Brick by Brick (26 page)

“Sorry,” he said and dropped back by a good twenty miles an hour.

Gage pulled in at the emergency room’s ambulance bay, but a security guard came out immediately.

“Sir, you’ll have to move it.”

“But my friend—her husband—”

“Move it, or the ambulance with the next friend and husband won’t be able to get in.”

Gage’s face hardened. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m going inside,” I said. A glance back showed those dead eyes, not his feelings.

Tough. I was the wife, ten years on the job.

In the short time since the ambulance’s arrival, James had been placed in a curtained area, undressed and gowned, wiped somewhat cleaner, and brought to consciousness. He pressed a bloodied compress to his nostrils but pulled it away when he saw me.

“Hi.” His smile was small and ghastly, each tooth outlined in blood. A fresh trickle escaped his nose, and he restored the compress and tilted his head back.

“Hi. How are you doing?”

“I’ve got such a fucking headache.” James’s voice was thick. “The nurse said it looked like a simple broken nose. Haven’t seen a doctor yet. Accident?”

“You don’t remember? The kids in the car?”

“I don’t remember any kids. I remember out to dinner for my birthday. Is it still today?”

“Yes. No. It’s late, tomorrow, I guess. I love you, Jamie.”

“I remember that. I love you.” That grisly smile again. “Was Gage with us?”

“He’s fine. Parking the truck.”

“He got it to start? Seems almost like cheating on me.”

A nurse came in, handed James a clean compress for his nose plus a small ice pack. “Hold it like this,” she said, positioning both in his hand and shaping the ice pack over his nose. “It’ll keep the swelling down. Keep your head tilted.”

“It’s killing my neck.”

“Let me roll a pillow to help.”

Turning to me as she worked, she added, “They cut off the shirt, but I put the tie in a separate bag in case you want to try to save it. I got the pants off without scissors, so they just need cleaning. They’re in the bag with the shoes and all. Make sure you tell them it’s blood.”

“Okay, thanks.”

In a lower voice, she said, “You’ve got some on your dress.”

“I know, I wiped my hands—”

“In back. Your period?”

“No, I—”

Her voice dropped further, so only I could hear. “Could it be a miscarriage?”

“No, no. Blood in the truck. I guess I was sitting in it.”

“Ugh,” he moaned.

“Are you going to vomit?” the nurse asked, already moving toward a plastic pan.

“Maybe,” he said, taking it in his free hand.

“It’s nothing to worry about if you do. You’re swallowing a lot of blood. Ring if you need me.” The nurse hurried out. James’s needs were not her most urgent. I supposed that was a good thing.

“That dress is doomed,” James said, his head tilted back and supported on the rolled pillow. It looked uncomfortable.

“I can’t take it to the cleaner for blood
again
.”

“Toss it. You don’t like it anyway.”

“I’ll never wear it again. It’s got a pretty poor record, the bad things it reminds me of.”

Gage arrived. “You’re awake,” he said, smiling movie-star handsome. He’d found a men’s room, washed his bloodied hands, finger-combed his hair, and splashed water on his face to refresh that translucent skin.

“Yeah. Killer headache, no memory.”

“That’s okay. We’ll fill you in on the details later. As accidents go, it wasn’t that spectacular. No fireball or anything.”

“Good. How bad is the truck?”

“You won’t be driving it tomorrow,” I hedged.

“Maybe not the next day, either,” Gage added. In his dress shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and his suit trousers, he could be cast as the Charismatic Young Politician.

In comparison I no doubt looked worse than my usual dowdy. My dress was bloodstained front and back, my hands sticky with it despite wiping. I probably reeked of scotch too.

It didn’t really matter. James was alive, and he loved me.

“I think I’ll be taking a few days off,” James said. “Can you do some things for me?”

“Sure.”

“It’s gross, but somebody should clean the blood out of the cab before it dries.”

Somebody had probably transferred blood from the seat of her dress to the seat of the new truck too, knocking several thousand off its resale value. I’d have to wipe that up too.

“They might have towed it someplace,” Gage said. “An impound lot or something.”

“Well, try. It’ll be worse if it bakes in the sun. If you can get at it, get the console, and the clipboard—it’s probably behind the seat—and the tools. My cell phone, if it’s there.”

“It’s at home,” I said. “I saw you put it in the charger.”

