Rejoice (26 page)

“Ashley . . .” Landon rolled onto his back and held his arms out to her. “Happy New Year.”

She came to him, allowing herself to lay partially across his chest as they hugged and the countdown finished itself.

:03 . . . :02 . . .

And Ashley’s lips found his again, her chest over his as they kissed the slow, happy kiss of celebration, but more quickly this time, the kiss turned hot and dangerous. Landon groped for the remote control and dimmed the volume to almost nothing.

“Where were we?” He worked his hand through her hair and drew her to himself.

Ashley was breathless from the feelings assaulting her senses. An unquenchable desire, a terrifying understanding that this was the most dangerous place they’d ever put themselves into, and an inability to stop regardless of the consequences. All those feelings at the same time.

“Baby . . .” Landon eased himself onto his side so the entire length of his upper body pressed against hers.

They were close here, too close. The nearness of him, his kisses and gentle fiery touch were more than Ashley could handle. But as weak as she felt, she managed the simplest prayer.
God . . . help
.

And though her desire didn’t diminish a bit, Ashley suddenly pictured where the moment was headed—and the image it gave her made her stomach turn. Not the idea of Landon’s body against hers, or the way it would feel if they could give in to their passions, but the bigger truth.

She was contaminated.

And if she couldn’t control herself here, on the brink of good-bye, she could hardly expect to be in a relationship with him and go a lifetime without physical intimacy. Landon could say what he wanted about finding a way to make their relationship work.

The truth was, given the opportunity, she would willingly love him in a way that could do more than harm him.

It could kill him.

He was drawing closer to her now, and though she still savored every moment of his touch, his nearness, she suddenly pulled herself from the moment and sat up on her knees, breathless from her warring emotions. “Landon . . . see? This is why.”

His eyes were still clouded with a desire that made him look irresistible. He took her hand and gave a slight shake of his head. “Ashley . . .” The whispered word hung in the air between them. “Come here, baby. Don’t worry . . . I only want to kiss you.”

Then, in what felt like some strange sort of vision, instead of seeing Landon strong and well, she saw him sick. Sick with HIV because she couldn’t control her passions. “No, Landon. This—” she lifted her hands, palms up, and searched for the right words—“this could kill you, Landon. Don’t you see?”

“No, baby.” He ran his fingers along the length of her arm and searched her eyes. “We could kiss like this forever, and it would never hurt me.”

“Landon.” Her voice was louder, frustrated. “You and I both know where this goes. We’re minutes away from you having the same diagnosis as me!” Her legs shook, but she forced herself to stand up. “I have to go. Please . . .” She held her hand out to him. “Come say good-bye to me.”

At first he stayed on the floor, his hand stretched out to her, waiting for her to change her mind and fall back on the floor with him. But after nearly a minute, his expression changed. He took her hand and pulled himself to his feet. Gently, the desire faded from his expression, his voice. He framed her face with his fingers. “I’m sorry, Ashley. I didn’t mean for it to get . . . well. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.” She pressed her fingers against her legs and tried to still her shaking arms. “This is why, Landon. I can’t . . .” She let her head fall forward and stared at the floor. Her heart was still beating hard, her breathing not quite back to normal. “I just can’t.”

His arms came around her waist and he held her, not the way he’d held her minutes ago but in a sad, desperate way indicating that once he let go, he might never be the same again. She eased her arms up and toward his neck. As long as they held on this way, she wouldn’t have to leave, wouldn’t have to tell him good-bye. Because whenever they let go, there would be only one thing left to do.

He whispered against her face the words she longed to hear. “I love you, Ashley. If this is the last time, then I’ll say it again. I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

Ashley pulled back a few inches, just enough to find his eyes. “I love you, too. Never wonder about that.” The tears came quickly, slipping onto her cheeks and falling to the floor. “I need to go.”

She searched his eyes, looking for some crazy way of escape, some possibility that the past five months had been nothing but a nightmare, and that really she was healthy and well, her blood tests normal, and that her time with Landon this week could go on forever.

