The phone interrupted his reverie. Caleb checked his mobile. Ah, it was off. Probably Mom trying to guilt me into coming into the city, when all I want is to be alone on the anniversary of Dad’s death. I’ll tell her I’ll come in tomorrow.
He grabbed the old-fashioned black handset before the answering machine kicked in.
“Yeah?” He listened to the voice on the other end with growing alarm. “What the—”
His free arm steadied himself against the telephone stand, his only stability against the failure of his legs.
Why was his ex-girlfriend the first person Caleb thought to phone? Because she’s my business partner, his distraught brain reasoned before he punched up Sascha’s number.
“Caleb, you’re not calling to scold me for missing Mass, are you?” Sascha’s morning voice was coarse.
“Sascha. Thank God I got you,” he said, sounding as bereft as he felt.
Her tone changed from playful to attentive. “What’s wrong?”
“Um, something terrible’s happened.” He could barely get the words out, feeling as if he was lost and far away.
“Where are you?” she demanded. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”
He could hear her scurrying around. He pictured her in her cramped apartment. “Talk to me,” she ordered. “Where are you?”
“I can’t talk,” he said, realizing that the road had blurred before him. “I need to pull over.”
“You’re driving? . . . That’s not safe. Get your ass off the road.”
He breathed in short bursts. Phoenix might die before he could get to him.
“Are you having chest pains?” she asked, probably recalling how Caleb’s dad had died from a heart attack.
“No, it’s not me,” he said. “It’s Phoenix. He’s been hurt. I need to get into the city. Can you open the shop for me?”
“Who cares about the shop? Where are you?” she asked again.
“I’m still in New Brunswick. I pulled over on Easton Ave.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t you dare move,” she commanded.
When she arrived, Caleb was leaning against his pickup, head in his hands.
Sascha’s Fiat screeched to a halt behind his truck and she jumped out. The familiar petite figure with auburn hair and head-to-toe red latex approached.
“What happened?”
“There was an accident.” He couldn’t get any more words out.
“Get in,” she said. “I’ll drive you to the city and you fill me in on the way there.”
He folded himself into the space that was ridiculously small for his large frame. He felt too upset to make his usual tease about her choice of a miniature vehicle.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital. Take the GW Bridge.”
Her foot slammed the accelerator. The car took off like a rocket. “Phoenix is in the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
He couldn’t offer more. His brother was unconscious, in surgery. Maybe dying?
“Honey, I’m sorry. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
She had saved Caleb time and again. She deserves to know. Maybe it’d be a relief to get the awful news off his chest.
“Mom called to say Phoenix never showed up. He was in some freak accident. On a subway track. He got hit by a train.”
“Aw hell.” Her words exploded.
He felt like a jerk for dragging her into his inner torture. He faced her and put a calming hand on one leg. “You need me to drive?”
She kept her eyes on the road. “I’m . . . I’m okay. Sorry. I just . . . what happened?”
“I don’t know much either. Just that he’s in surgery. Mom said he lost a lot of blood. She said I better come right away.”
Sascha’s eyes froze open with shock. And then they filled.
“No. Phoenix? How can this be?”
“I know,” he said, his voice flattened by emotion.
She sped through the automated toll lane, seeming not to care that she blew away the speed limit.
“Could they be wrong? I mean, if it was a train accident, how do they even know it’s him?”
“Shit, don’t say that,” he groaned. He rocked back. “I don’t want to picture him so fucked up that we can’t even tell it’s him.” The idea of Phoenix on the ground, crushed by massive metal wheels made him nauseous. It was as if half of him had been crushed.
She put the George Washington Bridge behind them and headed downtown into Manhattan. They rode in silence through city traffic. At stoplights, he glanced around, half expecting to see Phoenix striding along the sidewalk.
Finally she pulled up to the emergency room entrance. “You go first. I’ll meet you in there.”
“Thanks.” He bolted out of the car.
She lowered the passenger’s window and shouted. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”
Without a response, he jogged through the emergency room doors. He could only hope they’d arrived in time.
Caleb found his mother seated in the waiting area. She got to her feet and met him with an unsteady gait. He wrapped an arm around her and frowned.
“He’s not—?” he asked, alarmed at Mom’s puffy eyes.
She shook her head but clung to him, almost as inconsolable as when Dad had died. Then she pulled back and regained her composure. He recognized the effort it’d taken her, and once her stoic expression was locked in place, it looked like nothing could shake it.
Sascha hurried towards them.
The older woman looked up as she approached. “Hello, Sascha. Thanks for driving Caleb.”
“Mrs. Walker, I’m so sorry. How’s Phoenix?”
His mother shook her head, eyes filling. “Not good.”
Sascha looked from his mom to Caleb, fear in her eyes. “Don’t tell me—”
“They, um, amputated . . . the train amputated his leg and hand,” Mom said.