“This is so weird, not remembering.”

“What else do we need to do?”

“This is important. Call Manny, no matter how late it is. He’s got to run the Rincon crew and put Carlos and Ray in charge of the other crews.”

“Okay.”

The doctor arrived, frazzled and apologetic yet clearly competently in control. I liked her immediately. “Not bad for a weeknight, but still,” she said, reading the chart. “Seat belt, good for you, Mr. Bedwell. You saved your own life. An air bag would have saved your nose, but let’s not complain. If your family will excuse us, we’ll give you a once-over, see to getting your nose packed, and decide what to do from there.”

Gage and I trudged to the waiting room. He hung his head. It took me a moment to realize he didn’t want to be recognized.

Was it ever not all about him?

Chapter Thirty-Five

In a remote area of the waiting room, well separated from the other people and the vending machines, we sat on uncomfortable plastic chairs facing away from the room, next to a dusty artificial plant.

Gage gave me a nod, acknowledging me getting it right, then set his elbows on his knees and remained bent, studying his hands as if they held some considerable fascination.

My hair drooping in lank curtains on both sides of my face, I mimicked his posture, my filthy hands knotting and unknotting. Some of the ends of my hair had dipped in blood and dried in stiff clusters, a paintbrush for gore.

Not gore. My husband’s lifeblood. The mask of calm I hadn’t realized I wore abruptly dropped away. The inside of my nose burned, and the tears came, bringing with them a small keening sound. A crystalline droplet struck my shoe, darkening the leather immediately.

“Come on, don’t,” Gage said. “Not here.”

Another drop, and a third cascading from my quivering chin.

“Fine. Let’s go outside, away from people who’ll look at you crying and recognize me.” He put an arm around my shoulders and tugged lightly. When I didn’t rise, he tried again, firmly wrapping my waist and lifting hard enough to grunt. “Come on, before somebody uses their phone to take a fucking picture!”

I wanted to snap at him, but if I opened my mouth, only a wail would come out. My failure to move served as my reply.

“No? Okay.” He took a deep breath, and blew it out. “Really, it is. Just try to be quiet, okay? Please.” He inserted his clean hand into the half hitch I formed and re-formed with fingers whose cuticles and nails were crusty with James’s blood.

I let myself shake with sobs but managed to choke off all sounds. Once a tear landed on Gage’s knuckle, and he startled, but beyond that he didn’t move anything but his hand.

A few minutes later I sniffled and lifted my head. “I swore I wasn’t going to do that.”

“Me, either,” he said. “So far, so good. I wish you’d have saved it for in private, but—”

“Mrs. Bedwell?”

Neither of us had noticed the uniformed cop standing at a respectful distance while I cried. He was young, red-faced, beefy with a fleshiness that promised future fat, his hair so short I could only guess its color.

“Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. I talked to your husband, but he has no memory of the accident, or several hours before it. That’s pretty common. Sometimes it comes back, sometimes not. Were you and Mr. Bedwell drinking tonight?”

“Wine with dinner,” I said before I noticed Gage’s narrowed eyes and minute shaking of his head: No.

I didn’t need to lie. “But that was hours ago. Later, I had scotch. At Keenan’s Boston. But I didn’t drive afterward.”

“I was there too, Officer,” Gage volunteered, standing up. “I poured a drink for James and one for myself too, but neither of us had more than a couple of sips.”

“He’s refusing to be tested for alcohol.”

“Well,” I said, “he can’t know he wasn’t drinking or that he was run off the road. Did you interview the people who—”

“You’re that guy,” the cop said.

“Yes,” Gage said promptly, shaking the cop’s hand firmly and looking him in the eye, a display of man-to-man behavior that seemed almost odd. “Gage Strickland.”

“My girlfriend’s a big fan. Big fan. Wait until I tell her.”

“I’m sure you’re busy, but if there’s time, would she like an autograph? Sorry, I don’t have anything to write on.”

I found my pen again, and held it aloft. Gage took it without looking at me. The policeman handed Gage a small spiral-bound notebook.

“What’s her name?”

“Kirsten. That’s K-I-R, not K-R-I.”

Gage read aloud as he wrote. “To Kirsten… Best wishes for a long and happy life. Buckle up! Gage Strickland.”

“Awesome! Thank you.” The cop seemed younger, almost like a giddy teenager.