“This isn’t the end, Ashley.” Landon moved his thumb across the trail of tears on her face. “I’ll never believe that.”

They kissed one last time, but Ashley was already straining toward the door. Holding on longer at this point would only make leaving that much harder. When she pulled away, she could barely make him out through her tears. “Good-bye, Landon.”

He wouldn’t say it. Instead he held his palm up and kept his eyes locked on hers until she slipped through his front door and closed it behind her. She made it to the elevator before she broke down, and as she left his building and looked for a cab, she ignored the curious looks from the occasional passerby.

She could’ve lost her way or had too much to drink or been the victim of a mugger. This was New Year’s Eve in New York City, after all, and no one cared about one young woman crying as she waited for a cab.

That was fine with Ashley.

She didn’t want anyone but Landon caring for her, anyway. The air was cold and damp, and she shivered as a cab pulled up to the curb and sprayed gutter water on her ankles. Ashley dragged her coat sleeve beneath her eyes and stifled a series of deep sobs.

Just before she slipped into the backseat, she felt it. The feeling she’d had as a little girl when her mother would stand at the door watching her, checking to see that she was doing her chores. That was how Ashley felt now, as though she was being watched from behind. And not just watched, but studied. Stared at.

She had one leg in the cab when she looked over her shoulder up at a bank of windows in Landon’s apartment building, and that’s when she saw him. Standing there watching her, his hand still raised. She mouthed another good-bye and held her hand up as she eased herself into the cab and shut the door. The last thing she saw was the haunting image of his face, and something she couldn’t quite make out until the very last second—something that would make her doubt forever the wisdom of leaving him.

Landon Blake was crying.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Peter stared at the television set, at the revelers in New York City, and he was struck by a thought more profound than any he’d had that week.

He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take another year of drifting further from his family, of rewriting the ending to that fateful Saturday when Hayley fell in the pool. Couldn’t take another year of looking for a reason to live between pills.

A year felt like eternity, a death sentence. A torture worse than hell.

Peter flicked the Power button on the TV remote and the screen went black. Never mind a year; he couldn’t take another month, another day. Not even another hour.

He squinted in the darkness and tried to remember when the problem had gotten worse again. Just a week ago he’d tried to kill himself with the pills and something had stopped him, caused him to vomit. At the time he’d been so relieved he’d wondered if maybe God himself had intervened. But the next day around noon the shaking returned with a vengeance.

Two pills an hour had become three now, and even that didn’t seem to ease his racing heart, the way the floor swayed, the pounding in his head.

Peter caught a bit of moon reflecting on the pill bottle beside him. He couldn’t kill himself, wouldn’t try again. That would be no sort of legacy for Brooke and the girls. Besides, he was stronger than that. He needed pain meds, yes, but he didn’t have to take an entire handful.

Four.

Maybe that was the answer. Four an hour, the level he’d seen some patients and doctors reach. Never mind that most of them wound up in treatment. Peter wouldn’t go that route, not ever. Not unless taking his own life was the only other option.

He reached for the pills and the water bottle beside them. Forty-five minutes since his last pills and already his heart trembled, head and mind twisted with the beginnings of an unbearable ache. He eased the lid off and spilled four pills into his hand. Four pills. Peter stared at them, shocked and anxious at the same time. This would be the answer; it had to be.

Call for help, Peter. Don’t take the pills.

The water bottle slipped from Peter’s hands to the floor. He looked about the room, eyes wide. Who had said that? And where were they? The voice sounded like it was coming from the television set, but he’d turned it off minutes ago.

“Who are you?” He hissed the question, pressing his body into the recliner and tightening his grip on the pills. “Get out of my house!”

Don’t take the pills, son. . . . Come to me, you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

“Stop!” Peter held the pills to his palm with two fingers and pressed his hands over his ears. “Get out of my house now!”

The voice was silent.

