by J. R. Ward
The truth was more complex, wasn’t it?
Hazy memories of things she hadn’t thought about in years bubbled up. She remembered her father coming home after long shifts, changing and leaving immediately for Timeout, her mother’s face falling in disappointment. She recalled with clarity Nancy Janice planting a patch of flowers in the backyard and her father making a wisecrack about wasting lawn space.
And worse, she relived what it was like to hear her father’s booming voice rattling the closed door of her parents’ bedroom. Big Tom had been a product of the military and as such, nothing in the house could ever be out of place. An errant pair of shoes, taken off by the back door to avoid mud being tracked in, had never been the kid’s fault.
It had been on Nancy Janice’s.
Looking back on it now, those standards which Anne had adopted and still had seemed like something altogether different than just a way to keep the house functioning properly and tidy.
They’d been an excuse to yell at the wife. A way of justifying the release of anger and frustration that built up as the result of a brutally hard and dangerous job.
God, Anne thought. Put like that, what else had she expected her mom to turn into?
Maybe the adaptive behavior of being a doormat wasn’t a critical character flaw.
Maybe . . it had been survival.
chapter
41
“Help me . . . I can’t . . . breathe . . .”
Danny leaned down, putting his face in the side window of the T-boned car. The older woman behind the wheel was in her late sixties, early seventies, and there was blood in her gray hair from where her head had been stuck by the inside of the door on impact.
“I’m getting you out, don’t you worry. What’s your name?”
“Ce-Cecilia. My granddaughter—”
Danny nodded. “We got her out of her car seat. She’s just fine. Let’s get you free.”
The accident was off the shoulder of a four-lane intersection with turning signals. The woman had been traveling through with the green light when some hotshot had blown through the red arrow and hit her so hard, it’d taken her all the way off the asphalt and crushed her door in.
“I can’t . . . breathe . . .”
“There’s gonna be some noise. Stay with me, Cecilia.”
Bringing the hydraulic splitter up, he rammed the twin wedges into the hinged seam of the door and engaged the power. The squeaking and squealing rang in his ears as the tool separated the busted mess from the body of the car so that Danny and Moose could yank it free and expose the victim.
Paramedic team members ran forward and began their assessment as Danny tossed the useless hunk of door out of the way. The other car had cue-balled off into the weeds, the driver standing to the side with airbag powder all over his black shirt, his face swollen and red.
Made you want to go over and finish the job with your fist.
He refocused on Cecilia. Her mouth was open, and she was wincing and gasping. Given what kind of the shape her door was in, she probably had broken a rib or two and ended up with a pleural effusion due to a pneumothorax or hemothorax. Or both. At least that head wound looked mostly superficial even though it was bleeding.
She was going to live.
At least . . . he thought maybe she was going to live. What if she had underlying conditions? What if it was a blood clot in her lungs instead?
Or a myocardial infarc?
As the last of the light bled out of the sky, and the headlights of the rerouted traffic flashed in his eyes, his heart started to pound and he looked toward the ambulance again. In the glow from the bay’s lights, the four-year-old granddaughter was screaming her head off as strangers with scary-looking medical things came at her. Tears streamed down her bright red, tortured face.
She was terrified about her grandmother. All because some prick was in a hurry. How many times had he seen this, innocent lives interrupted by assholes who thought their shit was more important than the traffic laws.
“Danny?”
As his name came over to him on the oil-scented air, he turned and was blinded by strobe lights of the departing ambulance. When all he saw standing in front of him was a tall broad shape in turnouts and a helmet, reality bent and twisted, no longer something linear, but a convolution that doubled back on itself.
“John Thomas?” he breathed as he saw his dead twin brother before him.
“What the fuck?” Moose stepped closer. “What the hell are you talking about, Danny?”
“Sorry. Nothing. What’s up?”
Moose pointed to a flatbed truck that Danny hadn’t noticed driving on scene. “I thought you might appreciate not getting run over as that thing backs up. ’Cuz you don’t seem to have noticed it.”
As the reverse lights came on and the vehicle started coming toward Cecilia’s wreck, Danny got with the program, picking up the door he’d taken off like he’d meant to all along. It was alarming to note how much had progressed at the scene since he’d checked out. Both ambulances were gone, Duff was putting sand down over the oil leaks under the light, and the police squad cars were getting ready to release the rerouted traffic.
On the ride back to the stationhouse, he stared out the engine’s lowered window. The others were talking about the Patriots game that was coming up, and Duff was saying he needed to get laid, and Moose was talking about his Charger, and Doc was behind the wheel, humming.
Danny tracked all of it to reassure himself he was on the planet. That his brain was still capable of keeping up with reality.