“One for yourself?” Gage offered. “To Officer”—he glanced at the name tag on the uniform—”Langford. Thanks for your professionalism on a terrible night. Best wishes, Gage Strickland.”

“Wow, this is great.”

“My pleasure. Did you get to talk to the other witnesses, the ones who saw the kids who forced James off the road?”

“Yeah, loud wife and the guy with the stutter who never gets a word in edgewise.”

We explained what had happened, apparently to his satisfaction. He wasn’t particularly interested in the maybe-digits I’d gotten from the license plate, but listened intently to Gage’s vague description of the car and the kids. I didn’t see how that could lead anywhere; two digits off a current Arizona plate seemed like a better starting point, even if I wasn’t Gage Strickland.

The doctor came out to talk to us, and the police officer left, patting the autographs in his shirt pocket.

“It’s just the nose, but I’m mildly concerned about how long it’s bleeding. We’ll admit him overnight for observation, and a consult tomorrow with otolaryngology. The nose doctor. Your husband has memory loss, but that’s nothing to worry about. The period before and just after the accident will probably remain blank. He doesn’t appear to have suffered a concussion, although we’ll be monitoring him all night. After that, assuming the nose checks out, we’ll turn him loose.”

“Does he need a transfusion?” There’d been so much blood.

“Not yet, and he probably won’t, but don’t let that discourage you from donating. Someone always needs blood. I expect the packing to stop the bleeding, although if it doesn’t there are other options. Anyway, he’s going to be fine. He’ll have a pair of black eyes by morning and some swelling. It wouldn’t be unusual for him to have a headache that lasts for a week or more. He should be taking it fairly easy until it’s gone.”

“That doesn’t sound like him.” Maybe he’d refrain from lifting and laying brick, but I couldn’t imagine him ceding supervision and all decision making for long.

“We’ll need your help, then, to convince him to scale back and let this heal. I know, easy for me to say. We don’t want a rise in blood pressure to start the bleeding up again.”

“I’ll keep him home as long as I can without chains,” I promised.

She smiled. “He’ll probably want to rest for a few days, anyway. Physical injury really takes it out of you. I’ll let you say good night before we move him upstairs.”

James’s battered wallet lay on the bed.

“Going shopping?” I tried not to stare at his nose, stuffed sausage tight with something dark.

“Filling out insurance forms.” He gestured to a clipboard, its white page marred with a bloody thumbprint. “Do we have enough in checking to cover the deductible?”

Gage pressed his lips together and said nothing. Only James had forgotten the argument over Gage’s spending.

“We will by the time the bill comes,” I said. “I’ll move some things around if we need to.”

“Yeah. Who needs savings, right? Listen, take the wallet home. Clothes too. Keys. Everything, I guess. Just bring me clean for tomorrow. God, I’m sticky all over. Think they’ll let me shower?”

“Maybe. Or a pretty nurse and a bed bath,” Gage suggested.

“Don’t forget to call Manny.”

“I won’t.”

A pair of orderlies arrived.

“Just a second,” James told the orderlies. “Two minutes, okay?”

“Sure,” one said.

Gage and I stood at the side of the gurney. James took my hand in his, and after a moment, Gage’s.

“You both look totally wiped out, but neither one of you is going to be able to sleep because I’m in here.”

“You’ll be out tomorrow, the doctor said.” Gage did look exhausted despite his splash-and-comb. I didn’t want to imagine what I must look like.

“You plan to stay awake until then? Tonight, you both need some sleep, and maybe some comforting.” James’s eyes flicked sidelong and found the orderlies some distance away, talking in night-soft voices. “I hope you’ll make love. I know, you’re tired and worried and not in the mood, but you know you’ll sleep like babies afterward. And lie awake if you don’t. So please, do this for each other, and for me. Please?” He grinned. “And tomorrow, when I come home with a nose the size of a potato, you’ll be glad you have each other.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gage drove us home in silence.

“I don’t even want to see this truck once we get back. See the white mailbox?” I pointed. “Turn there, and park in the driveway. The house is vacant.”

“I know. Mrs. Webb won’t be coming back from the nursing home.”

How did he know? The grandson given the sad task of putting her in Handmaker had asked the neighbors to park in her driveway occasionally. I’d parked there a few times. Maybe Gage had seen my car there?