Be the Death of Me (18 page)

Billie

“And who do we have here?”

The woman’s harmless question is nearly overpowered by the din of steady, continuous noise. Around me kids laugh and play, sharing toys, pulling hair, chasing one another around and through the nooks and crannies of the small daycare center. I sit perched atop a filing cabinet, safe from the pandemonium below. Directly in front of me a child cowers behind the only thing that can protect him in such a chaotic environment–his mother’s legs. Blond ringlets peek out from beneath the brim of a tiny, tan cowboy hat as wide eyes absorb this new scene. He leans around for only an instant to see the havoc being wreaked by the other children.

“Shy, is he?” The teacher addresses his mother, the lovely blonde woman from my recurrent trips to the park.

His mother nods in response and places a comforting hand on her son’s head.

The woman kneels before the trembling boy. He regards her out–of–date jumper and costume jewelry with cautious eyes. Blue, like his mother’s. “What’s your name?” she asks, her voice set in that natural, soothing tone all teachers keep on special reserve.

The boy pulls his thumb from his mouth and looks up at his mother, questioning, unsure. She smiles down at him lovingly.

“Jamie,” he answers before diving back behind his makeshift fortress.

The teacher’s heavy, pink face divides into a grin. “Well, Jamie,” she says, reaching for his hand. He clutches tighter to his stronghold of pantyhose covered calves. “Would you like to help Aaron build his fort?” She points to a boy across the room, sitting alone, surrounded by several piles of unorganized, wooden blocks. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Jamie nods timidly and takes a step out from behind his mother. It isn’t a second before he throws caution to the wind and makes a mad dash for the play mats, the wonder of brightly colored toys getting the better of him. The other children regard the newcomer with a mixture of candid curiosity.

His mother and I watch her son stack the blocks into two identical towers, knocking them over a moment later with a gleeful giggle before growing bored and looking for a new source of entertainment. He finds salvation in the form of a skinny, black–haired girl with a vivid green dump truck.

“He’ll be fine,” the woman turns her full–figured form to Jamie’s mother. The pretty blonde lady looks less tired than the last time I saw her. The skin around her eyes is no longer gray with fatigue, and she stands straighter now than she did at the park, shoulders back, neck straight as if she’s had a few nights of proper sleep to rejuvenate her. “Trust me,” she goes on. “It gets easier.”

“What does?” the woman from the park asks.

“Leaving them behind.” She smiles, sad and knowing, and Jamie’s mother nods in understanding. “Will you or your husband be picking Jamie up this afternoon, Mrs. McKinney?

“I will,” comes the answer. “David’s on duty at the fire station, so I’ll be here at four to pick him up. Oh, and please,” she adds, extending a hand. The skin around the fingers and palm is rough and torn, the nails chipped and beaten. “Call me Olivia.”

The two women stand and talk for a few additional minutes before my sister turns with a final melancholy look back at her son, and leaves through the swinging classroom door.

“That’s her?”

Tuck crosses his arms and leans his long–limbed frame against the high cabinet on which I sit. I stare down at him from my roost, getting a glimpse at the top of his shimmering, straw–covered head, feeling my sleeping heart leap into my throat.

“Yeah,” I answer, voice shaking. “That’s Olivia.” I stare at the spot where my sister stood only a moment before, watching her son, my nephew, play with his new friends out the corner of my eye.

“You got my note,” I mumble, fidgeting. I don’t know why I say it. I know full well Tuck got my message. Just like I knew he’d come. I’d written the short letter in a moment of haste, a moment of complete and utter clarity when the only words I seemed to be capable of thinking poured out like water from a fountain.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Then, with neither explanation nor hesitation, he reaches his arms forward, pulling my face to his. I tumble from my post in surprise and eagerness, unafraid, confident he’ll catch me. He wraps a long arm around my waist, holding me against his side as I fall. And there, in the midst of an army of raucous, smelly, uncomplicated children, I allow myself to be kissed. His lips roam over mine, gentle yet sure in their course. There’s no uncertainty, no insecurity. This kiss is the kiss of someone strong and steadfast, one who wants something with all his heart.