Peter relaxed and eased his hands back to his lap. The four pills were still intact, still pressed against the palm of his right hand. “Good!” Peter grumbled. His headache was getting worse, and the fine muscles in his arms were twitching. “Stay gone!”

He blinked and considered his actions. What was he doing? Talking to someone who wasn’t there? Holding a conversation with a disembodied voice? He gritted his teeth and groped around the floor for his water bottle. His fingers felt the smooth plastic and he took hold of it, hating the way it shook in his hands.
Four pills, man. Take the pills and go to sleep.

Then without giving another moment’s consideration to strange voices or warnings or the dangers of taking four painkillers at once, he peeled back his fingers, popped the pills into his mouth, and washed them down with half the water. The minute they were down, a ripple of fear tickled his conscience.

What if four were too many? What if that was enough to knock him out, to make him throw up again, and this time maybe after he was asleep. He could drown in his own vomit, couldn’t he? They’d find him a few days from now, facedown in his own mess, and the report would read suicide—even if that wasn’t the legacy he wanted to leave Brooke and the girls.

Already he could feel the tension in his arms and legs starting to ease. He wasn’t going to pass out or die; no, he was simply going to feel normal again. Another swig of water and he returned the cap to the bottle of pills. But four was too many. Far too many. He set the bottle back on the table and squeezed his eyes shut.
Never again. Never take four pills again. Understand?

He blinked his eyes open and rose to his feet, but somewhere in the distance he could barely make out the sound of someone laughing. A shrill, bone-chilling, evil laugh.

As he made his way to bed, he remembered that it was New Year’s Eve, and somewhere—probably still in New York City—Brooke and the girls were celebrating it without him. The way they would celebrate all holidays from here out. The thought weighed like a cement blanket on his shoulders as he turned out the bedroom light and settled into his pillow.

Four pills made the difference, and sleep came easily.
Never again,
he told himself as he drifted off.
Never four pills again, no matter how bad it gets.

Peter’s promise was good until the next day at noon. He’d had a series of difficult patients, two old men with advanced cancer, both of whom needed hospice care. And a woman whose unborn baby showed signs of serious birth defects. He sent all three patients on to specialists, but the pills he popped between visits weren’t doing the trick, weren’t calming his nerves.

Worse, he’d seen Hayley’s face everywhere. First he saw her in the terminally ill old man, then in the nurse who helped with his chart, and finally in the pregnant woman. Hayley was everywhere, looking to him, begging him to help her. After the third patient, Peter gripped the bag of pills in his pocket. No use fighting the inevitable.

He took four pills, and the relief was better than anything he could’ve imagined . . . for an hour, anyway.

As the days ran together, even four pills weren’t enough and finally—three weeks into the new year—Peter realized the awful truth.

No amount of pills would ever be enough.

Only one answer remained, one that would forever take away the pain and anxiety and loneliness. One that would promise him an eternity without even once having to second-guess that Saturday with Hayley.

Just after three in the morning, he woke up in dire need of a fix. His toes and knees and ribs and elbows shook. Even his eyebrows trembled.

He took hold of the pill bottle near his bed and tore off the lid.
This is it,
he told himself.
Figure out a way, West. It’ll all be over in a few minutes
.

Son, come to me!

Peter froze and his eyes darted about the room. He hadn’t heard that voice, the gentle warning voice since New Year’s Eve, but now here it was again. He started to speak, started to answer that he couldn’t come, had no way to come until he’d taken the pills. But before he could speak, another whispered voice, angry and hissing, pierced the silence.

Take the pills, Peter. You want relief, right? This is the way . . . the only way out.

Peter held his breath, too afraid to move. What had the voice said? Take the pills? The pills were the only way out?

He worked the muscles in his jaw and felt his body relax just enough so he could shake a pile of pills into the palm of his hand. Whoever had told him to come didn’t understand. The second voice was right. He had no right to live, no reason anymore. The pills were the only way out.

