The Last Hour (7 page)

I’d been wrong. Life isn’t cheap. Maybe we let it go too quickly. Maybe we take it for granted. But here was a life just at the beginning, with everything ahead of her. And I wanted to find a way for her to make it.

“Excuse me,” Carrie said to the nurse.

“Yes, ma’am?” asked the woman behind the desk, a no-nonsense woman in her late forties.

“Do you have any idea when we’ll get any news at all about my husband or sister?”

The woman said, “It shouldn’t be long now.” She gave Carrie a sympathetic look, but something behind her eyes worried me. She knew something, and it wasn’t good, whatever it was. I’m certain Carrie saw it too, because her expression shifted, not quite angry, but her jaw was set in a way I’d seen before. When she was about to call bullshit on something. Her jaw began to tighten, and her hands clenched into fists at her side. I think she was about to say something, but it was right at that moment when an exhausted looking doctor walked into the room, straight to the desk, and said, “Mrs. Sherman?”

Carrie almost gasped. “Yes,” she answered.

“I’m Doctor Peterson, with the surgical team.”

“How are they?”

“Let’s sit down,” the doctor said.

“I don’t really want to sit. Just tell me what’s going on, please.”

The doctor frowned. I don’t think he was accustomed to taking orders, and she phrased it as one.
 

“Okay. First ... your husband ... I need to make it clear up front, I don’t want to give you any false hope. He’s in very grave condition.”

Her mouth tightened, and she nodded.

“Ray suffered ... very severe injuries in the accident. Multiple compound fractures in his left arm and leg, several broken ribs, and a punctured lung. But much more serious are the head injuries.”

Carrie swallowed and said in a whisper, “Go on.”

“I’m afraid your husband suffered severe skull fractures, and part of his skull was driven into his brain. The surgical team is removing the fragments, but there’s no question he suffered very severe brain injury. Right now we don’t have any way of knowing when ... or if ... he’ll wake up. I expect he’ll be in surgery for at least ten to twelve more hours. And then we wait. His prognosis is very poor.”

Carrie began to shake, and she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Tears ran down her face. “Will he survive?”

“We don’t know the answer to that, yet. He isn’t breathing on his own, and we’ve had to resuscitate him several times. It’s going to be touch and go.”

Holy shit.
Prognosis very poor. Very severe brain damage.
What the hell? I didn’t need anybody to spell it out for me. The doctor had just told Carrie—my wife—that I was going to die, and on the off chance I didn’t, that I was going to be a vegetable.

Carrie was struggling to hold herself together. I wanted to shake the doctor, shout at him, tell him to shut up until Alex and Dylan arrived and someone was there strong enough to help her.
 

And it wasn’t even over yet.

“What about Sarah?” Carrie asked.

At that, Sarah, sitting in the corner, swiveled hear head and stared directly at the doctor. She’d been listening all along.

“Her prognosis is better,” the doctor said, “but she’s not out of danger. Are you familiar with compartment syndrome?”

Carrie shook her head. “What?”

“We see it a lot with severe crushing injuries. The muscles in the extremities are in ... pockets, lined with fascia. The fascia isn’t elastic, and swelling inside the compartments is extremely dangerous. Your sister’s left leg was crushed, and we had to perform an immediate fasciotomy.”

Carrie shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Basically ... we had to cut her leg open to relieve the pressure. She’ll need skin grafts, at a minimum.”

Sarah stood and walked toward us, her face intense.

“She’s not out of trouble yet, unfortunately. We’ll be observing her closely. I’ve got some paperwork for you to go over. It’s possible we’ll need to amputate.”

Carrie winced, and Sarah muttered, “Fucking
hell
you’ll amputate.”

“How likely is it you’ll need to do that?”

“I would rate it as not likely, but it is possible. And if it’s necessary to save her life, we may not have time to come looking for your permission.”

“I see,” Carrie responded.

