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Ten years ago:



Gayle’s hands.

Logan had held them, marveling at their strength for treasures so small, counting her wrinkly pink fingers as they escaped her receiving blanket.

He’d grasped them as she lay on his lap, wanting to be pulled upright and blowing raspberries to watch him laugh.

They batted at his face in the dark when he’d gotten up with her at night and put a few hundred miles on the rocking chair, watching Letterman.

He’d led her across the kitchen linoleum during her first stumbling steps, unwilling to let go.

He’d held them firmly when he’d shown her how to properly cross the street, still unwilling to let go.

When he’d led her into kindergarten that first day, smart in her pigtails and new lunchbox, he’d had to let go. A piece of him stayed with her.

They were still and lax tucked within his own, which had gone numb. He still couldn’t let go.




Seven hours ago:

Red traffic flares sparked and hissed against the asphalt, glowing starkly against the gray sky. Cars bottlenecked and skirted around the long line of orange cones. Oncoming headlights turned the shards of glass to diamonds as the highway patrol stood vigil, watching the ambulance’s departure.

Two-car wreck, 9:05AM. One reported casualty.




Six hours earlier:

Logan aimed the balled-up white paper bag and aimed for the wastebasket. He shoots. He scores. The crowd goes wild. He finished the last gulp of his Coke and carried it down to the water fountain at the end of the hall, dutifully giving it a rinse before chucking it into the recycle can with the circular hole cut into the lid.

“Logan!” He heard Remy’s hurried footsteps approaching him from the stairwell as he craned his head around the swinging door. “Summers wants t’see ya before we head back out.” He grunted thoughtfully and headed back in the opposite direction. He planned to call Jeannie, but it’d have to wait.

Summers was up to his elbows in a report and talking on the phone when he saw Logan approach his desk. Logan felt a disconcerted, sinking feeling in the pit of his gut when he saw him remove his glasses and set them down. His voice slowed down mid-sentence with whomever he was talking to, and his gaze was weighty and grim. Logan stood and waited for him to finish his call, peering curiously at a paperweight laying on the corner of his blotter.

His brown eyes were still slightly bloodshot from his surgery, but they didn’t lack intensity as he beckoned to him, “Sit down, Logan.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We got a call for you; Anna Marie took the message for you this morning. Here.” He handed him a long, blue “While You Were Out” slip.

“What time did ya get the call?”

“About an hour ago.” His lips were a thin line.

“Coulda had dispatch let me know; I would’ve called them back before I went to lunch,” he mused, and he peered down at the slip, scanning the date and time. “Phone number looks like the hospital.” His voice wavered and hesitated on the final word.

“Don’t sign back in yet. Call them,” he suggested. Logan nodded, all hint of his relaxed demeanor gone.

His steps gained speed once he closed the door to Summers’ office behind him, and his shoes sounded hollow against the grey linoleum tile. His pulse jumped as he reached for the phone at Anna’s desk and dialed back the number. No extension. Just a name: Dr. Reyes.

A chill tickled his neck as he waited for someone to pick up. Three short, staccato double rings. “Salem Medical Center, Emergency Department?”

His heart dropped into his shoes, and he tasted bile.

“I’d like to speak with Dr. Reyes, p-please,” he stammered, attempting to steady himself as he leaned the heel of his hand against Anna’s desk.

“May I ask who’s calling?” The voice sounded young and harried; it was the middle of the day, and the whole unit was probably a mad house. It didn’t bear contemplating…

“She called and left me a message. My name’s Howlett. James Howlett,” he specified. His breath was still hitched in his chest. He hadn’t had any lab work or broken bones. Neither had Jeannie or Gayle…

“May I put you on hold? I’ll see if she’s still on the ward?”

“Please.” His tone was brusque. He barely heard her mutter a response before he was rolled over to phone limbo. All he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears.

