Gritting her teeth, Anne didn’t respond to the doctor leaving, even though that was rude. What did it matter, though. He wasn’t going to get a pater familias personality transplant just because she wasn’t polite to him, and she needed to save her energy for part II of this nightmare.
“I’ll just wait outside for you,” the man told her. “While you change.”
“Fine.” God, she was tired. “I mean, thanks.”
Except instead of leaving, the man came over to the bed. “I’m serious about getting your stuff back. I’ll take care of it.”
She looked up at him, measuring those powerful shoulders. Those strong arms. Meanwhile, the sounds of the emergency room were a helluva soundtrack, the urgent footfalls, whispered exchanges—and quiet weeping across the aisle—like a destiny foreshadowed. Waiting for her like a stalker who’d been denied this night, but was coming back for her on another.
And meanwhile, vengeance was standing right in front of her, at her beck and call.
Anne focused on his eyes, which had gone midnight in color. “It must be nice to be able to… handle things.”
“Just say the word.”
Her heart skipped a beat. God, she really wanted to let him loose. Like he was a bullet from a gun or a dog from its handler. But violence never solved anything, and more to the point, she wasn’t looking to become an accessory to murder.
Because that was what the man was offering her: Some things didn’t need words.
Yet she still was not afraid of him.
Anne took a deep breath—or tried to. When a band of pain took the place of her rib cage, she coughed out, “I thought once you knew I was okay medically we were done.”
“I only want to see this through.”
As images of gravesites flashed before her eyes, she plugged back into reality and shook her head. “I told you before, I’m not your problem. Besides, don’t you have a car to take care of? It was a nice one, if I remember. The last thing I have a clear memory of is the BMW hood ornament. Well, that and the sound of it crashing into something.”
“I can get another sedan. There isn’t going to be another you.”
When there was a beat of silence, he tilted his head—and made her think of a German shepherd: big, fierce… and endearing.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“Do you want me to be honest?”
“Always.”
“I can’t decide whether you’re a savior… or a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire.” Pushing the blankets off, she shuffled her legs over the side of the hospital bed and looked down. “I think I lost a shoe, didn’t I. I seem to recall that all of a sudden.”
“I didn’t have time to look for it. I’m sorry.”
She stared at her bare feet for a moment. Then glanced over to the chair next to the one he’d been in. When she’d changed into the hospital johnny, she’d folded her clothes and put them on the orange plastic seat. The lone surviving L.L. Bean penny loafer seemed like a commentary on not just the last couple of hours, but her life as a whole.
“I really liked those shoes, too.”
“I’ll find it for you.”
Flexing her feet, she felt a tightness in her right calf, as well as an ache in her hip and some numbness in her knee. It was a good thing, she decided, getting those X-rays, even if the doctor had been patronizing.
“I’ll get dressed now,” she said.
“I’ll be waiting for you just outside.”
Anne watched as the draping swung back into place behind him, and the way the heavy fabric undulated made her think of a flag in a lazy wind. And then as she looked at her clothes again, the sounds and smells around her returned, like the knob on the hospital had been turned back up: The hushed crying across the way was still ongoing.
A spear of fear went through her. Things could have ended very differently in her case—except no one would have been crying for her. In fact, she had to wonder who would have claimed her body. She had a couple of cousins in Vermont. Maybe they’d have taken care of things?
Or maybe she’d have wound up on that island off of NYC where they buried the unclaimed. Did they do that anymore… or was she confusing an historical article she’d read on the train with current practice—
“Dr. Peters, paging Dr. Peters,” came from the overhead speaker. “Please come to the triage station.”
Dr. Peters had had a busy night. Someone always seemed to want him.
Sliding off onto the cool linoleum, she winced and hobbled over to the chair. As she took off the johnny, she shivered, and she tried to be quick about the redressing. Her hands were sloppy, though, and her shoulder was more of a problem than she’d have thought, especially with the bra. And jeez, her body was a patchwork quilt with all of the gauze patches on various impact areas.
Eventually, she managed to get dressed, but it was weird. Her clothes seemed to fit differently, the skirt and shirt like a stranger’s even though they were the same things she’d put on hours ago. She was also a little cold, but there was no way in hell she was going to try and get her red sweater fully on. With the stiffness continuing to intensify, she’d have to cut herself out of the pullover by the time she got home and tried to get into bed—
As she went to tie it around her waist, she froze. Smudges of blood marked everything she had on. There were tears in her clothes, too.
And only the one shoe.
Steeling herself, she picked the thing up and pulled back the curtain. The mystery man was standing at the split and facing outward, like he was a bodyguard. And as he immediately turned around, he took her elbow.
Like he was worried he might have to sweep her off her feet again.
“How do we check out?” she mumbled as she did her best to keep her own balance.
“It’s all taken care of.”
Thinking back to that exchange before the doctor had departed, she had a feeling that “Rob” had refused to charge them—
All of a sudden, an emergency exploded down at the far end, the curtain agitating around the last treatment bay across the aisle, the booties and scrubs-clad calves of doctors and the white skirts of the nurses shifting around as people traded places at the bed. On the floor, bloodstained tufts of discarded gauze and sponges bounced like grim little balls, a reminder of how some things could not be fixed.
“Come on,” the man said in a low voice. “Let’s go.”
Relying on his arm and moving slowly, Anne allowed herself to be led out into a broad corridor that dissolved into the registration desk, triage area, and waiting room. As it was just before midnight, the glass windows that ringed the open lobby were like the surface of a piano, glossy and black, the whole world blocked out by the night, a secret that seemed threatening.
“I’m going to be okay,” she said hoarsely.
“Of course you are.”
At least one of them believed her, Anne thought as they continued along, the halting and the lame-ing only on her side of their marching band. Meanwhile, people wilting from wait looked over from rows of seats that were screwed down into the floor, their envy that she’d been processed as palpable as their exhaustion.
And just as she’d clearly jumped the line and gotten preferential treatment, now there was no paperwork or discharge payment collected from her. It was like she’d won the ER lottery in too many ways to count, but she was too tired to argue the manufactured good fortune anymore.