Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  True. Planning matters, choosing a target and aiming for it, but it's not the only thing. And maybe it's not even the most important thing. Maybe it's better to get to Sandra's house a bit late with a fabulous story about what I saw along the way than to race along without noticing anything around me.

  All of my planning documents show what I want to have done, but they don't touch on how I want to be while doing those things, or on who I want to be. I had my life planned to perfection, but I forgot to actually live it. That's what was missing from that circle exercise the day I met Andrew, and that's what he's been bringing into my life. I need that.

  Everything would have been so different if I'd understood this from the beginning, but there's nothing I can do now.

  Thinking that thought stops me cold. Why is there nothing I can do? Can't I at least live with whatever time I have left, even stuck in the car? I can. I can focus on the journey, I can flow with the go, I can channel Andrew and live in the moment.

  I shut my eyes for a second to let this all sink in, and then I can't open them. A flicker of alarm touches me at how quickly exhaustion sweeps in, but before I can do anything I'm half-asleep and in the midst of my nightmare.

  I'm trying to refuse the foursome but I can't speak. Julie turns around and grins at me and says, "Come on, it'll be fun," and I stare at her, my throat still refusing to let the words through.

  Then I feel the weight of my bracelet on my wrist and hear Andrew murmur, "You can do it," and everything changes. The room we're in brightens, the two men move to flank me, and we stand united against Julie.

  I look at her, and the words come exactly as I rehearsed with Louisa. "He's with me forever, and you can't take that away from me. I live knowing he loved me, and you live knowing what you did to him. Leave now, and never come back to me again."

  My voice is calm and clear and steady, and I see Julie flinching, especially with my second sentence. When I'm done, she opens her mouth to speak, but I shake my head and she turns and flees.

  Sandra rushes in, and my parents and Andrew and Liz and Lynne and Christine and even Ruby. Andrew's hugging me, and the others are slapping me on the back and cheering, and Ruby's purring her loudest. I've never been so happy. And then silence falls, sudden and absolute. I turn in Andrew's arms to see what's happened.

  Standing in the doorway is Bill.

  Shock leaps through me, and my heart hurts to see him, burns with a pain I've never felt before. I never thought I'd see him again, and somehow it feels all wrong. I should be thrilled to see him, and I am but I'm also confused and sad.

  Andrew releases me at once, but Bill shakes his head. He moves to stand in front of me. Then he gives me a smile, sweet but somehow distant, and extends his hand.

  To Andrew.

  They shake hands, both solemn, then Bill turns and leaves.

  I stand alone, torn, longing for him to come back but also craving the warmth of Andrew's embrace. The door is open. I could go after Bill. Part of me wants to.

  But I turn to Andrew instead. He's where I need to be now. I bury my face in his shoulder and he squeezes me tight, and the pain in my heart vanishes at his touch. "You need to wake up," he says softly. "Please, wake up."

  I try, but I can't. The dream begins to fracture, people changing positions and outfits and Ruby standing up on her back legs and singing the national anthem, and it's dragging me under. When I was a kid I got caught in an undertow in the ocean and it felt just like this. I'm so tired, and I can't escape the pull of sleep.

  The world goes black.

  Then it's shattered into a brilliant white light. I'm shocked awake, panting and terrified and disoriented, struggling to figure out what pulled me back to consciousness.

  Then I get it.

  My cell phone is ringing.

  Chapter Twenty

  I throw myself toward the phone then am slammed by such a wave of dizziness I nearly pass out. I waste a precious ring or two fighting it off before I'm able to grab my purse and start flinging its contents at the phone, desperately hoping to knock it open.

  Lipstick, foundation bottle, mascara, eyeliner pencils... I throw each of them as hard as I can. It's hardly like I need them any more. They rebound off the phone and the car around it without effect, so I throw my water bottle and then the purse itself. I'm reaching for the cookie container when silence drops like a brick.

  The phone has stopped ringing.

