Her eyes opened and she smiled, grabbing his hand. “Oh, Marty, I’m so sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“Scaring the shit out of you. I’m fine.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “God, don’t worry about it.”
“I told them not to call you, but they insisted,” she caught him staring at all the blood on her clothes. “It’s nothing, Marty, really. It’s from this cut on my chin. Nothing’s broken, just a lot of scrapes and bruises.”
Marty was so relieved, he thought he might start crying again. He willed himself not to. Emergency Contacts don’t cry. They provide strength and reassurance.
“What happened?”
“I was crossing the street and this car came charging around the corner. You would have loved it, I dived out of the way like T. J. Hooker,” she smiled again, which opened her chin wound like a second mouth. “Only T. J. would have gotten the guy’s license number.”
The cut on her chin was deep, right down to the bone, and still bleeding. His chin hurt just looking at it. He hurt everywhere she did and he wished that was enough to take the pain from her, to transfer it to him. If he could do that, he would.
“What do the doctors say?” Marty asked.
“They want to take a bunch of x-rays, just to be sure, and they want to stitch my chin. I don’t know if they’re listening to me, so promise me you won’t let one of the interns sew me up. Get a plastic surgeon.”
“Okay.”
“Make sure it’s a plastic surgeon. A scar could ruin my acting career.”
If she was worried about that, she really was fine. “A little scar didn’t hurt Harrison Ford.”
“He’s a man,” she said, “it’s different for them.”
Marty smiled and squeezed her hand. He wanted to hug her, to let her know how full of love and relief he was right now.
“What are you smiling about?” she said, stifling a smile of her own.
“Nothing.”
“I’m in pain here.” She squeezed his hand back.
“I know.”
“You’re still smiling.”
“Marry me.”
The words came out of him with no warning, no thought. But when Marty heard himself say it, he didn’t want to take it back or turn it into a joke. He knew it was right and that he meant it.
“What did you say?” she stared at him.
“I said marry me.”
“I’m not going to die,” she said, her lip trembling. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. I realize now I should have done it a long time ago. I’ve taken you and what you bring to my life for granted. I never will again.”
Tears streamed out of her eyes, but not from the pain or fear. She smiled. “I suppose if the marriage doesn’t work, I can always say I was under duress and on drugs when you asked.”
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded. He leaned down, and as gently as he possibly could, kissed her.
A plastic surgeon did sew Beth up (and, years later, the scar was barely visible) and while she was being x- rayed, a nurse played on Marty’s concern for Beth and got him to donate blood for accident victims not as lucky as his wife. In an odd way, giving blood made him feel a lot better, the same way it did now.
Lying on the cot, on the football field of Fairfax High School, a landscape of destruction between him and Beth, he almost felt as though he could touch her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
12:32 p.m. Wednesday
Marty was anxious to leave and wasn’t going to wait around to have his wound stitched up. He did his bit for the disaster relief effort and wanted to get moving before they tried to get him to do more. There was still the Santa Monica Mountains and a smog-choked valley between him and Beth.
He got up and looked for Buck, which meant he had to wander among the wounded with his eyes open and his head up, really seeing their faces for the first time. They were all the same. It didn’t matter whether they were injured or not, or how seriously they were hurt. They all shared the same body language, the same expression. It wasn’t terror, sorrow, or pain, though there was plenty of that, too. They all looked lost. Everything they were connected to was gone. Their homes, their jobs, their families, their own bodies, the ground beneath their feet, all shattered.
Marty remembered walking away from that collapsed overpass after rescuing Franklin. The first thing he noticed was Bob Baker’s Marionette Theatre and he couldn’t figure out how or why it existed. Back then, he didn’t see the relevance of puppetry in a modern world. Now he did.
They were all puppets, animated by the properties, responsibilities, and relationships they were tied to, all the things that were missing now. The earthquake cut all those strings.
Marty knew he wasn’t any different. He was grasping for that one string he had left, the one that led back to Beth.
And Buck, he was holding on to the one thin string that kept him alive: his tough-guy, bounty hunter persona. He needed to be a hero, to constantly prove his guts, to make a decisive move in a life-or-death situation, which was why he probably went out of his way to create those situations when fate didn’t bother to.
At least that was Marty’s instant pop-psychology take on things. It was probably simplistic and too easy, but it was the best explanation he’d come up with yet for Buck’s impenetrable, one-dimensional personality.
He found Buck on a stretcher, giving blood, eating Oreos. It made Marty angry. Buck was the last person he expected to find lying around when they should be on the move.
“What are you doing? You already gave blood.”
“Actually, I didn’t. I was just eating their cookies.”
Marty glanced at his watch. It was nearly 1 o’clock and he still had a long way to go. “Damn it, Buck. Why couldn’t you have done this while I was doing it? Now it’s going to take twice as long to get out of here and I want to get going.”
“So go.”
It wasn’t a malicious retort. Buck said it casually, without malice or bitterness, taking Marty completely by surprise. Marty didn’t know what to make of it.
“You mean it?”
“They need me here. Giving blood. Crowd control. Guarding the cookies. Whatever. I want to do my part. Maybe I’ll even get one of those slick windbreakers.”
Buck was trying to look at something, but Marty was in the way. Marty followed Buck’s gaze, and saw Angie bending over a box of supplies, her back to them. It was a nice back.
“You really think you’ve got a chance with her?”
“Wrong question, kemosabe,” Buck grinned. “What you should be asking is: how long can she control her natural urges?”
Marty couldn’t recall anything Angie said or did that could have made Buck so hopeful. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t the real reason Buck wanted to stay. It came back to strings. He might have found his here.
Buck was always looking for opportunities to prove his heroism and his courage, and this one was ready- made. And best of all, there was a woman he could impress doing it. If Buck was really lucky, maybe he’d even get a chance to shoot someone.
“But if you need me,” Buck said. “I’ll yank this fucking needle out of my arm right now and we’ll get the hell