As they came up to the firehouse, he didn’t know how he was going to make it through the rest of the shift—
The Subaru parked across from the bays had to be another figment of his imagination. But just in case it wasn’t, he jumped out as Doc stopped the engine to back it in.
“Where you going?” Moose called out.
Danny let his walking answer the question. And as he approached the Subaru, he was relieved when Anne put her window down.
Her eyes were sad as they looked up at him. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You should.”
* * *
The bays of the stationhouse still looked the same, still smelled the same—like baked bread, fresh engine oil, and lemon air freshener.
Anne had never expected to walk into it again, and somehow, having Soot by her side on his leash, made everything easier. Guess comfort dogs worked.
She stopped between the engine and the ladder truck and looked up at the old-school pool that they didn’t use anymore. The hole at the top, which was in the center of the bunk room, had been paneled over.
But her father had used it during his time.
“You want dinner?” Danny asked quietly. “We got plenty.”
She leveled her head and looked at him. “You have bags under your eyes. You’re exhausted.”
“I think there’s even leftover roast beef. It was too rare last night. I could cook it again for you.”
“What kind of call were you out on?”
“Car accident. Two injuries. Asshole who was speeding and missed the traffic light was fine.”
Off in the distance, familiar voices were echoing into the tall ceiling. Moose. Duff. Deshaun. None of them knew she’d come in. All of them had watched as Danny had jogged across the street to her car.
“Do you remember those pictures we used to have over there?” She nodded toward the workout equipment. “Where’d they go?”
“When we had that bathroom leak, it ruined the wall.”
“Did they get killed?” As if they were mortal. “I mean, were they thrown out?”
“Nope. They’re upstairs in the hall. We figured they’d be safer. You want to go up there?”
“Yes. I do. Will you take me? I mean, you know, now that I don’t
work here and I’m not on the crew.”
“You’re always welcome. Anywhere.”
She waited for him to take the lead, and as they walked over to the old steps to the second floor, she gave the boys who were around the incident command center a little wave.
God, she felt like she was sneaking around and had just gotten caught.
“Hey, Anne,” Moose called out. “You staying for dinner?”
“Nah, I’ll leave the eating up to you.”
“Is that your dog?”
“Yup.”
Before she could get tangled into a conversation, Danny stopped at the base of the stairs and motioned the way up. As she ascended, the steps still creaked the same, the narrow walls like entering a chute.
The second floor was still bead board that had been painted a million times, and the bathroom with the shower stalls still had that frosted-glass door.
The twenty or so framed pictures had been hung down the hall, the sizes and frames different, some in color and some black and white. But she recognized her father in the five he’d been in.
God, he and Tom looked so alike. And they were all group shots of six or seven guys from the stationhouse—loose configurations that somehow her father had managed to be the center of. He’d been like that. The fulcrum around which things revolved, the leader who only appeared to be phlegmatic about the role. In reality, he must have taken that identity and its preservation very seriously.
If you were sometimes the head of things and sometimes not, that was somebody who could take or leave the authority and adulation.
But when it was always you? Well, that was some shit you worked at, wasn’t it.
“He was larger than life,” Danny said quietly. “Your father was the standard everyone lived up to.”
Anne looked down at her prosthesis and wondered about the nature of anger. She wouldn’t have identified herself as a hostile person, just someone who was direct and got what she wanted and needed out situations.
Refocusing on the images of her father, standing so proud and tall among others of his generation of firefighters, she thought about how pissed off she had been about everything—and for how long.
She thought about that fire that had changed her life, and her determination to send Emilio up those stairs. Then she pictured him in that emergency room, alive by a stroke of luck and nothing else.
She didn’t mean to turn to Danny and reach for him, but she did.
As his arms came around her, she turned her head and stared at all the pictures, not just the ones that her father was in.
“He saved a lot of lives, you know,” Danny murmured.
He ruined a lot of them, too, she thought.
chapter
42
The next morning, Anne woke up at six a.m. Or, rather, she got out of bed at that time. She hadn’t done a lot of sleeping. After getting dressed, she went downstairs to the kitchen with Soot. While he went out to do his business, she opened her cupboards.
Instead of viewing the rearrangement as an intrusion, she looked at the order. The canned goods had been grouped together by whether they held soup or vegetables. The crackers were by the soups. The boxes of pasta were next to the sauce jars.
She opened the drawers under the countertops. Her silverware was next to the dishwasher—which would make it easier to empty. The plates had likewise been relocated above the dishwasher for the same reason. Pot holders were by the stove instead of across the way next to the refrigerator.
Closing everything up, she stepped back. Then she let Soot back in, sat at the table, and stared out to her living room. The sofa was now on the far wall—so you didn’t need to walk around it to enter the kitchen. The armchair was by the fireplace and the lamp on its table had been pulled in tight.
If you wanted to read a book or do needlepoint, the illumination would come over your shoulder.