  My heart's racing and I feel sicker than I have all day, but I take slow deep breaths and gradually my body calms down.

  Unfortunately, fatigue rises again as I begin to recover. This time, though, I see it coming, slinking up on me like an evil monster, and open the car door. The cold air that rushes in wakes me up enough to think clearly.

  I open the computer and check the clock. Eleven-thirty. I should have been home at least half an hour ago, so that call was almost certainly my parents. They'll give it a little longer, then try again, and when they don't get an answer they'll take action.

  But what action will they take? How will they know where to find me? I could be anywhere along the route, and I already have evidence that my tracks off the road aren't visible.

  And I also have evidence that I don't have much consciousness left to me. I don't know how long I was out after my dream, but it wasn't even ten o'clock the last time I checked the time. If I go under again, I'm probably not coming back. I can't wait to be saved any more. I have to get out. I'm terrified of the pain, but I have to.

  I take a deep breath, then wiggle my stuck foot experimentally to see how much it hurts.

  It doesn't. It's numb, like I'd slept on it funny.

  Frowning, I bend down and poke at it, and my stomach twists at the feel of my boot, like a half-full water balloon.

  Half-full of...

  I swallow hard to get my nausea under control.

  Don't think about that.

  Actually, the numbness could work in my favor. I had to stop pulling before because of the pain. Could I maybe go further now? Manage to rip my foot out?

  Off?

  Wishing I hadn't let that idea into my mind, I look into my eyes in the rear view mirror. They're full of fear and revulsion at first, but I stare into them until I'm almost hypnotized by my own gaze and feel my determination rising. I can't give up. I won't.

  Taking slow deep breaths to keep myself calm and focused, I think hard. I tried pulling. I tried pulling while out of the car. And I tried everything I could to get the phone. What else is there? I look around the car, moving slowly and systematically across from the top corner of the windshield, examining and discarding possibilities. When I'm sure there's nothing in the front seat that will help, I turn my head to look into the back.

  As I twist my body to look further behind myself, I realize this is the one thing I haven't tried. I pulled straight, and sideways, but I didn't try to rotate around whatever's in my foot. It might well not work, but I think it's all I've got.

  To be sure, I finish the inventory of the car as best I can, but I don't see another option.

  Sick nervousness spins through me. It hurt so much before. Can I do it again? The numbness might help but I'll probably still feel a lot of pain. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to imagine Andrew's holding me, and look down at my bracelet. He said the chain can take so much more than people would expect. Can I?

  My eyes close as I try to gather strength, and to my surprise I'm nearly asleep. The fatigue came on suddenly, without warning, and it's so tempting to let it take me.

  I force my eyes open. Sleep is not my friend here, if this is even sleep. I know next to nothing about serious injuries, but I do know bleeding a lot isn't good, and I know that's not a water balloon around my foot. I need to stay alert and conscious if I have a prayer of getting out.

  Prayer. My parents were constant church-goers when I was a kid, and when I was about eight I'd overheard my mother in a prayer group one Saturday afternoon at our house, crying and begging God to
give her and my father at least one more child. I'd felt sick and unwanted for just a second until she added, "Rhiannon's so wonderful and it would be lovely to have a sibling for her."

  The ladies in the group made comforting noises and encouraged my mother, but the next day at church she and I were in the little lost-and-found room off the women's washroom searching for my missing mittens when the leaders of the group came in and started talking about how sad it was that my dad couldn't get it up any more.

  I hadn't understood what they were saying, of course, but I'd looked up at my mother, about to ask, "Get what up?" and she'd put a finger to her lips to keep me quiet. We stayed in the room for a few moments, as the women made fun of my dad, but when they moved on to saying, "Sometimes God doesn't give people another child if they're not raising the first one right," Mom took my hand, straightened her back, and walked past the women without a word, her head held high. I'd never thought she looked more like a queen, or more beautiful, than at that moment.

