Last Breath (7 page)

Finally Saturday arrived. That afternoon the doorbell rang. It was a delivery from a florist. A long white box with an envelope addressed to me.

Somehow, I knew.
Gary
.

I hurried to my bedroom and shut the door. Sat down on my bed. Slowly, holding my breath, I lifted the box's cover.

Inside was an absolutely beautiful white rose, not yet fully opened. It was long-stemmed, wrapped in green cellophane, and tied with a red ribbon.

For some time I held the delicate flower to my nose, breathing in its sweet scent.

Carefully, I laid the rose down and reached for the envelope. Inside was a folded card. Gary had written our French conversation.

Do you like flowers?
Yes, I like them very much.
Which is your favorite?
A white rose.
Really? Why?
White roses look pure and fresh. They make me
     want to touch them.

And the last line—the words he'd wanted to say two months ago.

You are a white rose to me.

Part 3

Monday 2009

12

I
awoke to the sound of voices.

Blinking hard to clear my vision, I pushed up in the hospital bed and glanced at the clock. It was after eight.

A brown-haired nurse was dropping two pills into Mom's palm and holding out a glass of water. Mom downed the medication with one gulp. Her eyes were half-closed, her expression stretched with pain.

“All right, let's get you up to the bathroom.” The nurse folded Mom's bedcovers down to her feet.

Apprehension curled around my shoulders. I slid out of bed, the clothes I'd slept in feeling wrinkled and sweaty. “Mom, you okay?”

The nurse turned toward me. She had a long face and big eyes, a placid smile. Her name tag read
Helen Trevor
. “She's fine. Just giving her more pain meds.”

“Hey, Shaley.” Mom's voice hitched. “Glad to … see you … got some sleep.”

I walked around the foot of the bed and to Mom's other side. Her heavy stage mascara was smudged under her eyes, the foundation makeup and blush looking cakey. With a pang I realized she'd never even had the chance to wash her face.

Mom reached for me with her casted arm, and our fingers brushed.

Gary Donovon. My father's name is Gary Donovon.

I rubbed my thumb over hers. “Thanks for our talk last night.”

She nodded.

Mom had talked until around three in the morning, when she finally dozed off. I drank in every word, imagining the sound of my father's voice, his face. Picturing the scene as Mom opened the card with the white rose. “More,” I wanted to beg when she had to stop, “tell me more!” But she needed to sleep.

My father's name had echoed in my mind as I climbed into bed.

Now, looking into Mom's eyes, I wondered—what happened? How did they start officially dating? And what made him leave in the end—
forever
?

“Okay, Rayne, let's get this done now.” The nurse was all business.

Mom grimaced. “Can't wait.”

Helen made little tsking noises. “I know those ribs are really sore, so let's get you sitting up as far as we can first.” She hit a button, and the top of the bed rose to its highest position.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Yes. Put your arms behind your mom's back and ease her up a full ninety degrees. Then I'll rotate her legs toward the floor.”

I hesitated. “Okay, Mom?”

She gave me a little nod, trying to smile.

I slipped my arms between her back and the mattress. Mom made a grinding sound in her throat. I threw a frantic look at the nurse—
I'm hurting her!

“It's all right,” she said. “Just nice and slow.”

Holding my breath, I eased Mom upright. Her eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay now, hang on to her and I'll move those feet around.” The nurse reached for Mom's legs and moved them across the bed until her feet were just off the mattress. Mom hissed air through her teeth. “This is where it gets a little tougher, Rayne, because you're going to have to use your own good arm and muscles to scoot forward and get up.”

With every movement Mom clenched her jaw harder. By the time she stood on shaky feet, supported by Helen, my own teeth ached.

“All right now, walk slow and easy.” Helen held on to Mom's right arm.

Mom's baby steps to the bathroom were slow and painstaking. I watched her, throat tight, the old anger at paparazzi popping inside me like oil in a hot skillet.

Where was Cat this morning? Caught, I hope.