“Tuck,” I whisper, pulling my lips from his. I feel him smile against my mouth. “Tuck,” I try again after another minute of metaphoric heaven, “Tuck, wait. I want to say something.” I slide my fingers through his hair. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s my imagination. If I try hard enough, I can imagine anything I want. I can feel the blood boil in my veins, hear a rushed heartbeat pounding inside his chest, smell his warm, perfect scent.

“Tuck,” I try one final time, my resolve building in spite of my reedy voice and the eagerness with which I cling to him. “Wait a second. I’m talking.”

He crooks a finger beneath my chin. “You’re always talking.”

He has a point.

It’s another minute or two before I pull away again, newly determined. With a resigned sigh, he releases me, his eyes tight with want. I take his hand, and with a final look at my nephew, phase into the light of a rising pale, orange sky.

“Tuck,” I say as soon as we’re outside, only momentarily distracted by his gloriously radiant grin. “I want to talk to you. I . . .  want to apologize.”

He bends to place a kiss to my forehead. “For?”

“For everything. For hurting you, and arguing with you and for being a stubborn idiot. I’m just really, really sorry. You were right, and I—”

I’m brought to a halt by a gentle finger to my lips. He stares down at me, eyes searching. “I wasn’t right,” he goes on, “I got you thrown off the assignment because I was jealous. I admit it. I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I know the right thing was to trust you.”

“Really?” I grin. “I was right? Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Yes, really.”

With trembling fingers, I brush his bangs from his forehead. “Hey, let me ask you something. You’re probably going to think it’s insane, but just hear me out.”

A tiny wrinkle forms in the smoothness of his brow. “Should I be concerned?”

I laugh to set him at ease. “You think maybe this is the real reason we’re here?” I wait for him to catch on. “I used to think it was because I needed to know that my death was a mistake, that I didn’t deserve what happened to me. But maybe it has nothing to do with who we were then, or what happened when we were alive. Maybe it’s all been leading to this. You and me. What if whoever’s in charge, what if they knew I was supposed to be with you all along?”

He buries his face deeper into the waves of my hair. “I think maybe fate just knows when two people are supposed to be together,” he says. “Nothing can change it. Not even death.”

Across the street a businessman rushes to feed an expired meter, his briefcase swinging back and forth like a leather bound pendulum. A block ahead, a vendor begins setting up shop, his first customers of the day arriving and hungry. To our right an elderly couple strolls by arm in arm, backs bent with age, knees stiffened by wear, as much in love as they were the day they married.

All around us people go about their lives. They live, they breathe, they cry, they eat, they kiss, they run, they rest. I am certain a part of me will always wonder what I would be doing were I still alive, what my days would be filled with, who I would have by my side. And yet, for the first time, I feel something infinitely greater, a need to stay just where I am, in the arms of a good man who loves me more than I could ever hope for. I smile, comforted by the knowledge that I am not alone. That I haven’t been left behind. That when everyone else moves on, when they find new lives and loves and joys, it might just be all right to stay where you are as long as there’s someone standing next to you, holding your hand, telling you it will be okay.

“So what now?” Tuck presses his forehead to mine.

Slowly, painfully, I withdraw my arms from around him. “What do you mean?”

“How will all of this work?”

“All of this meaning . . . us?”

“Exactly. What will the Captain think when he finds out?”

“Atta boy, Mr. Reid?”

He laughs in spite of his reservations. “You’re forbidden to see Ford, and I’m supposed to be with him all the time. How do we work around that?”

I push myself up on tiptoe and place a quick peck on his smooth cheek. “Everything’s going to be fine. I explained the mistake, and Cap is going to speak with the Elders. I’ll be back on the job by tomorrow.”

“Good.” He slips his hands into my back pockets. “You have no idea how relieved I am. And as much as I would give anything to stay here forever, I’d better get back before the Captain finds out I’m missing. I sort of left Ford on his own. I figured it would be okay. He’s surrounded by all those nurses and doctors, so there’s probably nothing to worry about, but better safe than—”

“Wait,” I hold up a hand in confusion. “Start over. What do you mean he’s surrounded by doctors? Where is he?”

Tuck closes his eyes, realizing his mistake. He eases away as if afraid of releasing me. “There was . . .  an accident.”

