“This isn’t like you, Kelly,” John said, disapproving.
“No,” I agreed. “I’m usually very careful about filtering the water.”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re not yourself.”
I was silent for a while, then I said, “I know. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ‘myself’ again.”
“Of course not,” he said gruffly. “You’ve been through a terrible experience. But you’ve got to move on.”
Mark shook his head in disbelief.
“She does!” John protested.
“Give her twenty-four hours to wallow in self-pity,” Mark chided him. “I’m sure she’ll be recovered in time to save Sunday’s A-one. You know — up by the bootstraps and all that. She’ll be bubbling over with the need to tell somebody all her deepest darkests by dawn tomorrow.”
“I can’t — I don’t ever want talk about it,” I said. “I think he wants me to, so I won’t.”
“Well, of course Mark wants you to talk about it!” John said. “But why should you—”
“Not Mark. Parrish.”
The answer startled him.
He studied me, looked at his watch and said, “Get some sleep. That’s all you need. A little sleep. I’ve got enough from you now to take care of tomorrow’s paper. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” He studied me a little longer and said, “I’ll ask Lydia to come in, too.”
I’ve known Lydia Ames, who works on the city desk, since grade school.
“Thanks,” I said, and burst into tears.
“Oh, Christ!” John said.
Frank came into the room just then, and saw me crying. At his look of rage, both Mark and John held up their hands in surrender. It was enough to make me dry up.
“She’s all yours,” John grumbled, and they left.
Frank came close to the bed, and took my hand, the right one, which was IV-free. He gently brushed his thumb over my knuckles. But I could feel a tension in him that kept it from being a lover’s gesture. And those gray-green eyes were troubled.
“What is it?” I said, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
He blew out a breath and said, “Ben. They had to amputate.”
“No . . . oh Jesus, no.”
“They said he came through the surgery fine.”
“I don’t want to hear about the fucking surgery!” I shouted.
He put his arms around me, which started the tears again. He let me cry hard and loud, listened to me berating God, and myself.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “I didn’t know what to do, how to help him—”
“You saved his life.”
I wondered if Ben felt very grateful to me for that right now. Aloud I said, “I have to see him.”
“He’s sleeping. He probably won’t be allowed to have visitors before tomorrow.”
I lay back against the pillows, miserable. Frank started talking to me about Cody and the dogs and everyday things, and I calmed down. Exhaustion began to conquer me again. “Don’t leave me alone in here,” I said sleepily.
He turned out the overhead light, stretched out on the other bed, and continued to talk to me for about another minute and a half before he fell asleep — too far away from me, but I didn’t begrudge him the rest.
Over the next two hours, I drifted back and forth across the borders of sleep. I was dreaming of marching bloody boots when the phone rang. Frank awakened, and was up on his feet and at my bedside before I had turned the light on and found the right end of the receiver.
“Irene? It’s Gillian.”
“Hello, Gillian,” I said, around a hard knot in my throat.
“Did I wake you up?”
“No, no, it’s okay.” And for the life of me, I couldn’t think of what to say next.
“I wondered if I could talk to you — not tonight, but maybe tomorrow? Will you still be there?”
“No, I won’t be here. I’m going home in a little while,” I said, suddenly knowing that I wouldn’t be able to spend the night in that hospital bed, that I needed familiar surroundings. “But I’ll be going into the office tomorrow afternoon. Do you want to meet me there?”
“Sure. What time?”
“About four?”
“Okay.”
A silence stretched, and I said, “I’m sorry, Gillian.”
