The Cove (34 page)

Lilly had mistaken Amanda for her own daughter, the baby Louise she remembered from so many years ago.

J
ulia was unable to sit still in the hospital waiting room. She’d sit down on one of the chairs in the waiting room, but after less than a minute fidgeting, she would get up and start pacing again, all the while slapping her clenched fist repeatedly into the palm of her hand. It made a wet smacking sound that kept time with her pacing. She knew she should sit down … take some deep breaths … and relax … but she simply couldn’t.

The emergency room had five other occupants. Closest to the door, a mother sat, hugging her three or four year old son whose right hand was wrapped in a small, white hand towel. A red blossom of blood was slowly spreading across the fabric. The mother’s face was pale and pinched with worry. The kid’s shoulders shook with dry sobs as he buried his face against his mother’s neck, exhausted from all the crying he had already done.

Across from them, at the far end of the room, a thin man who looked to be in his early thirties was sprawled in a chair, his legs thrust out in front of him, his head thrown back against the wall. His eyes were closed, and he kept rolling his head from side to side while moaning softly and muttering to himself. Julia could only make out fragments of what he was saying.

In the chairs lining the wall opposite the front desk, underneath an oil painting of a farm in autumn, a very pregnant girl who couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen was sitting next to an equally young-looking boy who was holding a baggie filled with ice against his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. He looked dazed with pain, and he winced whenever he shifted his position in the chair.

As Julia contemplated the private tragedies befalling her theoretical neighbors, she felt lonelier than ever. Since moving to The Cove, she had tried to engage in the rhythm and flow of life in a small town, but she had felt … if not rejected, exactly, certainly not welcome or accepted by anyone … none, that is, except for some of the men, who had made it all too obvious what
they
wanted.

And then there was Ben …

What about Ben?

He had finally returned her call and said he was on his way to the hospital, but she was thinking it was already too late. The anticipation of seeing him mixed with a rush of conflicting emotions. As much as she cared about him and as much as she wanted to see if they could make a go of their relationship, she was worried about the panic attack he’d had last night and that he’d been so unnerved by it he left rather than stay with her. He kept so much locked away from her.

But the ultimate truth dawning on her was that she was going to have to create her own destiny rather than depend on a man —
any
man — to “save” her.

“Hey, there.”

She jumped when Ben spoke suddenly behind her. She hadn’t heard or seen him enter the emergency room. Spinning around, she forced a smile as he came toward her, his arms upraised to embrace her. The look of intense sympathy in his eyes touched her heart. Any doubts she might have entertained about him — at least at that moment — evaporated in an instant. They hugged in the middle of the room and then kissed, long and passionately, clinging to each other. Julia couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, knowing that everyone in the room was probably watching them and wondering what
their
personal little drama was.

“How you holding up?” Ben asked as he broke off the hug and looked down at her up-turned face. His eyes sparkled like chips of blue diamond, but his mouth was set in a grim, straight line.

“Okay, I guess … I’m okay,” she said. She eased out of his embrace and then, hand-in-hand, they walked over to two empty chairs and sat down.

“So tell me … What happened?”

Julia shuddered and blinked her eyes rapidly to hold back the tears.

“I had … I had fixed him lunch, like I always do, and we were eating in the living room … with the TV on. He likes to watch the noontime news, and then he … he … Oh, Ben. It was
really
scary. He started acting so weird.”

“Weird? Like how?”

“I asked him a question. I don’t even remember what it was now, and he started to stutter and then … then, when he tried to pick up his sandwich, he couldn’t get his left arm to move.”

“Good God,” Ben said as he cupped her hands and gave them a strong, reassuring squeeze. “Sounds like —”

“— like a stroke. I know. They’re checking him out now, but I have no idea what’s going on. Nobody’s told me anything.”

Ben glanced at the person — an elderly woman with short, gray hair — who was sitting at the desk behind a glass partition. The overhead lights reflecting off the glass made it difficult to see, but he thought it was Edna Anderson, who lived on Bay View Road.

“You want me to ask?” he said as he made a move to go to the front desk.

“No … no.” Julia grimaced and shook her head. “I —” She faced Ben and, freeing one hand from his grip, slid it up his arm and around his neck. “I’m glad you came. I was feeling so alone.”

Ben smiled and nodded.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said, but even as he pulled her close and hugged her again, she sensed that something was different. His body was wire-tight with tension, and he didn’t yield to her the way he usually did.

