The Bullet (18 page)

Thirty-two

B
easley's news shook me.

Perhaps the most frustrating aspect was that I could do nothing but wait. Wait for next week's operation, wait to see if I ended up paralyzed, wait to see if the bullet proved useful. I paced my bedroom. Picked up a book, tried to concentrate, snapped it shut after I found myself reading the same paragraph on Jean-Paul Sartre a fourth time. I resumed pacing. Feeling frightened, furious, and at loose ends—all at once—proved a dangerous combination. By six that evening I gave in to temptation.

Will's cell did not answer, and his work phone went straight to an answering service. His house, then. It surprised me to realize I had only a vague notion where he lived. Helpfully, Zartman is an unusual name. The white pages online listed a phone number and a home address. Lorcom Lane in Arlington, Virginia. Just across the river.

I could hardly drive there myself. Not after the burglary, not after what Beasley had told me. I was a prisoner in my childhood home. I sat pondering the problem. Then I called Martin and told him I needed to see someone, that we were headed to Arlington, and that he would have to wait in the car.

He picked me up an hour later. “Let me guess. Your Dr. Sprockets.” Martin smirked.

I shot him an annoyed glance, said nothing.

“Tony said he's a great guy. Why don't you just invite him up to the house? Are you hiding him from Mom and Dad for some reason?”

“As it happens, he's not returning my calls.”

My brother cocked his head sideways. “I hate to break this to you, but generally speaking, that's a sign that a guy isn't interested.”

“Thank you for that deep insight into the male mind,” I retorted. “I know what it usually means. But I think—I'm hoping—he's avoiding me because he's trying to do the honorable thing.”

I explained about doctor-patient relationships being verboten. About Will's squirming and then storming out the other night.

“You could switch doctors,” Martin said.

“That's what I told him.”

It was quiet on Lorcom Lane. The streetlights had switched on to illuminate two- and three-story brick colonials, well-kept, typical American suburbia. I felt uneasy. I had imagined Will living in a condo, maybe a converted loft, all exposed brick and soaring ceilings.

When we reached the right address, Martin swung the car into the driveway.

His headlights picked out Will's Jeep. A basketball hoop hung suspended above the garage. Below it a child's bike lay on its side.

All of a sudden, I understood.

•   •   •

YOU WANTED A
scene? You wanted to read about me bursting into tears, about the clichéd confrontation with the pretty wife who answers the door, about who slapped whom first?

I'm not that girl.

I told you already: I'm not prone to outbursts, not a volatile person.

Martin, on the other hand, was outraged. He trained his brights on
the child's bike, trying to make sense of what this object could be doing in my boyfriend's driveway. He took a second or two longer than I had to figure out that Will must be married, that he was a
father
.

“Do you want me to kneecap him?” Martin asked. “Spell out
dickwad
on his lawn?”

“Just turn around. Hurry up. Before someone comes out of the house and sees us.”

We drove home in silence, me staring out the window, clutching my right wrist, wishing I'd let Tony buy me that 9 mm Baby Glock after all.

•   •   •

MARTIN WALKED ME
up our parents' front steps and onto the porch, muttering, “He's a dickwad, whether we trash his front lawn or not. You are
so
out of his league. Christ, do I want to call Tony and invite this guy to join us for a friendly beer. Give him a little education on how to treat our sister.”

“Thank you, but I'm fine.” I was turning my cheek for him to kiss me good-night when I saw it. The gray car. Parked just as before, across the street and a few spaces down. How could such a nondescript car be so noticeable?

“Martin,” I whispered. “Do you see that car?”

“An education that would leave him unable to walk for the next week.” My brother was still muttering.

“Martin! That gray car. Do you see it?”

He turned, shaded his eyes against the porch light. “What about it?”

“It was parked outside my house on Q Street the other night. The same car.”

“Are you sure?”

No, I wasn't sure. It was your run-of-the-mill, gray, compact car. Utterly unremarkable. But either I was going crazy or I had seen this car before, and I went with the latter. “I—I think so. There was a man inside.”

My brother scowled, squinted across the street again, started loping down across the lawn.

“Martin!” I hissed, “Stop!”

The car's ignition started up. The headlights blinked on, and suddenly it was reversing. It knocked into the bumper of the car parked behind, then lurched into the street, engine roaring, tires squealing.

“Get inside,” said my brother.

I stood frozen, glued to the porch.