I don’t give him the chance to elaborate. “What sort of accident? Is Ford okay? Is he hurt? What happened?”

He shakes his head. “Someone . . .  whoever’s trying to get to him . . .  cut the brakes to the Chevette. Ford ran through an intersection and got T–boned by a pickup. He’s fine, just a few bruises and a hairline fracture to the wrist, but . . .”

“But what?”

He sets his shoulders. “Shannon was in the car with him. I didn’t have a choice, Billie. It was either him or her. And I thought . . .  she doesn’t have a Guardian on her. I didn’t think anyone would notice in the confusion. I took control of the car. I let the truck hit her side instead. And she’s . . .  not . . ” He almost can’t bear looking me in the eye. “I feel horrible about it. You have to believe me.”

I can’t look at him either, but not for the same reason. I know Tuck only did what he thought was in the best interest of the assignment. I know he never meant for Shannon to be in the way, and how much easier this burden would be for him if she hadn’t been in the car. But I also know that whoever is after Ford is a greater threat than we imagined. Because now it’s not only Ford who’s in danger.

Shannon was a good girl, a good person who didn’t deserve this. Who will be next? Who will end up as collateral damage simply because they got in the way? Riley? Gran? Someone else, nameless, faceless, but no less important?

No.

This ends now.

I force a smile. “Okay then, soldier.” I send Tuck backwards with a playful shove. “Back to work. Wouldn’t want the drill sergeant to see you slacking off on the job.”

“Billie . . .” His bottomless hazels are as unyielding as steel. “Billie, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I ask, innocent as the new fallen snow.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he takes a step in my direction. “I’m your partner.”

“Don’t you mean boss?”

“I’m not joking.” He lays a strong hand on my shoulder. “I know you think it’s your job to fix this, but it isn’t. Just wait for the Captain to work something out, okay? The Elders won’t understand if you break the rules again, and I can’t . . .  I can’t lose you to them now. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t do anything stupid. Tell Ford I wish him a speedy recovery, will you?”

He tilts his head to one side, eyebrow cocked in suspicion. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re not going to try and see Ford? You’ll keep yourself safe?”

I nod enthusiastically. “I promise.” I wrap my arms around his body one final time, fitting into the slight curve of his chest that seems created just for me.

We say our goodbyes, neither one truly willing to leave. It’s with a final, tender kiss to my forehead, however, that I watch him vanish, his eyes the last to disappear, lingering in the mid–morning flush. And then the earth resumes turning, revolving as if the two of us had never loved on an average, sunny morning on a cracked, empty sidewalk.

Promises are tricky, unpredictable things. Fickle, covered in sticky, fragile strings. I’d made two, only one of which I can truly keep. There’s no going back. No changing my mind. Ford or Tuck? Tuck or Ford? Two names, one question. Which heart do I break?

I discover the answer is simple.

Mine.

Ford

She’s sleeping.

That’s what Tucker told me. It’s what I wanted to hear. And from under the doorframe, staring at her inert form, I find my heart begging my brain to believe.

She looks peaceful, tiny amidst the bed rails and cold, daunting machines. Her lovely roses and cream complexion is ashen now, masked in deep black and purple bruises, hair molded into clumps around a face as frail as glass. Her chest rises and falls in perfect rhythm, aided by the swarm of tubes and IV’s that surround her. On the other side of the door, doctors throw around words like “unresponsive” and “comatose.” Inside, the room is eerily silent save for the heart monitor and its cadence of hope, the soft, discreet beep that breaks my heart.

My neck aches with even the slightest movement, the pain rolling in and out, in and out, like foam on the shore. I reach my good hand to my eyes, surprised to discover them wet. I let the dampness linger on my cheeks a while longer, a reminder of how lucky I am to feel anything at all.

“Can I help you?”

A man stands alone beneath the open doorframe, regarding me with an armor of guardedness. I know who he is the instant he speaks, his voice too burdened, too steeped in pain to be anyone but Shannon’s father.

“I’m sorry,” I answer him, my voice breaking as I take an unsure step around the bed. “I didn’t know . . .  is it okay if I’m here? I just wanted to see her.”

“Who exactly are you, son?” Mr. Walters moves defensively toward the bed, instinctively protecting his only child.

