For a second, I feel a thrill of fear I haven’t felt since I was a boy. It settles deep inside my stomach, and I steel myself. Then her hand touches my shoulder, and I start to sweat from every pore.
Her free hand grabs one of mine, and she tugs me closer to her, closing the distance between our bodies with a gentle tug. I lean closer to her, moving in small jerks. I'm getting seriously dizzy, as her thumb touches me between my brows.
"I see a frown mark, though," she whispers, "right here." I blink, surprised to find the soft sensation makes my eyelids heavy.
"I thought you were upset that night," she murmurs as she strokes. "After..." She colors, and I blink my heavy lids.
"I could see you at the foot of the bed, and I was kind of worried for you. I don't know why, but something about you..." That frown is back, visible through my lashes, and someone is scooping out my insides. I feel gutless and emptied, like I might dissolve into a puddle at this woman's feet.
"Something about you just seems sad. I don't know what about poker-playing would make a man sad, but I'm watching these," she says, gently thumbing my frown lines one more time. "Try not to let them get any deeper."
I nod at her, feeling like I'm in a dream. As I'm walking out the door, I turn again, fighting a vision I have of kissing her mouth.
I take her porch stairs two at a time, and my knees ache from my misadventures with Priscilla. I swing into my F-250 and before I can get a handle on myself, my phone buzzes. Priscilla. Seeing her name on the screen is like jumping into icy water.
I hit the button to answer, but I can't bring myself to say 'hello'.
I can hear the static on the other end, static and the clinking sound of hooker heels. "Hunter?" she says; it sounds like the lash of a whip. "Where are you? I'm waiting."
"Keep waiting," I spit out.
"Believe me, I will. But you'll pay for this."
I grip the steering wheel and wonder if Sarabelle is dead already. I tell myself I’m playing this fucked up game for her. My past doesn't matter. If my father doesn't want word to get out—if he's worried about people finding out what happened to Rita—that's his problem. Christ knows it always has been.
I can hear Rita's low voice, a whisper in my memory where it should have been a scream, and for the briefest moment I can feel the sticky sweat I used to get when she was mad. I can hear her say, “You're trash, just like your mother.”
And I can see her crumpled in my arms, as her too-thin face turns white.
I lower the phone and I am punching the 'end call' button when I hear Priscilla on the line. Her voice is low and sultry, but it's wicked all the same, giving me flashbacks of being beholden to another evil bitch.
"I know where you are," she says. "And I don't like it."
Chapter Seven
~ELIZABETH~
I leave my mom's house feeling like a changed woman. It's dangerous for me, because it involves Hunter. I can't imagine what gave me the courage to be as candid with him as I was. It's true I'm not exactly shy, but this is Hunter, golden god, my oldest, only crush.
Maybe it was because he was intruding, technically; maybe it was that he heard me with dad and obviously got it. Regardless, in one fleeting interaction he went from Hunter West Fantasy to Hunter West Real Person, and the bad thing is, I like him more now.
I remember the sympathy in his tone when he asked about my dad. He cared that I was upset; at least that's the feeling I had in my gut. I could be wrong.
But not about the end, when we were in the parlor and he told me he'd been angry that night at the vineyard. I know I'm not wrong about that, and while I admit maybe I'm being self-indulgent, I feel like I can say almost for sure that what I saw wasn't really what was going on. Hunter seemed disgusted with himself when he looked at me. And tonight... He seemed protective. Kind. Not at all the kind of guy who gets off strangling porn stars.
I can hear Cross's voice in my head, telling me I don't know anything about Hunter, and I admit maybe I'm star struck. But I just don't think so.
I remember how he stilled under my fingers when I touched his face tonight. I remember the kiss he gave me that night, after…
If he's only a playboy, would he have been as nice as he was to me tonight?
Yes, idiot. That's what puts the 'play' in playboy.
I sigh, because I can't heed my own warning, and all I can think about as I park in front of Crestwood Place is when I'll see Hunter again.
*
Saturday morning, I wake up early and drive into Los Angeles. I could have asked Arnold to take me, but seeing Cross for the first time at this new place is something I want to do alone. I've still got Hunter on the brain, so as I fly through the city, my mind is a tangle of feelings. Worry for Cross. Fear for how I'm going to get him out of this. Longing for his friendship. Hope that maybe when I get there, he'll be magically awake again.
I’m also curious about Hunter. Wildly curious. I’m practically craving him, although all fond feelings vanish as I drive through a dreary patch of East L.A. I pass a familiar-looking exit, then the one that's mine, and I know—I know for sure—that this is going to be that same hell-hole where Mom served a court-mandated week two years ago.
I pull off onto a run-down road, then hang a right onto a dead-end street, and there it is: Sunshine Acres—the building right next door to Sunshine Rehab, where mom was sent by court order. Both buildings are tall and Soviet-esque—completely void of frill; all function. The parking deck is dark and dank, even by parking deck standards. I tell myself my imagination is exaggerating, but I swear there’s a thick layer of grime on everything.