His hand shook as he lifted the pills to his mouth, so hard that six or eight capsules fell to his lap. Peter lowered his hand and scooped the wayward pills back into his palm.
All of them,
he told himself.
Take all of them so there’s no doubt about the outcome.

No, son. I will give you rest. Come to me.

Peter wrapped his fingers around the pills and squeezed his fist to his midsection. “Go away!” He shouted the order into the vacant space before him. He was crazy; that had to be it. Already crazy. “Whoever you are, I don’t want your kind of rest.”

He waited, and the quiet, gentle voice was silent once more. The hissing voice was silent also, and Peter stared at his clenched fist. It was time—now, before any other voices filled the room.

Again his hand shook as he lifted it to his mouth, but this time he kept his fingers tight around the pills until the last possible second. Then he peeled his fingers away and thirty—maybe forty—pills spilled into his mouth. He wanted to gag, but he wouldn’t. Not this time. Instead he grabbed his water bottle, squeezed it over the pills and swallowed, swallowed hard enough to down the entire pile of pills.

There.

He blinked and set the water bottle back on the bedside table. It would all be over soon. Nausea grabbed at him, but he resisted. He wouldn’t lose the dose again. Not when the only way out of the nightmare of his life was to end it. A strange warmth began making its way down his limbs and throughout his body.

The pills would be breaking up by now, releasing their potent chemicals into his bloodstream. A matter of minutes really—ten at best—and he would never again have to wonder what it would take to get his next fix, never have to guess if Brooke was going to call and invite him over for a movie, never have to look Maddie in the face knowing that he had robbed her of her little sister, never have to look at Hayley and . . .

A hissing, laughing sound started in the corner of the room. With every heartbeat it grew louder and louder. Louder than any other time. And then the laughter became words, words that spit at him and surrounded him and filled his soul all at once.

That’s right, Peter; I tricked you! Now you’ll never say good-bye to Hayley or anyone else. The game’s over, friend.

Game over?
Peter’s mouth hung open and he gasped. Whoever . . . whatever was making that noise, the words only now made sense. He’d taken an overdose of pills and now he wouldn’t get to say good-bye, wouldn’t get to explain the torment he’d been in, the reason he’d had to take the pills. The reason he’d chosen to end his own life.

“Wait!” The word was a shout, a cry. But even as he spoke, he heard the way the letters ran together, the slur of his voice and his inability to say anything further. The pills were taking effect. They were making their way farther and farther into his system. This time there would be no turning back.

No second chance.

And suddenly he wanted to live. More than he’d wanted anything, more than he’d wanted even the pills and the wonderful feeling of peace, more than he wanted a permanent solution for his miserable existence, he wanted to live.

“Help me!” His eyes moved slowly about the room, his lids heavier than before. Where was the other voice, the kinder, gentler one? The one that had sounded like it was from God himself? “Help me, God!”

In that exact instant his eyes fell on the phone next to his bed. The room was already starting to spin—not the way it did when he needed a fix, but faster, more forcefully. In a way that signaled the end.

Make the call, Peter.

“God . . . help me!”

And with a strength that wasn’t his own, with a steadiness that belied the medication coursing through his veins, he reached for the telephone. Then with unexplainably steady fingers, he dialed the only three numbers that mattered.

9-1-1.

He held the phone to his ear and waited, the receiver growing heavier with each half second.
Answer . . . please answer.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“I’m . . .” The words didn’t want to come, and he had to fight the urge to fall over, to give in to the unbearable pull toward sleep, toward death.
No . . . help me, God!
He held his breath and gave a single shake of his head. “I’m . . . dying.”

The woman was saying something, asking what had happened and whether someone was in the house. But it was too late. Peter couldn’t say another word, couldn’t remember even why he had the phone in his hand in the first place.

Sleep.

That’s what he needed. A good night’s sleep. The receiver fell from his hand, and distantly he heard a tinny voice. Not the hissing voice or the gentle voice, but someone talking from the phone, saying something about his condition or the house or something he couldn’t quite make out.