Caleb had seen clients swoon over the sight of blood, but not him. He considered himself tough as steel. But now, he felt his stomach churning.
“He’s going to survive, right?” Sascha said.
“As long as he makes it, nothing else matters,” his mom murmured.
“He’s a fighter. He’s gotta be okay,” Caleb said, as much to himself as anyone else.
When his father died unexpectedly, Caleb had descended into anger. He became wildly volatile, swinging through moods as if shifting gears in his truck. Phoenix grieved, yet exhibited an inner strength that drew him closer to their mother. Putting aside his ad agency work, he’d stayed with Mom for nearly a month. Mom had said she couldn’t conjure anyone more dependable to help her organize her affairs and get her bearings. Caleb envied their relationship but suppressed jealousy.
Now, instead of dispensing support, Phoenix was the one who needed it.
They all sat, lost in their own private thoughts, slumped into the slick plastic seats. Caleb couldn’t tell if minutes or hours passed waiting. He released a shuddered breath.
“Are you okay?” Sascha asked, peering at Caleb.
He shook his head. “It’s hitting me really hard.”
“Aww, luv.”
He buried his face into her shoulder. All the petty jealousy with his brother, the drama with Sascha. He would shove it all aside, if only Phoenix would get better.
A nurse came over to the trio. “Mr. Walker’s out of surgery. We’ll let you know when you can see him. It might be a while.”
Caleb turned to Sascha. It comforted him having her there, but wasn’t he being selfish? “Thanks for driving. Do you want to go and open up the shop?”
“Forget the damn shop, I’m waiting here with you,” she said.
His mother straightened. “I know it’s going to be tough to see him like this. But w
e’re going to be strong for him. It’s not going to help if we fall apart. Understand?”
She looked so determined, it was impossible not to believe her conviction.
CHAPTER 4
IN THE COLD, COLD NIGHT
Phoenix
Phoenix floated downstairs two or three at a time. His movements were effortless, effervescent. His body seemed suspended, capable of fluidity that defied gravity. He sank slowly, a burning at the edges disturbing his cool darkness.
Quiet. Silence. Once, his mom took them to vacation at a Relais-du-Silence chateau. He resisted that amount of solitude and stillness. Now, it beckoned to him. He answered its call. Yes. Now. Okay.
“Phoenix?” came the whisper. A tug on his consciousness. No, not yet. Stay silent. He vaguely recalled some epic struggle. A struggle with gargantuan proportions, like a sweeping Hollywood production. Now, an eerie hush followed the struggle. Blackness beckoned.
CHAPTER 5
INTIMATE SECRETARY
Liv
Monday funday. Liv loved her boss, but wondered how she had landed in the middle of a modern-day “Mad Men.” First thing, she sent Phoenix a text reminder of his meeting to present the agency’s creative capabilities to a potential client. Not that he needed the reminder. It was more the satisfaction of doing something for a man whose hyper-independence meant he asked for little.
Liv was shocked to realize she’d been at the agency for twelve months. A year ago, job prospects for recent graduates were as scarce as affordable apartments in Midtown. Liv’s plan of working in advertising didn’t land her a desirable copywriting position. Instead, she could only find administrative roles.
Her sense of candor during interviews didn’t win many offers. Except at counterAgency, where her stubbornness amused rather than intimidated Phoenix. She fell in love with the spirit of the unique place—and maybe a little with the guy who orchestrated that spirit.
She had stepped into his airy office, noting the broad expanse of glass opening up over Midtown. The air was scented with fresh orchids.
“Phoenix Walker. Nice to meet you,” he’d said, standing to shake her hand. His grip was self-assured without crushing her fingers.
She’d settled into the indicated seat across from the clean sweep of his desk.
He made her feel at ease, then got right down to it.
“Tell me about your career aspirations.”
“Honestly?” she asked, studying his blue eyes. His suit probably cost more than she would make a week. Outside his glass wall, she could see that the nearby conference room was abuzz with a creative team brainstorming and drawing on a whiteboard.
“I love to write,” she said. “I’d like to be a copywriter.”
He scanned her résumé, already marked up with circles and underlines.
“Editor of the school paper, published editorials, finalist in poetry competitions, a degree in English with honors. Your writing skills are coming through. So why apply to be an executive assistant?”
She sat straighter, her palms suddenly damp. She needed to explain the pivot.
“Please don’t hold my achievements against me. I’m super-organized, I have great follow-through,” she declared. “I’m tough when I need to be . . . and professional. I’m coachable, too. I want to be part of a team.”
He angled back into his desk chair with a bemused grin. “Hold your bachelor’s against you?”
She knew the game was up. This guy was an advertising wunderkind, just as all the trade rags said. He could see right through her plan to land a spot to pay the bills until she could find a real job.
“Mr. Walker, I know I seem overqualified to be an admin, but can’t overqualifying for a job be a good thing?”
“If you’ll stay awhile,” he’d replied.