The lobby, accessible from the third floor of the deck, is a vast space under a low-lying ceiling, filled with plastic chairs and smelling of stale carpet. There's a cut-out in the wall where two women and a man sit behind a counter top.
I stop in front of a stick-thin woman with short black hair, and ask for the charge nurse. I'm not nervous, because I know that if she says “No,” I'll come back in a few hours, and I'll find a way to sneak inside. I'll wait for Cross's nurse to take a bathroom break. I'll decide for myself how well he's doing.
The person I think is in charge has a name tag that says OLIVE. She's wearing bright green, sweat-stained scrubs that hug her spare tire and compliment her creamy chocolate skin. She looks me over, from my Ugg Moccasins to my jeans and discount designer sweater and she folds her arms across her chest. "It's Saturday," she says, sounding tired. "What do you want with me?"
I can tell she's a straight-shooter, so I match my tone to hers and cut right to the chase. "My friend Cross Carlson just got here, and I'd really like to see him. I know it's a Saturday, but I'm going out of town tomorrow for a week. I'm asking for a favor. Just this once."
She blinks at me. It's an exaggerated blink, almost comical, and after that she bugs her eyes out, like she's just heard something sensational. "Do you know who's running this place today?" she asks me in a dead-pan tone.
I shake my head, and she says, "Frankie, and Frankie's not here right now. I can let you in this once, but you've got fifteen minutes before Frankie gets back from lunch. If Frankie catches you, you're shrimp."
I frown as she turns, and hustle to follow her down the wide, gray-carpeted hall. "Um, just out of curiosity, what's shrimp mean?"
She shoots me a menacing look. "It means you'll get your head bit off."
I follow her around two corners, and at this point, my heart is pounding. The hall has started smelling more like a nursing home—that smell of soiled linens, cleaning chemicals, and sweat. We pass a row of tiny metal doors, Chiclets punched into the drab, white wall, and I want to turn and run away. Cross can't be here. It was bad enough when Mom was in the psych ward next door, but Mom had earned that.
Olive stops before a small metal door and says, "Better hurry.” I nod and thank her. I push through the door without taking time to calm myself, and the sight of a stained blue curtain dividing the room shocks me. There's barely en
ough space for a hospital bed between the curtain and the wall, and as my eyes move over the bed's metal rails, I know it can't be Cross because this patient is lying flat on his back with his—or her—head wrapped in gauze, and he or she is intubated. The breathing machine looming beside the bed makes a noise that brings back memories of a childhood full of ICUs.
I'm headed for the curtain, hoping against hope that Cross will be sitting up in his bed, when the curtain parts and a freckle-faced nurse appears. She's frowning like she's confused, and her shirt is tugged halfway over her head, exposing a lacy, black bra.
My heart leaps in elation. Cross...you wicked thing.
Then I smell the vomit. The nurse is holding a garbage bag, I realize. I quickly notice that her pale pink scrubs shirt is flecked with orange bits. Did Cross puke on her?
I frown as she pushes down the shirt.
"What happened?"
"Mr. Russell, next door." She frowns, and I realize she's holding another, clean shirt in her left hand. "What are you doing in here? You subbing for Nancy?"
I nod behind her. "I'm here to see my friend, Cross Carlson."
Her face scrunches, unreadable. "Oh."
I try to see past her, but she's blocking my view.
"Hun, this is the professor." She leans her head back. "Dr. Dottswold."
I look from left to right. "So this isn't Cross's room?"
"He's right behind you."
My chest is filled with anger as I whirl to face the bed. I can’t wait to tell Miss Black Bra she’s wrong.
The second I really look, I see Cross's face. A cry rises in my throat, and there it dies. There is too much gauze around his head. There’s a tube running from a ventilator to his chapped lips, bent in a stiff snarl.
It's like a giant is stepping on my sternum as I whirl on Black Bra, finding the curtain in place. I can hear a rustling sound as she changes behind it. I don't care. I snatch it open.
I hear her swift intake of breath, and then she's there in front of me, reddish hair rumpled, eyes wide and alarmed.
"What the hell happened to him? Why is he intubated? Who’s in charge here?”
I can tell by the way her eyes widen that she's clueless, even before she smooths her mouth into a line and says, "I don't know, ma'am. You know, it's a Saturday and we don't—"
"No." I grit my teeth. "I don't care what day of the week it is, I want to know what happened to him." My voice is raised, almost to a yell, but I don't care. "If you can’t tell me what happened find me someone who can."
She’s looking at me like I belong in the psych building next door, but I don’t care. "What has he been like today? Has he moved or anything?" I glare at the gauze around his head. "Did someone drop him when they moved him here?"
The nurse scowls at me. "I can't share details with you. You're not family. You’re not supposed to be—"
I whip out my phony license, the one that says Elizabeth Carlson, and shove it in her face. Her eyes harden, and it's like she wants to say the words she says. "He had a bleed."