Thirty of the longest seconds of his life passed before he heard the sharp click of the line being picked up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Howlett, I’m Dr. Reyes, and I work in the E/R over here at Salem. We were wondering if you could please come down here. You were listed as next of kin on your wife Jean’s records.” His arm wouldn’t support him anymore where he was leaning; his elbow buckled sharply as he sucked in air through his mouth.

“Next of kin?” he choked.

“There was an accident on the highway, and your wife and daughter were involved in a wreck and transported here. I was one of the doctor’s treating your wife and daughter today.” A heavy pause where he heard her clearing her throat on the other end stopped his heart. “Mr. Howlett, I’m sorry to have to report that we did everything for her that we could. We lost her. She didn’t make it.” Clinical. Calm. Steady.

Useless…

“Ah, God!” His voice sounded hollow and strange. He felt a pounding in his temples and saw spots. He stumbled back into Anna’s chair just in time for Remy’s voice to find him, drifting over his head with concern.

“What’s wrong, homme?” he murmured gently, not wanting to interrupt the call. He watched his partner’s face drain of color and heard his breath heaving from his lips.

“Mr. Howlett…please come to the hospital. Your daughter is in critical condition, and we still need to run some tests.”

“Gayle!” he choked. His throat was clogged. Gayle. He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see.

“I’m coming,” he croaked. “I’ll be right there.” The phone clattered down onto the cradle from nerveless fingers. He met Remy’s black eyes, understanding and anguish in their depths.

“Jean,” he cried. “Jean!” Remy shook his head, sharing his disbelief. “Jeannie…I’ve gotta go.” Remy’s hand felt hot through his work shirt when he clapped it over his shoulder to offer him support, breaking through the chill that washed over him. He felt so cold.

“And Gayle?”

“She needs me,” he insisted. That was all he had to say.

“Keep yer phone turned on, homme. No matter what.” Then he thought better of it. “Wan’ Remy t’drive?” Logan didn’t even feel himself nod. Remy strode down the hall to alert Summers that he was clocking back out.



Three hours ago:

Ducks. The pedes ward was painted in ducks.

Gayle loved ducks.

He hadn’t tried to stand again since he arrived. He couldn’t rely on his legs to support him.

The doors to the morgue yawned open and waited to swallow him up when they escorted him inside. He couldn’t tell the chill of that ward from the one that wrapped itself around him from the time he’d arrived. LeBeau was quiet and waves of tension and sympathy rolled from him in the front lobby.

When they lowered the sheet, exposing Jean’s still form, his legs buckled again, but this time Remy caught him by the elbow before he could collapse. Suddenly he was outside his own body, looking in. This was someone else’s life.

He’d kissed her goodbye that morning. They were going to buy groceries. The Big Trip. He’d promised. She had a PTA dinner, and she was bringing six-layer dip. Gayle had a book report due. She wasn’t going to hand it in on time.

“Jeannie,” he whimpered. That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t his hand shaking, reaching out to smooth aside her hair. That wasn’t his wife, lying there refusing to open her beautiful eyes, so wan and broken. He hardly heard LeBeau murmuring above him hoarsely, his own voice choked, insisting that he was there, that he wasn’t leaving him.

He’d joked with him before, often enough, “Do you need a hug, muffin?” when they’d met for poker night on the rare weekend when they could enjoy it, whenever the bet was too rich for their blood. Tears dripped down his nose like liquid fire. Remy’s embrace was fierce, almost painful, but he hardly felt it.

It was some time later that he saw Gayle. He gave his name at the front desk; they’d fastened a visitor’s bracelet around his wrist, and he tugged at it restlessly as he took up vigil by her bed.

All he could do was hold her hand. Hold her hand, murmur promises and cry out prayers that wouldn’t be silenced.

She wouldn’t turn in her book report on time. He’d found her shoes downstairs…

I don’t know where they arrrrrre… The hiss of the blood pressure monitor and the tick of the clock on the wall drummed a tattoo in his ears, mocking him. Her heartbeat was a flashing number, blinking red on the tiny console. The day shift nurses paraded in and out of the room in calm pastels; their voices all sounded the same. Let me know if I can get you anything…

She looked small, bundled in sterile white sheets. Cinnamon red hair fanned across the pillow in matted tangles.