They held each other in silence for a long time, breathing into each other’s ear. Julia fought hard to control the sobs and tremors that kept rippling through her. They both jumped when the doors to the examination rooms slammed open, and a young man dressed in hospital “greens” stepped into the corridor. His thick, dark hair looked like it needed a good washing. He had small, dark eyes and a sallow complexion, and looked entirely too young to be a doctor. He couldn’t be more than a year or two out of med. school.

He looked around the waiting room, his gaze quickly landing on Julia.

“Miss Meadows?” he said, raising his eyebrows as he started toward her.

Julia’s legs felt too weak to support her as she stood up and nodded. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Ben stood up slowly beside her and slipped an arm around her waist. The support was amazing, and she thought to herself that she could never have faced this without Ben here.

“Would you come with me please?”

The doctor had a small plastic badge that read:
DR. ROBBINS
pinned above the pocket of his hospital shirt. He looked at Ben and, frowning, said, “Are you family?”

Before Ben replied, Julia said, “Yes. He is,” and tugged him along with her as she moved forward.

They followed Doctor Robbins down the brightly lit hallway to a closed door. He opened the door for them, stepping to one side so they could enter first. Inside the small room was a desk. It was covered with multi-colored folders and reams of computer printouts. Next to the desk were two metal chairs with padded seats, seatbacks, and arm rests. The green vinyl was worn and cracked with use. Julia wondered how many people had sat in these very chairs and heard the bad news that a loved one had died.

“Please,” Dr. Robbins said, indicating the chairs with a quick sweep of his hand like he was brushing away cobwebs. “Have a seat.”

Julia sat down, poised on the edge of her chair with her knees pressed tightly together. The cold, winding apprehension in the pit of her stomach was almost unbearable. She shot a quick glance at Ben but then looked back at the doctor, not wanting Ben to see how scared she was.

“Well, as we suspected when he first arrived, your father has suffered a stroke,” Dr. Robbins said without preamble.

Before he said anything more, Julia blurted out, “How bad was it?” Horrible images filled her head of her father as a pale, drooling invalid.

The expression on Dr. Robbins’s face froze, and a heavy curtain dropped behind his eyes as though he was cutting himself off from what was really happening here.

“A bad one, I’m afraid,” he said.

“How …” She gulped. “How bad?” She heard her voice as if someone else was speaking in another room.

“He’s …”

Dr. Robbins blinked his eyes rapidly a few times as he glanced up at the ceiling. He looked as though he was wishing he was doing something — anything else besides having this conversation.

Julia wondered if it was his youth and lack of experience or the severity of her father’s conditions, but something was making it difficult for him to tell her exactly what was going on. Anger flashed inside her like the glint off a honed knife blade. All she wanted —
right now,
damnit
!
— was the truth, no matter how bad.

“He’s in a coma, and while it’s impossible to predict what will happen next, I would say the prognosis is not very encouraging.”

“Not very encouraging,” Ben muttered, as if he were the doctor’s echo. Julia winced as his grip on her hand tightened painfully. She shot him a quick look that said:
Leave this to me.

“When will you know?” she asked.

“We’ll have to conduct a battery of tests to determine the extent and exact nature of the damage and the possible outcome, but for now I … I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Meadows, but I don’t hold out much hope for a full recovery.”

“Aren’t you being a little too pessimistic here?” Ben said. His voice snapped in the air like a bullwhip. Julia was taken aback by his reaction, and she looked at him, puzzled.

“Beg pardon?” Dr. Robbins said, leaning forward, his hands folded on a stack of papers on the desk in front of him.

“I mean — if it’s too early to tell, like you say, and you need to do more tests, I’m not sure it helps the situation here to be telling us you have no idea what happened and that you don’t hold out much hope that he — her father — that Mr.
Capozza
will recover.”

Ben’s tone was stinging, and for a heartbeat or two, Dr. Robbins looked flustered, unable to speak. He raised his right hand to his mouth and pinched his lower lip while staring blankly straight ahead.

“At this point, there’s no way of knowing. I simply wish to prepare Miss Meadows for what might prove to be a negative patient outcome,” Dr. Robbins said.