  We'd never gone back to that church, and we'd never tried another one either. But my parents still believed in God. How would they react to my death, to their only child being gone?

  I pinch my hand until the pain allows me to focus. I can't keep wandering off, and I can't worry right now about how my parents will deal with my death. I'm supposed to be preventing that by getting out of this car. Okay. Twisting around in the seat. Will it work? I don't know but I have to try.

  I will twist until I count to one hundred. No giving up.

  I take a long deep breath, blow it out, and twist, using both hands against the back of my seat to pull myself further around.

  Six, seven, eight.

  Pulling with all my strength, I still don't feel like I'm turning much, and I don't feel anything happening with my stuck foot.

  Twelve.

  At unlucky thirteen, I slide inside my boot and the pain flares back to life. It's even more nauseating than before and my stomach convulses, but I pull harder instead of letting myself give in to it.

  Why'd I pick one hundred? Fifty would be so much better.

  No. One hundred. I said it and I will do it.

  Nineteen. Twenty.

  I make my breathing as calm as I can, breathing in for three counts and out for two, and keep trying to turn away from the crushed remnants of my car and my ankle. As I twist, I pull too, hoping the new angle will somehow make my foot pop free.

  Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

  I'm not even halfway there. I can't I can't I can't.

  I shut my eyes, imagine Andrew and Sandra each pulling on a shoulder to help me, and force myself further around. When I simply can't turn any more, I let Sandra and Andrew move to my leg and together we wiggle it back and forth, up and down, as I count.

  The counting was in my head at first, but when I hit forty-four I begin gasping the numbers out loud. The pain is rising like an infection up my leg and into the rest of my body, and somehow saying the numbers aloud makes it easier to tolerate.

  At sixty, the urge to take a break is overwhelming, but I know that if I do, I will be done. This is my last chance, and I can't give up.

  I squeeze my eyes even tighter closed against the agony I'm causing myself and pull harder. The numbness is still there, blending hideously with the pain. It's like the dead coming back to life and I can't help wondering how much more damage I'm doing to my foot as I pull. But I have to.

  Eighty arrives, and with it a sudden burst of energy. I'm not beaten yet. Still pulling, I give up on the twisting and instead reach down and grab hold of my boot and try to push it away. Being doubled over makes me feel sick at the best of times and this is hardly the best of times, but I have to give it everything I've got.

  When I say ninety-five out loud, I find myself starting to count more slowly. I don't want to quit yet. The pain is unbearable now, but the dull stunned feeling I had in my brain before is rising again, because I know this is the end and I don't want to know.

  I say ninety-, but don't say the six. Instead, pausing my count, I force myself to slide both hands into the boot, heedless of what I'll find, and feel around for anything I can move away from my ankle. I can hardly feel my own touch on my foot, and what my fingers contact feels mangled and barely human.

  Then one of my fingers is sliced by a sharp piece of whatever's got me pinned, and the sudden burst of pain makes me jerk my hands away. They come up...

  Oh, God.

  I frantically wipe my blood-drenched hands on the passenger seat until they're as clean as I can manage. Then, screaming the final numbers to the uncaring car, I pull with everything I've got in me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "One hundred!"

  I collapse back onto the seat, panting, and let my head fall against the headrest. It didn't work. It was absolutely my last chance and it didn't work. I could keep fighting, but that won't work either. I really thought I'd get out, find a way to escape, but I didn't. I can't. I am finished.

  I brush sweat from my forehead and wipe it on my jeans, keeping my eyes away from the passenger seat and the blood I left there. So much blood. The boot is full, all right. The boot is full, and I am screwed.