As Mom and the nurse disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, I switched on the TV. The first cable news channel was talking about stocks. I flipped to the second—and saw the footage of Cat and Mom arguing. My fingers dug into the remote. I could
not
see that accident one more time. Biting my lip, I focused on my unmade bed, counting the seconds until it ended.

The sound of my own taped screaming wrenched my eyes back to the screen. I saw myself jump from the limo and rush toward Mom …

Last night's anguish and disbelief pelted me all over again. I could almost hear the crowd around me, feel the pavement hard beneath my feet—

The picture switched to a reporter standing outside the hotel in daylight. “This morning the police are still looking for the
Cashing In
photographer, Len Torret …”

I clenched my teeth. Cat was still out there. Meanwhile my Mom was here in a hospital, every move hurting her. It wasn't right. It wasn't
fair.

The TV remote felt moist in my palm. I threw it onto my bed and stalked to the window, staring out into the back street behind the hospital. Frustration boiled inside me. I didn't want to be trapped inside this stale and sterile room. For once I wished for a badge and a gun. I'd hunt down Cat myself.

My fingers pressed into the narrow ledge beneath the window. Gazing fitfully at the street below, I saw a car back up toward the curb in a parallel park. Across the road a mother pushed a stroller on the sidewalk. Some distance behind her walked a man with a large backpack.

Wait.

I leaned closer to the window, squinting at the man. He was too far away for me to see his face clearly, although I could tell he was completely bald. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. His arms and legs looked gangly. And the way he moved—he didn't walk. He slunk.

At that moment, almost as if he felt me, his head turned and tilted up toward my window. I jerked back.

Cat.

For a second I could hardly believe it. He was here. Right
here.
But of course he would be. He was Cat. He never gave up.

I ran for my cell phone. Snatching it up, I yanked Officer Hanston's card from my front jeans pocket. My finger shook as I punched in his number.

“Officer Hanston.”

“Hi. It's Shaley O'Connor.” The words spilled out of me. “That photographer who pushed my mom is outside the hospital! I just saw him out my window.”

“Okay, slow down. Tell me exactly what you saw.”

I hurried back to the window, taking care not to stand too close. My neck strained toward the street below. “I can't see him anymore.” I told the officer what Cat was wearing and that he'd shaved his head. “And he's carrying a big backpack. I bet his camera's in there.”

“All right. I'll send some officers over to have a look.”

“Please let me know if they find him.”

“I will. Thanks.”

I ended the call and pressed my forehead against the glass, looking up and down the street. No sign of Cat.

It wasn't hard to guess what he was trying to do. While all the other reporters and photographers hung around the main entrance, hoping to hear some news about Rayne O'Connor, Cat would want the big prize—a picture of Mom in her hospital room. His trashy tabloid would probably pay a hundred thousand dollars or more for it. Cat would do anything for that kind of money.

“Well, you're not going to get it,” I declared aloud. I stomped toward the door and yanked it open. If Cat was somewhere in this hospital, I was going to find him.

13

W
endell looked around as I shot through the door. “Shaley, where are you going?”

I didn't slow. “Just want to walk around for awhile.”

“Don't do that.”

“It won't hurt anything.”

He rose and caught my arm. “Stop.”

I halted and glared up at him. His hair was back to its usual perfect form, gelled up straight. Looked like he'd gotten some sleep. Memories of last evening flooded my head. Just a little over twelve hours ago this guy had saved my life.

My tone softened. “Wendell, I'm not leaving the hospital, okay?”

“You shouldn't be leaving this room.”

“I've got to
go!
”

“Why?”

“Cat's here. I'm going to find him.”

His head pulled back. “No you're not.”

“If anybody can draw him out,
I
can.”

He reached for the cell phone clipped to his waist. “I'll call the police—”

“I already did!” I pulled my arm from his grasp and turned to head down the hall.

“Shaley, stop.” He grabbed my shoulders.

“Let me go, Wendell!”

“No.”