“’Negative patient outcome?’” Ben almost barked the words, and Julia looked at him, wide-eyed. “Jesus Fucking Christ! Is
that
what you call it now? A ‘negative patient outcome?’ What happened to good old-fashioned words like ‘death’ and ‘dying’? Cut to the chase, will yah Doc?”

Dr. Robbins let his shoulders drop as he took a breath, held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled slowly between his teeth. His eyes had a distant glaze as he focused on — or past — Ben.

“As I said — it’s entirely too early to tell, but I can assure you that the stroke your father — Is he your father?” He nailed Ben with a steady stare.

Neither Ben nor Julia replied, and after a brief silence, Dr. Robbins continued as if he hadn’t asked the question.

“I can assure you that your father has had a serious stroke and that you have to prepare yourself for a very long and difficult recovery.”

“I … I understand that,” Julia said. “Is there … Did he suffer any brain damage?”

“We need to do more tests to determine that, but I’d say — yes. The stroke appears to have been massive.”

Julia moaned as she cast a quick glance at Ben. Ben looked like he was coiled and ready to spring out of the chair and throttle Dr. Robbins. Still, she had to appreciate the way Ben was trying to get Dr. Robbins to cut the legalistic medical mumbo-jumbo and tell them in plain English what was going on.

Say what you will about people from small Maine coastal towns,
she thought.
They sure don’t tolerate bullshit of any flavor, color, or aroma.

“For the time being,” Dr. Robbins said, “I’d suggest you both go home and try to relax. Your father’s in intensive care, and you won’t be able to see him for some time yet. We’re doing everything medically possible.”

“When will you know?” Ben said, still sounding snappy. At least he was no longer threatening violence.

“We have your cell phone number. We’ll call you at home,” Dr. Robbins said. He pushed away from the desk as if he was going to stand, but he remained seated.

Julia noticed how the doctor still had a difficult time making direct eye contact with her. Her only hope was that his medical skills were much better than his social skills.

“Thank you,” she said, although the words rang hollow in her ears. She didn’t know anything more than she had when she first came in, and the single, clearest thought in her mind was that her father was going to die.

There was no way around it.

And as this horrible thought echoed, another, even more disturbing thought began to gnaw at the back of her mind. She tried to deny it, but she experienced a disquieting sense of relief … of liberation at the prospect of her father’s imminent death would give her. As much as she loved him, once he was gone, only then would she … finally … be able to start living her own life.

And then another thought occurred to her.

Would Ben be a part of that new life?

Goin
’ Down

I
t was late in the afternoon. The storm had passed, and the sun was setting, lighting the thin, bright band of clouds on the western horizon. The air was warm and moist, more like summer than spring. The wind coming off the ocean carried a bracing, salty tang. Puddles on the street and sidewalk glistened from the recent downpour.

Tom Marshall was nervous as he sat behind the steering wheel of his car, which was parked across the street about fifty feet from the front door of The Local. His window was rolled down, and he was taking deep breaths, filling his lungs to capacity and exhaling slowly to relieve his tension.

He told himself he didn’t have to be this nervous.

He could always try to fly the excuse that he had simply been doing his job. Jerry Lincoln, the new DEA guy, had asked him to investigate anything and everything about the local drug traffic. If worse came to worst and he had to kill Gillette, he had a throw-down in his glove compartment he could drop beside the body and claim that the dipshit had drawn on him first. He had every right to shoot him in self-defense.

But the truth was, Tom had never killed a man in the line of duty or otherwise.

Sure, he had seen enough dead people. Murder victims and suicides … car accidents … medical emergencies. But he had never sighted down the barrel of a gun and pulled the trigger to end a man’s life.

He wondered if he really had the balls to do it.

If anyone deserved to die, though, it was Tony Gillette. The bastard should never have shorted him on that deal. If he’d been honest, Tom would have been long gone by now, and Gillette wouldn’t be a walking dead man.

The problem was, getting Tony Gillette in a situation where he could bring him down without any witnesses would be difficult if not impossible. It was no use demanding the rest of the money. Gillette would never give it up. He had Tom by the short hairs, and both of them knew it. Tom couldn’t very well go to the department and complain, now, could he?

Tom tensed when the front door of The Local opened, and Danny “Puppy” Lawrence stepped out into the gathering evening gloom. His face looked pasty white in the dimming light. His eyes were twitching back and forth as he looked up and down the street until he saw Tom’s car.