“Capability and motivation are different things,” he’d stated, making the pronouncement sound like a fresh insight. Her fingers twitched with the desire to take notes. She reminded herself she was no longer in school. He proceeded with his inquisition.
“How would you feel if . . . if I asked you to send a reel to a client?”
“No problem,” she assured him. Easy one.
“Asked you to schedule appointments?”
“Of course.”
“Personal ones?”
“Okay.”
“Make travel arrangements?”
“I know the duties of an assistant. I can take care of correspondence, calendars, protect your time, make excuses to stave off unwanted calls, serve as your proxy for internal staff and even handle difficult clients.”
Is him grinning a good sign?
“I repeat, how are you going to feel about doing all that? When you were the star of your high school paper? When you just earned your degree in the musings of James Joyce? When you want to be a copywriter?”
Crap, tough psychological questions.
Other interviewers would dance around her skills and reject her without giving her a chance to respond. He clearly had seen her potential, but needed to verify his instincts.
She straightened the jacket of her pants suit, borrowed from her mom for the interview. “Copywriting can wait. I’m going to feel like I’m learning about the industry from the ground up. And I’m going to push you for opportunities to be part of the creative process. That’s still my strength.”
He nodded, as much in control of this interview as he probably was over everything in his life.
“If you fulfill the job’s priorities, there are always opportunities. New business presentations that need all hands on deck. Networking events.”
Her heart quickened. I need to go shopping.
“I still want to know,” he questioned. “Do you feel like you’re selling out?”
“Do you?” she shot back before she could think.
That bemused grin.
“We sell out every day, but hopefully with our analytics and not our souls. Now, what questions do you have for me?”
Her standard queries about the company had suddenly seemed trite.
“What made you do it?” She waved her hand to indicate the people and rooms beyond the clear glass. “What drove you to create this?”
For a moment, she didn’t care about the details of the job. She was transported. She wanted to know more about this agency superstar.
He seemed amused. He studied her, measuring the earnestness of her question. Who’s interviewing whom?
“I had a type of company in mind that I wanted to work for. Couldn’t find anything like it. A place that made me feel like the work was fun and worth doing. A place that stood up to clients and stood for something.”
All doubts had vanished. She wanted the job more than anything. Forget about grad school or creative writing.
He stood and offered her an even firmer handshake like they were making a deal.
“Nice meeting you, Liv. See you soon.”
“See you” is better than goodbye, right?
“See you soon,” she repeated like it was a refrain from her favorite song
Now, a year since the offer had been made and accepted with enthusiasm, she’d learned his style and knew how much sass she could sling back. Her initial awe had morphed into respect, even when he could be moody or overreact to one of her mistakes.
She’d even grown accustomed to his streak of perfectionism. So what if he held her to high standards? They were nothing compared to the standards he held for himself. Even after a year, she loved working for Phoenix. Everything else could wait.
His phone line sounded.
“counterAgency. Mr. Walker’s line.”
“Liv?” the voice on the other end was washed out. Liv sat up and pressed the receiver closer.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Veronica Walker, Phoenix’s mother.” Liv glan
ced at the time. Nine-thirty on a Monday wasn’t impossibly late for Phoenix to arrive, but her scalp prickled with premonition.
“Is everything all right?”
“No. Phoenix’s been in a bad accident. I’m at the hospital with him.” Liv could hear a muffled sob.
“Oh my God. Is he okay?” Her heart pounded in her ears making it hard to hear Veronica’s words.
“I don’t know. We don’t know. He’s still unconscious.”
“What happened? What can I do?” Liv looked around the office frantically, as if Phoenix would appear.
“I don’t know when he’s coming back to work, if he’s coming back to work. I have to go.” She hung up.
Liv stared at the phone and stood. She glared at the empty desk where Phoenix normally sat. She couldn’t go to the person she usually relied on for advice. Her heart lurched at the thought. What did Veronica mean, if he’s coming back?
Dex. She needed Dex. Stumbling on legs wooden with fear, Liv found Dex in his office, bent back in his chair, tossing a Nerf ball in the air.
“Liv!” he greeted her, sitting up. “How was your weekend—” The question aborted as he turned and saw her face. “What’s wrong?”
She shut his door behind her. “Phoenix,” she uttered, eager to share the burden of this awful truth. “Phoenix has been hurt in an accident. He’s in the hospital. His mom called.”
Dex’s bearded jaw dropped. He was staring at her. He took a step towards her, as if he could glean more information by being closer.
“In the hospital? Is he okay? Where is he?”
“I don’t know. The only other thing she said was she didn’t know when or if he’d be back.” Her voice lost its power.
A few minutes of pacing and Dex pieced together the start of a plan. He’d call Phoenix’s brother. He warned Liv. “This is not a matter of gossip, you understand?”
“Of course not. And don’t worry, I’ll take care of his meetings.”
Goodbye, Orchid Page 2