One hour bled into the next. Fatigue burned his eyes and made his lids weigh a ton. He ignored the hunger clawing in his gut. She might open her eyes. He couldn’t let her wake up and not see him. Dusk settled outside, extinguishing the faint rays of light seeping in through the rough curtains.

Soft footsteps crossed the threshold, this time without hesitation or the perfunctory knock. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone tall and slender, garbed in pale blue scrubs lay something on the empty neighboring bed.

“Dinner’s due to be sent up at five,” she murmured. Her voice was smooth and deep. He couldn’t place the inflection she put on her words. “In the meantime, I’m wheeling in a cot so you can stay the night.” He only took his eyes off his daughter’s face long enough to watch her motion to the bedside table. “Dial nine to call out, if you need someone to bring you anything from home.” She didn’t suggest the hospital gift shop. Parents in the pediatric intensive care unit never budged. Ever.

He followed the length of her hand inch by inch, taking her in slowly, reluctant to pull his eyes from Gayle. A voice in his head nudged him: Show her some respect. She’s here helping her.

She was bundled against the chill in the ward, wearing a spotless white turtleneck beneath her blue scrub top. She was pregnant. Six months along, unless he missed his guess. Jean had carried small like that…he swallowed thickly. He tried to focus on small things. Her clean white Nike sneakers, cross-trainers. A name badge with a ten-year service pin punched through the name plate: Ororo M., RN. A blood pressure cuff tucked into her shirt pocket. Mercilessly short, clean nails, shiny with clear polish.

His lips moved. “What time was Gayle brought in here?” She peered at the chart and turned the page to the ambulance trip ticket.

“Nine thirty-one.” He looked drained and exhausted. She busied herself, heading back into the hallway and returning with a pink plastic water pitcher. He heard the splash of ice chips inside as she set it down. “My name’s Ororo. I’ll be on the shift for the next two hours. The NOC nurse will be in around eight.”

“Thank you.” As an afterthought, he muttered “Call me Logan.”

“All right.” For the only time since she entered the room, they met eyes.

Her beauty wasn’t something he could appreciate. Eyes of some indiscernible light color were barely visible as she stood by the door, the light slanting at an angle to partly conceal her face in shadow. He caught a patrician profile and gleaming hair, a blazing white; it was coiled in a thick, tight bun at her nape. Long bangs feathered around her face, softly framing it. The top of her head was mere inches below the doorframe; she was at least as tall as LeBeau. She padded out. Her walk would have been graceful, he mused, if not for the waddle that struck around the second trimester.

He wondered dimly if she was having a boy or a girl. He wondered if she wanted to find out.

He didn’t remember the meal, only that it was tasteless. He didn’t remember what time he’d fallen into a shallow sleep. All he remembered was the shrill alarms of the heart monitors, and then all hell broke loose.


~0~



Now:


Ororo’s feet were killing her. The uppers on her sneakers were worn paper-thin. Emma nagged her that it was best to replace sneakers once every six months or more frequently to protect your back and arches. Her meager budget stretched it out three months too long.

The bus was packed to the rafters; she caught the last one for the night on her route before the driver rolled the marquee to read “Out of Service.” Leftover chicken and noodles were calling her name.

Stevie’s car was packed in the small lot of her four-plex. She checked her watch as she hurried to her mailbox. Junk mail, junk mail, you may have just won a million dollars, junk mail, cable bill, electric bill, Victoria’s Secret catalog “ what secrets could Victoria possibly have? In Ororo’s case, it was more like “Ain’t Nothin’ a Secret!” after having had a baby. She rifled through the thick packet, strapped together with a rubber band.

Still no check. Luke’s ass was grass, she fumed. Back to the DA…

The hallway smelled stale as she keyed her way inside, using the lobby intercom to call upstairs.