Tom gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Then he raised his forefinger in greeting, a gesture he doubted Puppy even saw, but the man started walking toward the car. He looked unsteady on his feet, weaving from side to side until he got to the car. He stopped on the driver’s side.

“Get the fuck in the car,” Tom said, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching.

“Oh … yeah … sure,” Puppy said. He belched as he staggered to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and got in.

“Are you
fuckin
’ coherent?” Tom asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he studied the man for a moment. Puppy’s dirty blond hair was disheveled, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. The corners of his mouth were edged with a thin coating of yellow mucous.

“’Course I am … I’m sharp as a tack” Puppy punctuated his statement with another belch that filled the car with a sour stench. Tom waved his hand in front of his face to drive away the smell.

“Christ, man! You ever hear of Listerine?”

Puppy stared at him like he’d spoken Swahili.

“So …” Tom said, “you talk to him?”

“Him … Who’s ‘him?’”

Tom shook his head, thoroughly disgusted. It took great restraint not to open the door and shove Puppy out onto the street.

“Gillette, you moron. You talk to him for me?”

“Oh, yeah … yeah, I
tole
’
im
what you was thinking.”

“And?”

“
Whadda
yah mean, ‘
and?’
”

“For Christ sakes. What did he say?”

When Puppy didn’t answer him immediately, Tom lowered his gaze, puffed out his cheeks, and shook his head sadly.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “How the hell do you get by?”

“I
dunno
… Lucky, I guess.”

“I should bust your sorry ass right here ’n now, and drag you down to the station. You gotta be holding.”

Puppy jerked his head back and belched again.

“
Aww
… You wouldn’t do that, Tommy,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “’Sides, you wouldn’t know where you’re
spozed
to meet ’
im
if you did.”

“Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?”

Puppy’s eyes lit up and he said, “How ’bout you buy me a drink first?”

“How ’bout you suck my dick?” Tom said.

Puppy belched again and shook his head.

“And stop it with the fucking burping. Christ!” Tom said. “I don’t want you hurling in my car. Damn!” He wrinkled his nose and had to stick his face out the side window to catch a breath. “You sure you’re not
fuckin
’ dying inside.”

“’F I am, it’s
prob’bly
the cancer,” Puppy said as he stared straight ahead with a glazed look in his eyes. He had one hand on the dashboard, as if that would steady his spinning world.

“I sincerely hope it is,” Tom said. He heaved a sigh. “So is Gillette gonna meet me or what?”

Tom’s rising anticipation was almost too much to handle. All he wanted was to get Puppy out of his car and get down to business.

Puppy nodded and said, “He says you know where to meet
s’long
as you got the stuff.”

“When?”

“Said at nine.”

“Tonight?”

Tom glanced at his watch. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet. He had plenty of time to prepare.

“No. Last night.” Puppy belched but tried to hide it behind his fist. “A’ course tonight.”

“And he’s not gonna cheat me like he did last time?”

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout any
o’that
,” Puppy said, but there was a sudden shift in his tone of voice that made Tom think he knew all about it. Gillette would never have said a word to him about it, and neither would Zimmerman, but that’s how small towns are. Somehow — even when there’s a secret between two or three people and no one says a damned thing — word gets around.

The truth was, it didn’t matter anymore because Tom didn’t have a goddamned gram of coke on him.

“Okay,” Tom said. “Now get the fuck
outta
here.” He would have reached across in front of Puppy to open the door for him, but he didn’t want to get that close.

Puppy needed a few seconds to focus before he caught hold of the door handle, pulled it, and pushed the door open. He almost fell onto the sidewalk, but somehow he caught his balance and started walking away in a zigzag path. By now, the streetlights had come on, their harsh sodium glare illuminating Puppy as he made his way home or, more likely, back to The Local or over to a friend’s house to keep the buzz going.

Tom was satisfied, though.

He knew where and when he’d meet up with Gillette.

He glanced at his watch again, reassuring himself that he had plenty of time to drive out to the dirt road out of town and case the area. He wanted to be absolutely ready for anything by the time Gillette got there.

And then …?

Well,
he thought,
let’s wait and see how this all plays out.

If he had to kill the son-of-a-bitch, that would teach Gillette once and for all not to fuck with him.

“Y
ou still haven’t explained what that was all about,” Julia said.