  A sick anger rises in me. If only I hadn't tried to leave. If only I'd turned around earlier, or later, or maybe even hadn't turned around at all. If I hadn't been so obsessed with my weight, if I'd had enough self-control to stay away from Mom's cookies, if I'd just done a few extra workouts to balance it out. Why didn't I—

  I force myself to stop. The fact is, I didn't. So many other options, and I didn't take them. I took the one that sent me off the road and that's that. I so don't want to be here, but I am and it doesn't look like it's going to change. I have tried everything I can and I simply can't escape. And what I felt in my boot doesn't bode well for my survival if I'm not found soon.

  So. Will I spend my last minutes the same way I've spent most of my life, spend them beating myself up for everything I've done wrong and everything I could have done better? Or is this the time to finally forgive myself for not being perfect? If this isn't the time, when is?

  It's the time. I don't want to die hating myself.

  I am going to die.

  Everyone's going to die, of course, but unless a miracle occurs I am probably not going to see tomorrow. Even now, a part of my brain protests, but the rest is trying to accept it. It feels like it's important that I accept it. It'll happen either way, but I'd rather go out with a smile on my face and loving myself than angry and bitter.

  For God's sake, what do I have to be angry about?

  Okay, being stuck here. But other than that?

  Yeah, I'm overweight. But I'm healthy, and strong. So many people have much worse physical challenges than forty extra pounds.

  Plus, I've been lucky enough to have so many great people in my life. My parents, of course, and Sandra and my other friends, and Bill, and now Andrew. And Ruby, the best cat ever.

  Sure, I ruined many good moments in my life by being stressed and unnecessarily obsessed. But I didn't ruin them all. I got to see Sandra finish her marathon, and I worked on the database and had so much fun watching people use and enjoy it, and I had wonderful times with Bill. And I got to connect with Andrew. So many people probably never get a kiss that seems to stop time and change the world forever, and I've had at least one from both of those wonderful men. I've been blessed.

  People always talk about "my life flashed before my eyes", and I imagined it being the big moments, but when I think about everything that's happened to me, it's the tiny things that burst into life in my mind.

  Sandra and me howling laughing over something that would only have been funny to the two of us. Ruby curled up on my lap, purring, as I absently stroke her with one hand and hold the book I'm reading with the other. The quiet satisfaction of finishing a workout that I know was really the best I could give right then. I didn't always let myself feel it, but sometimes I did and that's better than never. That chocolate square Andrew g
ave me, the sweetness of the chocolate spreading through my mouth and the sweetness of him filling my heart and soul.

  When I consciously think back, the big moments do come to mind, but it's the little ones that really make up a life, and so many of mine have been good.

  My throat tightens as I realize there won't be any more, but I take a deep breath and push that aside. Who says? Why can't I have at least a few good moments here in the car? Certainly I've had more than enough bad ones here.

  I have one of Mom's cookies left. That's a nice start toward a good moment.

  I open the container and look down at the cookie, savoring the anticipation for a few seconds. Breaking off tiny pieces, I eat it slowly, waiting until each piece is completely gone before slipping the next into my mouth. The butter and sugar and chocolate flood my mouth, and though tears slide down my cheeks as I eat I'm smiling when the last piece is finished. Because my mother made this cookie, because it's so delicious, and because I'm not worrying about my weight any more.

  There. Yet another good memory.

  There's a deep calm settling over me, I guess because I'm accepting what's going to happen, but I feel like there are still a few things I want to do.

  I try to think of them, but my mind's flitting from person to person in my life, thinking of little things to tell all sorts of different people, and I can't keep anything straight.

  What do I need to do? What are the most important things? Well, I haven't written anything to my parents, and I didn't finish any of the letters. I should, really. But first, I want to add another good memory to my collection.

  I open the picture of Andrew's angel, and let myself remember, really feel, how I felt when he showed it at that meeting, my heart and soul lit up by how he feels about me. I know I don't look as perfect as this angel. Andrew is clearly biased. But that's fine. Why wouldn't I want him to see me like this?

  The computer gives its low-battery warning alert, and my heart skips a beat. That means about ten minutes, if that, before the computer's dead to me. I have things to do and I want to do them right now.