“Stevie! I’m on my way up!” Her voice crackled back at her, sounding slightly relieved.

”All right, girl, I ain’t goin’ anywhere!” Even so, Ororo jogged up two flights, sore feet notwithstanding. Katie ran her babysitter and godmother through the gauntlet.

Before she could even jiggle her key in the lock, Stevie pried it open and gave her a weary smile. “Home girl takes after you, so you know she’s a little heathen.”

“She’s MY heathen,” Ororo chuckled. “Did she do her homework?”

“Under extreme duress. G’wan ahead and use that math book of hers for kindling. It sure as hell didn’t help when I was going over it with her to figure out what she was working on tonight. Since when did fifth grade get so damned hard?”

“I loves ya, but I ain’t got any answers for ya,” she jibed as she pulled off her black London Fog coat and hung it in the hall closet.

“Didn’t seem that hard when we were kids,” she complained, and she pulled the tin foil from a saucepan of something on the stove before turning on the burner at low heat.

“What’d you make?”

“Beans. Katie and I had a jones for some cornbread, too. Help yourself.”

“Mmmmmmmm,” she moaned, already searching for the honey in the cupboard. “Life is good!”

“Don’t forget to pick up a new stapler.” Ororo made a sour face.

“What happened to the old one?” As if she had to ask…

“It went by way of all good things when someone was trying to staple too many pages today. She wanted to make a book.” Stevie held up the product of her labors. Piles of notebook and construction paper were haphazardly fastened together. Great. One more thing to replace. Ororo noticed the broken stapler lying on the counter.

“Before I forget, girl, check your voice mail.” Stevie was already winding a thin fleece scarf around her hair and preparing to go. “It rang three times before I could pick up. Sounds like Luke.” Ororo grumbled obscenities under her breath.

“He doesn’t want me to call him back.”

“Mmmp, mmp, mmmp,” Stevie tsked, shaking her head. “I heard that. She’s already in bed. Kid was pooped. Fell asleep in front of ‘Secondhand Lions.’”

“Thanks, Stevie.” Before she forgot, Ororo dug in her purse and snagged her checkbook. She scribbled an amount that would put a dent in her week’s pin money; her hair appointment would have to wait until next week. She tucked the check into her friend’s hand.

“I’m gonna be on my trip this weekend.”

“I’ll ask my mom if she can back me up,” Ororo informed her. “Drive safe. Road was slick on 99.”

“’Night.”

“’Night.” The front door clicked, and Ororo followed after her to put on the deadbolt.

The microwave hummed while she heated up the chicken and some steamed broccoli she remembered before it was due to become a science project. Ororo hated to cook. She heard familiar feet pad down the hall, and Katie stood rubbing her eyes and opening her mouth on a leonine, noisy yawn.

“Hi, Mom.”

“What are you doing up?”

“Heard you come home.” Without further preamble, she embraced her mother in a way that could only be defined as “plastering”. Ororo patted the top of her fuzzy head and kissed it.

“It’s late. Get back into bed.”

“Gotta use the bathroom.”

“All right. Then bed.” One more kiss and she padded off again. When Ororo heard the whirr of the fan light in the commode, she headed to the answering machine.

*BEEP* “Hey. It’s me. Call me back, O. Need to talk to you, all right? Don’t ask me about the check. Something came up. I know it’s due.” His voice held that belligerent note she’d grown accustomed to, the same one he used when he knew he’d done wrong. It never failed. She got mad at him, and he got mad preemptively at her for being mad.

Katie’s head leaned around the corner. “Was that Dad?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can we call him back?”

“Not right now. Go on back to bed.”

The next half hour was spent finishing dinner, opening and chucking out mail, and ruminating in front of Letterman. It was the only time she ever had to herself.

Her last stop was Katie’s room. She untangled the covers from around her skinny legs and tucked her back in, kissing her warm cheek. The “heathen” was nowhere to be found in this room right now, she beamed. When she was asleep, all of the years fell away, and Ororo was looking at her baby again.

She was all she had.





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