He and Julia had stopped at Judy’s Clam Shack, a little place out on Route One a mile or so outside of Bath. They were the only customers. Night had fallen, and they were sitting side by side at a picnic table under a striped green and white canvas awning. A string of overhead lights caught them in a warm, yellow glow that pushed the darkness back. Moths flapped around it and bumped into it, making faint ticking sounds. In the marsh behind the shack, frogs and crickets sang. Occasional gusts of wind made the canvas awning snap like a flag in a stiff breeze.

They were sipping Coke from paper cups that were beaded with moisture. They had ordered a half-pint of clams and some fries, but Judy, the cook, was taking her sweet old time getting the food to them.

“Explained what … when?” he finally said.

“At the hospital.”

Ben shrugged innocently and said, “I was trying to get some straight answers from the guy if that’s what you mean.”

“And you thought yelling at the doctor who’s taking care of my father … that trying to intimidate him was going to accomplish … what exactly?”

“He wasn’t being straight with you, is all,” Ben said. He realized he was clenching his fists in his lap under the table and consciously relaxed them, resting them on the table on either side of his drink. “I wanted him to talk to you honestly and acknowledge we were real people, with emotions and … and
friggin
’ brains. I didn’t want to hear a bunch of medical and legalistic jive. I’m
sick
to death of it!”

He clenched his right hand into a fist and pounded the tabletop hard enough to make their cups and the plastic-ware rolled up into napkins jump.

Julia pulled back and looked at him, surprise and fear lighting her eyes. Ben realized she was afraid of his anger, but if they were going to make a go of this relationship, then she was going to have to accept that sometimes he got angry. The problem was, and he wasn’t sure why, lately — especially the last few days — he was feeling like he was on a short fuse. Pretty much anything would get on his nerves and set him off … and it was getting worse.

“I’m just saying … You know, my ex-husband was —
is
a recovering alcoholic.”

“And?”

“And … and he was always talking about how if you’re pissed about something and you won’t admit it, your anger can come out sideways.”

Ben couldn’t help but sneer at that and think,
Oh, great … Here it comes … More Dr. Phil crap… More touchy-feely bullshit instead of talking honestly about shit.

“I really don’t give a damn about your ex- or any bull he may have spouted.”

Julia looked genuinely hurt by his reaction, and it bothered him, but he couldn’t unsay it now. He wiped his face with the flat of his hand and then took a sip of Coke. Before either of them said anything else, Judy dinged the bell at the counter to let them know their food was ready.

They both got up and walked to the window. Judy, whose long, gray hair was tied up in a knot at the back of her head and covered with a net, slid the red and white striped boxes of clams and fries onto a tray and handed it to them. She had the bored expression of someone who had been doing this job or one exactly like it her entire life and knew nothing better was ever going to come along.

“There’s ketchup and tartar sauce in the cooler,” she said, nodding to her left. “Refills on the soda are free.”

“Thank you,” Julia said in a pleasant voice as she took the tray. Without a word, Ben opened the small cooler and took a handful of condiments.

“It wasn’t bull,” Julia said once they had sat back down under the awning. This time, they sat on opposite sides of the table, facing each other.

“What isn’t?”

“The whole ‘anger coming out sideways’ thing.”

“Bullshit,” Ben muttered.

Julia raised her hands in exasperation and gripped the edge of the table.

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I am not.”

“You are too. You know what your problem is? You —”

“I don’t need
you
to tell
me
what
my
problem is. That’s what the AAs in the Army call ‘taking someone else’s inventory.’”

“You’re not dealing with what’s really bothering you. You get upset about other things — things that have nothing to do with the real issue.”

“So it comes out sideways,” Ben said. He took a sip of Coke, thinking how good the carbonation felt on the back of his throat. It gave him a moment to let what she had said sink in.

“Exactly,” Julia said, her expression softening. “You’re acting like you’re mad at me, and you know you’re not. What did I do?”

“Okay. I get it.”

“So why’d you get so angry at the doctor?”

“Because he wasn’t being straight with us.”

“Maybe, but you didn’t have to lash out at him.”

Julia leaned forward, her breasts pushing the tray forward as she slid her hands across the table and clasped his. Their eyes met, and a sudden wave of inexpressible sadness swept through Ben.

He knew she was right, but he didn’t want to get into it.

Not now. Not when they were trying to have a nice evening out to forget their worries if possible. His day had been stressful enough, and she was worried sick about what was going to happen to her father.