“Sis! Get inside!”

I didn't wait for him to tell me a third time.

Thirty-three

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 26, 2013

D
r. Gellert commenced operating at 11:07 a.m.

He was assisted, I was later told, by the on-duty anesthesiologist, two nurses, and three residents who had had their plans for a lazy weekend morning rudely interrupted by urgent summonses from the hospital. The procedure was not filmed. No cameraman could be located on such short notice.

The gray car had achieved what Beasley had wished for but had not been able to achieve: instant surgery.

Last night, within minutes of my phone call to 911, three police cars had swarmed the street in front of my parents' home. Sirens wailed to wake the dead, blue lights blazed, cops muscled their way through the front door. Phone calls had been exchanged with Atlanta, most of which I was not privy to, other than one short exchange with Beasley, during which, as usual, he made me walk him step-by-step through what I had seen.

The result of all this midnight conferencing had been that Mom and Dad, white with worry, drove me to Sibley Hospital's emergency room. A police car—sirens mercifully silenced, but blue lights flashing in full glory—had led the way. We arrived before dawn. I was transferred from the car to a wheelchair and then to a gurney. A plastic bracelet was strung around my good wrist. More phone calls were
made. My clothes were removed and replaced by a paper surgery gown. A somber, whiskery anesthesiologist appeared, introduced himself, explained his plans to make me comfortable. I forgot his name before he even left the room.

Drugs, I was thinking. Please just give me the drugs. Give me everything you've got. During the long, long night we had just endured, pain had seized my neck and my shoulders, pain so severe it had felt my body would break in two. This was not the sharp pulsing I had grown used to. This was more dense. Heavy. Like an apron of lead, the kind they swaddle you in before taking an X-ray.

Smiling nurses appeared. Guardrails on the sides of the gurney swung up and locked into place. The gurney began to roll. A mask came down over my face,
Breathe deep,
said the smiles. My mother was walking beside me, still holding my hand.

•   •   •

DARKNESS.

I came to in a postsurgery recovery room. Cold. I was so cold. I had never been so cold. My legs would have to be amputated, they would not survive, the frostbite was turning my skin to wax.

I sensed someone beside me. “Blanket,” I tried to tell them. It came out mush. “Bl-shhh-ont.”

The person leaned down. “Caroline?” Will's voice. Soft, worried. He laid a hand on top of mine.

Noooo.

I wanted to turn my head away. It would not obey. “Blanket,” I said again.

He would not listen. “Caroline. It's me. Everything went fine. You're going to be fine.”

Something scratchy was wrapped around my neck, the only part of me that was warm. I willed myself to go under again, to sleep.

Thirty-four

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 27, 2013

T
hey only kept me in the hospital for one night.

The surgery had gone beautifully. The bullet had popped—Dr. Gellert pursed his lips and made a loud
pop
as he recounted this to me—
popped
right out.

“Like squeezing a boiled tomato from its skin,” he added, clearly pleased with himself. “Big old thing. Half an inch long.” He held up his thumb and forefinger in approximation.

“Where is it?”

“I cleaned it up, sealed it in a sterile envelope. Handed it to the police myself.” His fingers were sliding up and down a Perspex clipboard, rising and then striking the edge as if it were the keys of a baby grand. “They rushed the bullet straight to the lab. It was an Atlanta cop who turned up to get it. Flew up here specifically for that purpose, warned me not to let DC police anywhere near it.” Gellert eyed me with curiosity, but did not ask.

I nodded. Tried to nod. The bandages made it impossible to move.

“At any rate, the headline is—we got it out. You did great. The incision on the back of your neck is less than two inches wide. You'll have a scar, but it'll fade, and your hair will cover it.”

“I don't care about that. What about my—my spinal cord? Will I have full range of movement?” At the moment I felt no pain at all, but
I was pumped so full of painkillers that it was hard to say whether that meant much.

“We'll have to wait until the swelling subsides. And it will take time for everything internally to knit back together. But so far, so good. I'll see you tomorrow, in my regular office, to check the stitches and make sure everything's draining properly.”

At my parents' house, they had made up a bed in the living room so I wouldn't have to climb the stairs. All afternoon I dozed. Dad sat vigil in an armchair by the window, answering e-mails and cursing at the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. Hunt lay flopped across his feet. Mom wandered in and out, inventing ways to make herself useful. I was hungry. Starving. I had been forbidden from consuming anything except liquids until I either produced a bowel movement or passed gas. I achieved this milestone—the latter—as twilight fell. I felt undignified, to say the least. But I was rewarded with crackers and a cup of Mom's homemade beef noodle soup.

