other than medical transports to dialysis and back since he started. He’s got a lot to learn. Probably why Sarge put him with you. Sounds like you had quite a time over in Afghanistan, huh?”

  I cringe, trying to form a polite response that doesn’t sound something like, “I watched my best friend blown to bits, if you consider ‘that quite a time,’” when Dean peeks his head around the door frame.

  “Your pager not going off? We got a call already,” he says, chomping at the bit to get to the truck like the do-gooder he is.

  I hadn’t even taken my pager out of the truck yet—because that’s the type of model employee I am. I’m glad Sarge has faith Dean can learn so much from a regular overachiever like me.

  I shove my paperwork into a catchall box on the end of the desk and can’t help but feel a little grateful that my chat with Grace got cut short, even if it happened because of someone else’s misfortune. There are things I just don’t care to talk about, and then there are things I flat-out refuse to talk about. What happened with Major Lopez falls into the latter.

  “See ya later, Gabbie,” Dean says to Not-Grace.

  “See y’all,” she calls, waving enthusiastically.

  “It’s this house on the left,” I say.

  It’s already dark out, and, thankfully, Dean actually listened when I told him to cut the lights and sirens before we turned into the subdivision. It’s a nice neighborhood: large brick homes, cobblestone streets, flickering gas lamps lighting the driveways. Somewhere you sort of expect that everyone is sleeping nicely in their four poster canopy beds. Not somewhere you want the neighbors peeking through the blinds or standing in their yards, trying to figure out why you called an ambulance.

  I bet none of the good people of Lavender Valley—a gated community with its own waterfall-festooned pool and cotillion hall, according to the irritating real estate commercials—would guess we were called for an ove
rdose.

  This neighborhood doesn’t scream heroin, so, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably some older gentlemen who took one-too-many Viagra and didn’t account for how it’d affect his heart condition. Charging the rod always sounds like a good idea, until you have a four hour boner and it’s time to take your standard heart pill—blood pressure drops and your wife thinks you’re dying.

  I toss the medical bag and monitor onto the stretcher and start to yank it out of the back of the truck when I feel a hand grab my shoulder with a bite.

  “Dean, what the he—” but it isn’t Dean. It’s a woman, fear bright in her eyes.

  “Tara! My girl!” she yells frantically. Her face says everything important that I need to know right now. This isn’t another bullshit call.

  “Where is she?” I ask, not wanting to waste a second. The woman is gasping for breath, unable to speak in her panic, but points to the front door, and I start moving immediately.

  I’m halfway up the drive when I realize Dean is still standing outside the truck, frozen.

  “Grab the gear!” I call and jog to the front door hoping like hell he’ll snap out of it and follow. I can tell already this is going to be as damn shit-storm.

  The scene inside just feels wrong in every way.

  As with most calls like this, no one standing in this room right now imagined when they woke up this morning that this would be one of the worst days of their lives. And seeing everything in such pristine order despite the chaos unfolding makes it all feel surreal.

  The room is laid out with expensive, antique furniture, polished so well I guarantee I could see my reflection in the wood, a large piano pushed up against the massive floor-to-cathedral-ceiling windows, plush, expensive Persian rugs—and a young girl, maybe a freshman or sophomore in high school, lying in the middle of it all, ashen skinned and blue lipped.

  I rush to her side and bend down to feel for a pulse. There’s the faintest one.

  I think.

  I may be imagining it. Hoping it’s there. But if hope’s all we have right now, I’ll take it and run. The last thing I’m doing is giving up on this kid without one hell of a fight.