“Don’t you do it,” Sarah said, her voice a low growl.

Carrie shook her head. “Our parents won’t be here for a long time. Do what you have to do ... but please ... do the best you can to save her.”

“No!” Sarah screamed. “You fucking bitch, tell him no!”

She ran forward and swung a fist at Carrie. It passed through, but I
saw
Carrie flinch. Immediately I reached out and grabbed Sarah around her waist and pulled her away. “No,” Sarah groaned. “I don’t care if I die. Don’t let them cut my leg off.”

“Shut up, Sarah.”

She tried to twist my hands and pull away from me, and it was all I could do to hold on to her. “Sarah,
stop!
”

Finally, she sagged in my arms. I turned her around and pulled her into a hug.
 

“You’re going to be all right, Sarah. Do you hear me? You’re going to be all right.”

I said the words, but they reminded me too much of how helpless I’d been that night when Dylan was injured. Telling him over and over again that he’d be fine, even though I knew it was a lie.

M
y mind was still foggy from the dream I’d had on the plane.

The flight had left two hours late, and once it was finally in the air, I slowly drifted to sleep, pictures of Carrie flashing through my mind. Pictures I’d committed to memory. I didn’t have to stalk her Facebook page any more, because every single one of those pictures was fresh in my mind. But, as it often did, my sleeping mind drifted off in different directions, directions I rarely wanted to consciously think about.

In the dream, I was in a valley pockmarked with small rolling hills, bumps and craters, scrub brush and grass all around. A range of rugged, stark mountains capped with snow loomed over us. Somehow I already knew. I already knew that within twenty-four hours my team would be gone. Kowalski and Roberts dead, Dylan medevaced, and me, the only survivor. The guy who was supposed to lead them and keep them alive. The worst I’d gotten was a grazing furrow down my side from a random bullet. Enough to earn a Purple Heart, I suppose, but not enough to evacuate me from hell.

In my dream, time shifted. We were back near the village, and it was a month later. Even though they were dead, Kowalski and Roberts were with me, Dylan was somewhere in the back, and the fucking new guys were nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Colton had stopped beside the road and was screaming at an eleven or twelve-year-old boy who was leading his sheep God only knows where, and it didn’t really matter, because spit was flying from Colton’s lips. Staff Sergeant Martin, our squad leader, said, “Colton, chill, he’s just a kid,” but Colton started screaming louder. Because that morning, Weber got picked off by a sniper, and we’d stuffed him in a bag. They flew him out while we continued the mission.

“You fucking threw the grenade, didn’t you?” he screamed. “You’re the one who killed Kowalski? Huh?
Huh?”

He pointed his rifle at the kid, and then one of the other guys in Hicks’ fire team joined in, and now two or three of them were yelling, and I was saying,
What the fuck, he’s a kid?
Staff Sergeant Martin got right up in Colton’s face and shouted, “Sergeant, stop it!” and next thing I knew Colton had his rifle trained on Martin, and shit was completely out of control. I screamed “Sergeant, don’t do it!”

“Whoa, soldier. It’s a bad dream, kid. Time to wake up.”

My eyes had flown open and I wasn’t anywhere. I was on a plane. The old man who’d sat next to me had his hand on my arm, shaking me, but when my eyes opened, he pulled the hand back quickly. “Sorry, son ... you were having a nasty dream, had to wake you up.”

“Thanks,” I had muttered. The old man had tried to get me to talk about it, but I wasn’t ready for that. Instead, I opened up the in-flight magazine, and sat lazily paging through it as the plane descended into Texas.

When I walked out of the security gate at Houston’s Bush Intercontinental Airport, my eyes immediately focused in on Carrie. She stood apart from the other people waiting outside the gate, almost as if a space automatically formed around her because of her height or her beauty or maybe just general badassery. This was a lady who handled mountain lions for a living, after all.
 