I clear my throat, the sound reverberating off the barren, white washed walls. “Ford,” I answer and then correct. “Benedict. I’m a friend of Shannon’s.”

“Ah,” he says simply as if there’s nothing more to be said on the matter. He shifts into the room to take Shannon’s small hand in his. It hangs limply in his grasp, the sight of which makes my stomach turn. “Benedict Ford,” he repeats after a minute of listening to the soft
beep beep
of the monitor. He watches it as if he can improve her condition by pure mental determination. “Shannon’s mentioned you before. More often than a father would like to hear his daughter mention a young man. You were driving today?”

The question catches me off guard, and I nod as soon as I’m able. “Yes, sir, I was. And I just want you to know that I never wanted anything like this to happen. It was all an accident, I promise. My car . . . something went wrong. Believe me, were up to me, I would take her place right now.”

His head snaps up, those unnervingly Shannon–like eyes boring into mine, his voice dangerously calm. “I understand you would never have intentionally hurt my Shannon. She spoke of you in such high regard. But the sad truth is that both of us must now come to terms with the fact that you stand there, hardly a scratch on you, while my Shannon, my little girl, lies here instead.” He grips her hand tighter. “No father should ever have to say goodbye to his child. Not like this.” He bows his head. “So believe me when I tell you, young man, were it up to me . . .  I’d let you take her place, too.”

His words slam into my gut, forcing my stomach into my throat. I can’t tell if I’m crying again or not, only that my eyes sting with guilt. A hopelessly impassive face stares back at me from behind a pair of horn–rimmed glasses. “I’d appreciate it if you would leave now.”

I clutch my plastered wrist to my chest and slip from the room, unsure of what else to say or do. It’s with a final glance back at Shannon and her father and I see him break. His broad shoulders slump with defeat, a heart–rending gasp wrenching free of his chest as he places gentle lips to the back of his daughter’s hand.

I find I’m grateful for the distraction waiting for me back in the bustling hallway.

“Ford!” Riley’s flushed face breaks into a smile of relief. He rushes toward me, dancing his wiry form around the gurneys, bins and people crowding the corridor, pulling me into a crushing hug. “I heard about what happened! I came as soon as I could. Are you alright?”

I nod, still a little shaken from my encounter with Mr. Walters. “
I
am,” I say, freeing myself of his embrace. “Shannon’s not. She was in the car with me.”

A hand flies to his mouth in horror. “Do you know what caused it?”

“No.” The lie escapes before I have a chance to reconsider. There’s no need for Riley to know about my brakes. It’s just as well. I’m not sure I could explain fully even if I wanted to.

“What are you supposed to do now?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, praying apathy will eventually wash away the grief. “I just woke up a few minutes ago.” This much is true. I woke to find myself alone, my Guardian vanished. I can’t help but feel thankful for the brief moment of freedom. It’s been so long since I’ve been on my own, I’ve almost forgot what it feels like not to be watched every waking second. “Gran’s around here somewhere, I think.”

It’s his turn to shake his head, sending floppy, uncombed hair every which way. “She left,” he says. “I ran into her on the way in. She said you were sleeping and that she’d be right back. I thought I would visit in case you woke up.”

I find a random bench lining the hallway and slump down onto the hard, uncomfortable surface. “I guess I’ll just wait for her to get here then.”

A man, bleeding heavily from a wound in his chest, is wheeled past, followed by several nurses and policemen. I wince at the unwelcome reminder of my father.

Riley moves to stand in front of where I sit, head in my hands. “I could give you a ride home if you want,” he offers.

I stare up at my only remaining friend. His lean face looks almost emaciated under the harsh fluorescent lights, his bright eyes far too big in their sockets. I’m not an idiot. A part of me knows Tucker, wherever he is, would want me to stay put and wait for him. However, a larger, more tenacious part wants nothing more than to go home, pass out in my own bed and pray that all of this, the pain, the guilt, the fear, is nothing more than a bad dream.

“Sure,” I answer after a moment. “If it’s not out of your way or anything.”

“No,” Riley says. “Its no problem.”

I stand and try my hardest to scrounge up a smile. It, like the man on the gurney, is dead on arrival.