Perfectly.
Anne was still sitting there when her mom came downstairs. As Nancy Janice rounded the corner, she stopped. Her face was made up. Her hair was done. But she was still in her nightclothes, the matching gown and bathrobe pink with yellow flowers. She even had slippers that matched.
The pleasant expression that was so ubiquitous that it seemed like an actual feature—like the woman’s nose or chin—was lost instantly.
“Good morning, Anne. This is a surprise.”
As the woman entered the kitchen, the actually number of steps taken or yards traveled was small. The distance traveled was greater than miles. And Anne recognized the lines in that face. The slight stoop to the shoulders. The gray hairs coming at the temples as the hair color was growing out.
Time was passing, leaving its mark, taking its taxes and penalties in the form of fading beauty and function.
She thought of those pictures in that hallway at the stationhouse. That funeral. The childhood house that had been a place to start off from for her and her brother . . . but which had been, for their parents, a goal reached.
“I didn’t touch anything.” Her mom put out her hands. “I swear, Anne. I haven’t touched anything in this house.”
Sunlight glinted off the gold wedding band on her mother’s left hand.
“Can I ask you something?” Anne said in a low voice.
Her mother came over and sat down. “Anything. Please.”
As if there had been a wait of years for such an approach.
“Why do you still wear that?”
Her mother stiffened, those eyes dropping away. And then she put her hand under the table, out of sight.
“Why, Mom?” Anne shook her head, aware she was asking about so much more than just the wedding ring. “Why.”
Just as she became convinced there’d be no reply, Nancy Janice said, “Marriage is a private affair between two people, consecrated by the church.”
“If you have children, it’s not just two people.”
“Your father was a good man. An imperfect but good man.”
“I know what he did, Mom. I’ll spare you saying it out loud. But I know.”
The crumbling that occurred was on the inside. Even as the composure was retained, it was but the facade of a building, the walls and ceilings of which had fallen from their nails and screws.
“All I have ever done was try to make things better than they were. For you. For your brother. I have done what I could to . . . make things work. There were no resources for me. I didn’t graduate high school when I got married. He didn’t want me to get a job. I have no skills. Without his pension now? I don’t know where I would go. Where I would be. What I would do.”
Anne looked past her mother to the rearranged living room. To the armchair with its perfectly placed lamp.
“I am nothing,” her mother whispered. “That’s what he always told me. I am . . . nothing.”
As Anne stood up, her chair squeezed on the floor, and she went around, getting on her knees. Wrapping her arms around her mother, she realized it was the first time they had hugged in . . . forever.
“Oh, God, Mom,” Anne said in a voice that cracked. “God . . .”
Damn him, she thought to herself.
They stayed that way for the longest time, her mother crying softly, Soot padding over and sitting as close as he could to Anne.
When she finally eased back, she took her mother’s hands in her own, both the one that was of flesh and the other of molded plastic.
“I am so sorry you were hurt, Anne,” her mother said. “I am so sorry. It has killed me to know . . . you were hurt.”
“It’s amazing what you can live through,” Anne murmured. “And come out stronger on the other side.”
Putting her mother’s hand on her prosthesis, Anne took the wedding band between her fingertips and slowly pulled it off. She wanted to toss the fucking thing across the room. Instead, she placed i
t on her table and then reached up and dried her mother’s tears.
“Time to let old lives go, Mom.” As her mother stared at the ring, her eyes were exhausted, and Anne knew how that felt. “Old dreams that were really nightmares. Strength only exists if it is tested, and I promise you, you are stronger than you know.”
“I have never been strong.” Those eyes closed so hard, her lips peeled off her teeth. “And that’s why you hate me. Because you know I’m not like you—”
“Yes, you are.” Anne smiled though she had begun to tear up. “I’m your daughter so half of me is you. If I can resurrect myself, so can you.”
Her mom’s eyes opened once more. “I wanted so desperately to have something in common with you, but I was always so glad you were not like me. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Let’s shoot for two in this family, ’kay?” Anne squeezed her mom’s hand. “We can do it. Together.”
chapter
43
The following day, Anne went down to the municipal court and county jail complex a good twenty minutes before she was supposed to see Ollie Popper, real name Douglas Contare. After going through the metal detector and getting wanded by a deputy, she was given very precise directions to the northwest corner, where she could check in for the interview. There were hundreds of people milling around the mall-sized building. Some were in professional dress. Others were harried and scrambling. And there were cops and sheriff’s deputies all around.
When she got to the jail entrance, she had to be wait to get buzzed in, and then she was checking in at a bulletproof window. Things moved fast, and she was shown into a long thin room cut in half by more of that thick Plexiglas. Cubbies were created by partitions on both sides, and there were chairs and two handsets for conversation between prisoners and people who were visitors.