I struggled to pull away, but he held firm. Tears clawed my eyes. Why did everybody think I was so helpless? Mom deserved justice. I
couldn't
let Cat get away. My arms rose and before I knew it, I was pummeling Wendell in the chest. Frustration and anger balled up inside me, driving my punches harder. Sobs tumbled up my throat. “Let me go, Wendell!”

“Stop, Shaley, shhhh, stop.” He wrapped his muscular arms around me and pulled me in tight until I couldn't move. I tried to break free, but no way; he was too strong.

Sudden exhaustion filled me, sweeping away the anger. I went limp against him and cried.

One of his hands came up to pat the back of my head. “Yeah, I know, kid. I know. It's okay.”

My cell phone went off. I choked down my tears. “That might be the police.”

Wendell released his grip. I backed up and pulled my phone out of my pocket, checking the ID through blurry eyes. It was Ross.

I wiped my face and took a shaky breath before answering. “Hi, Ross.”

“Hi. You okay?”

I met Wendell's eyes. He gave me a look, warning me not to try running down the hall again. “Yeah. I'm fine. Just tired.”

He grunted. “How's Rayne?”

“In a lot of pain. But she's up and with a nurse in the bathroom. You coming over? I need my clothes, and Mom needs hers. And I need food.”

“Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do.”

Ross clicked off the line. I lowered my phone and aimed an embarrassed look at Wendell. “I'm sorry.”

He shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”

I brushed hair out of my face. “I just want to catch Cat so bad after what he did …”

“I know.”

Mom's hospital door opened and the nurse stuck her head out. “Oh, there you are. Your mom was worried about you.”

“I'm coming.”

The nurse disappeared, leaving the door half open. I stepped toward it. “Wendell, thanks again for all you did last night. And I'm really sorry.”

“Hey, forget it. We're all a little uptight right now.”

No kidding.

I pushed the door open and went inside.

Mom was back in bed. Her foundation and blush had been washed away, but the eye shadow and mascara remained. It would take her bottled remover to get that heavy stuff off.

As the nurse was taking Mom's blood pressure and temperature, breakfast arrived. Scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. I fussed with the wheeled tray, bringing it up close to Mom, taking the paper lid off the glass of juice. Inside, I still felt so agitated. Where was Cat? Had the police found him?

“All right.” The nurse looked up from the computer, where she'd entered Mom's data. “All set. Just push the button if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Mom said.

Helen slipped from the room.

Mom picked up her fork and eyed her breakfast. “I can't believe I'm about to eat eggs and bacon.”

“Do it, Mom, you need it.”

Something in my tone made her look at me closer. “What's wrong?”

“Cat's around here. I saw him out the window.”

Mom put down the fork. I told her what I'd seen and that I'd talked to Officer Hanston. I left out the part about trying to run down the hall and go after Cat myself.

“They'll get him,” I said. I had to believe that. “They should be calling me soon.” I gestured toward the tray. “Eat.”

Mom managed to eat half her breakfast while I paced.
Where
was Cat?

The door opened and a white-coated doctor stepped inside. He was tall and narrow-shouldered, with a round, almost boyish face.

“Knock, knock.” He strode across the room to Mom's bed. “I'm Doctor Gedding. How are you doing this morning?”

Mom pushed the tray away. “Okay.”

He made an empathetic sound. “I'm sure you're plenty sore. Let me just take a look at that wrapping around your ribs.”

“You done with this, Mom?” I pointed to her tray and she nodded. “I'll take it outside.”

Wendell sat on his chair, legs spread, arms folded. Staring at the wall. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. “Hey again.”

“Hey.” I glanced around. “Am I supposed to leave this on the floor for pick up, like at a hotel?”

“Don't think so. A nurse should come get it.”

“Maybe the doctor will take it.”

“Doctors don't remove trays. That's beneath them.”

Everything in this hospital was frustrating me. “Oh, well excuse me.” I set the tray firmly on the opposite side of the door. “There. They don't like it, they can take it away.”