"He had a what?"
She nods, folding her arms. "He had a brain bleed during the transport over." Her gaze on mine hardens. "He had a stroke." A small sigh escapes her lips, and she gives me a tired look. "I don't know much about it cause I wasn't here. They said he might have been experiencing some pain."
"That caused a stroke? How the hell does that happen? Like, his blood pressure went up really high or something?
The nurse is moving closer to the door and I am moving with her, fully prepared to block her way if she tries to leave without giving me the long explanation.
"I don't know ma'am." She shrugs. "I'm not the one in charge. The doctors are."
Her hand is on the door, and I step in front of it. "What's he been doing today? Are you weaning him off the ventilator?”
"No. He needs it."
"Has he moved or anything? Squeezed anyone's hand? Like, a visitor's?"
She blinks. "I don't know. We can't sit in here with them all day."
I know I promised to be in and out, but now that I've seen Cross, I just can't do that. "What nurse is watching him this shift?"
She’s defensive now. "I am."
Obviously. I swallow, putting my hand on Cross's bed railing. Suddenly I'm feeling faint. I glance at Cross. He looks so pale and...dead. He looks dead. Helplessness floods me, and I want to scream, but I can barely whisper. "So he's just...pretty much lying here?"
It's a stupid thing to say, but I'm holding back tears.
"That's what they do mostly."
My blood boils. Did this woman go to nursing school? He’s not some vegetable! He had a stroke, apparently, but he's going to be okay. She doesn't know jack. No one here does.
"He's been getting N-therapy. He opened his eyes and talked to me the other day." Tears fill my eyes, and I do my best to blink them back as her frown deepens. "He's not in a persistent vegetative state. He's responded to stimuli, just this week. He's doing some kind of therapy here, like N-therapy, right? You have something similar?”
I look at the dark-haired guy in the bed, still wide-shouldered, still handsome, even with his chapped lips and the tube stretching his mouth.
The nurse dips her head again, and when she raises it, I can see the pity in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I don't know about him yet." She shifts the bag, holding her soiled shirt, from one hand to the other, looking contrite. "Why don't you stay here a minute. Talk to him. You can come back Monday, when hours are open again."
"I can't come Sunday?"
She shakes her head. "Tomorrow we're closed for therapy."
"What do you mean?"
"We have a physical therapist come twice a month. She's coming to this hall tomorrow."
"Only twice a month?"
The nurse shrugs. "I have to go but I'll be watching on a monitor." She points to something over my head, and I struggle with the urge to grab her arm and hold her until she tells me something I want to hear.
Somehow, I force myself to turn around and face Cross’s bed. I step over to it, starting to quietly cry as I scan the machines, analyzing the numbers I came to know so well during the first few weeks after the accident.
I check his blood pressure—136/95—and then his pulse—102. The ventilator is taking 24 breaths per minute for him, which means he's hardly breathing on his own at all. I wonder why that is. Maybe they gave him sedatives, so his body can rest and recover.
I stretch out my arm to touch his face, vowing to do something to make this situation better. As I do, the door behind me opens and I turn.
Standing in the doorway is a middle-aged Hispanic woman with her hair pulled into a tight French braid. She's shorter than I am, but everything about her exudes power. "You must be Pushy." She sticks her hand out. "I'm Frankie. And I know this SOB doesn't have a sister."
I balk. "Did you just call him a son of a bitch?"
She shrugs. "Governor's son, hurt himself riding a motorcycle drunk. I could call him worse things, but I'm sorry all the same. You need to get off my floor. Visiting is closed today."
I shake my head. "Not until you tell me what happened."
"I can't do that. What I can do is promise that if you don't leave now, I'll be sure you see the inside of a jail cell."
I put my hand over my chest, unable to believe that this is happening.
"I'll leave," I rasp, "but I have one last question."
She presses her lips together, like a disapproving teacher.
"Do you have N-therapy?" I sound composed, and Frankie's expression loosens a little as her mouth turns down.
"N-therapy?" She looks like she's never heard of it. Of course she hasn't.
"They call it N-therapy. I don’t remember the full name. It stimulates the brain and makes them want to wake up.”
"Neurostimulation therapy." She shakes her head, still brisk but not quite as stern. "I know it helps, but we can't afford to purchase those mac
hines. This is a county treatment facility. Just the basics."
I nod, looking at Cross, and I can feel her hand close around my elbow. "I'm sorry, but visiting is closed. You need to leave."
I nod absently as I step into the hall, vowing Cross will leave soon, too.
Chapter Eight
~ELIZABETH~
It takes me almost an hour to drive to Napa, and the whole time, I feel like I'm in a trance. It's early afternoon on a chilly, gray day when I park my car in the cul-de-sac at the end of Brison Way and walk half a block to the massive gray stone home behind the pointy, black iron gates. Surprisingly, the gates are open, so I walk down the long, cement drive and up the pale staircase Cross jumped off so many times when we were kids.