Thirty-five

MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2013

M
y neck felt better. That's the only way to describe it, just as simply as that. My parents' living room had no curtains—the house was set well back from the street—and I woke early with the light.

I was stiff from the lumpy, makeshift bed. My bandages itched. But I had slept unexpectedly well.

I wiggled my toes. Clenched and unclenched my buttocks, shifted my hips. Then, cautiously, I tested my shoulders. They were sore but loose. Finally I shut my eyes, held my breath, and flexed my right wrist.

I had not taken Vicodin since dinner last night. Twelve hours ago.

I felt no pain.

•   •   •

WILL ZARTMAN HAD
left five phone messages in the thirty hours since I'd left the hospital. I wish I could tell you that I found the willpower to delete them without listening, but I did not. Not that they said much.
Call me, would you please call me?
Each new message sounded less hopeful than the last.

When the phone buzzed again in the late afternoon, I screwed up my courage and answered.

“Hello, Will.”

“Caroline! I've left you half a dozen messages.”

“Five, actually.”

“Right. I gather you're back to never answering your phone.” He sounded uncertain, trying to gauge how mad I was.

“That's right. I guess two can play that game.”
Pretty damn mad, you cowardly, lying turd
.

He cleared his throat. “Marshall said the surgery went very well. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just dandy.”

A moment passed.

“Look, I know I owe you an apology. Make that several apologies. I heard about the break-in. At your house. I feel awful. I shouldn't have left you. I'm so sor—”

“I drove by your house, Will.”

“My
house
? When?” There was no mistaking the terror in his voice.

“Don't worry. I didn't ring the doorbell.” Pause. “So. How many children do you have?”

Long pause. “Two.”

We didn't have much to say to each other after that.

Thirty-six

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2013

B
y Tuesday I was up and walking around.

For the first time in days I got dressed. My jeans hung loose on my hips. My belly was taut and flat. Major surgery and an all-liquid diet were apparently good for five pounds. At breakfast I peeled three kiwis and ate them with a soft-boiled egg.

As I chewed, I practiced turning my head to the right, to look out the kitchen window, onto the magnolia tree that dominates the front yard. Then left, in the direction of the stove and sink. Right and left, back and forth. Dr. Gellert had removed the bulkiest bandages yesterday. All that remained was a thin gauze pad, held in place with flesh-­colored first-aid tape. The tape pulled at the hairs on the back of my neck. Otherwise I felt no discomfort.

I checked my e-mail. A message from Georgetown University police alerted students and faculty to a reported theft on the ground floor of Lauinger, the undergraduate library. We were reminded not to leave laptops or other personal items unattended on campus. I wondered whether Al had been on duty. Lauinger sat on the main quad, not a hundred yards from his stone police hut. It occurred to me that I needed to return his jackets.

There was also a brief message from Beasley. The bullet had arrived
safely back in Atlanta over the weekend. Lab technicians were working on it. He would keep me posted.

As I cleared my dishes, I caught sight of my reflection in the glass door of the microwave oven. I looked nothing like myself. My face was thin, my skin was pale, and my hair had seen better days. When had I last washed it? Friday? I was not supposed to get the stitches wet, not yet, but I was allowed to wash from the chest down. It would be better than nothing.

In the bathroom, I dropped my clothes on the floor and peeled back the gauze pad. Gingerly I raised my hand to touch the back of my neck. The stitches were raised, lumpy knots beneath my fingertips. They would dissolve on their own as the incision healed. The skin on my neck, meanwhile, was numb. I could not feel my fingers pressing down. Dr. Gellert had told me the area might stay numb for weeks, or it might stay numb forever.

I wondered about the arteries in my neck. The muscles. Whether they were shifting by fractions of an inch, filling in the space where the bullet had been. After a minute I sat down on the edge of the bathtub, loosened the straps holding on my wrist brace, and took it off. My right forearm was visibly thinner than my left. The muscles—never impressive to begin with—had shrunk over months of disuse. I picked up the brace, refastened the straps, folded it in half lengthways, and tucked it in the cabinet beneath the sink. I had the feeling I would not be needing it again.