It was cold, and she wore a plum-colored knit sweater-dress over black leggings with high-heeled knee-high boots. A scarf was wrapped around her neck, and she wore a funky grey hat. Everything about her outfit emphasized her long, lean body, the curve of her hips and legs and breasts. When she saw me she gave a tentative smile, and I grinned back and walked toward her. It was the strangest feeling. We’d only known each other in person for a weekend. But I’d spent so many hours on the phone with her since, so many hours chatting with her online, that I felt like I’d known her a very long time.

Awkward moment, then, as we came face to face and I met her eyes, eyes shaded by impossibly long lashes, eyes that sucked me in. We stood closer than we ever had before, and I could see them so clearly, the blue green surrounded by a dark iris. She wore just the barest touch of makeup. She blinked, once. Did we know each other well enough for a hug? A kiss even? I wanted to touch her, so badly that my entire body shook. But I didn’t know if it was too early. Her smile faltered for a second, then came back, and she met my eyes again, and I could tell she was asking herself the same question.

Well, then, screw it. I reached for her and pulled her to me, wrapped my arms around her and breathed her in. Instantly she melted into my arms. With her heels, she was almost my height, and I could smell the very faint fragrance she used. Her arms, muscular but tiny at the same time, wrapped around my shoulders, and I smiled, pulled back just a little and looked in her eyes. “So are you going to freak if I kiss you?” I asked in a calm, level tone.

Her eyes widened, almost imperceptibly.
 

“I….” She stopped.
 

Permission enough.
 

I leaned in, my lips just barely brushing hers. Christ, I’d wanted that for weeks. She moved, bringing herself closer, pressing her lips against mine, and then her mouth was open slightly, and mine was. I drank in the sensation of her lips against mine, soft, wet. She closed her eyes as we kissed, but I didn’t want to close mine. I wanted to see her.

Her body fit against mine perfectly, and I felt her tremor just slightly in my arms. The kiss grew longer, and tentatively, her tongue just touched mine, and she gave a very soft moan, barely audible. I was flooded with warmth, a feeling I can’t really describe, as the fingertips of my left hand traced the line of her back down to her waist and my right hand came up to gently touch the side of her face. I ran my thumb along her jawline, and her eyes closed even tighter. My tongue brushed just along her teeth, and she gripped the back of my shirt in her fists, pulling me so close I could feel every inch of her.

It felt like an hour before we broke off the kiss, our first kiss, though I’m sure it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds. We both took a long, slow breath, and she gave a low chuckle, keeping her arms around me. I grinned and said, “That made the whole flight hassle worth the trip.”

Her face flushed. “If it hadn’t, were you going to turn around and get back on the plane?”

“Not a chance,” I said. “I’ll try anything twice. Let’s try again and see if it still works.”

Her face flushed an even brighter red, right down to her neck, and her eyes dropped to my chest, shaded by those amazing eyelashes. She smiled, tiny dimples forming in her cheeks. Whatever resistance I might have had vanished away with one sweep of those eyelashes.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, her eyes darting back to mine, then back down, the smile staying on her face.

“Starving,” I said.

“We missed our reservations at Michelangelo’s. They’ll never let us in this late.”
 

“I’ll go anywhere with you,” I replied.

“I know a pretty good pizza place.”

“Lead the way,” I replied.

She started to break off the embrace, and I took a deep breath to clear my head. I didn’t want to let go. She smiled even wider, if that was possible, and tilted her face back again, eyes closing before our lips came together again. This time I closed my eyes, lost in sensation, her face to mine, her breasts pressed against me, an overwhelming, heady euphoria that was so much more than anything I’d ever experienced. We broke off the kiss again, both of us taking short, ragged breaths.

“Do you need to pick up any bags?” she asked, her voice uneven.

I shook my head and reluctantly dropped my arms. Everything I needed was in the Army rucksack I’d carried on the plane. So I followed her out of the airport to the parking deck in an awkward silence, feeling almost as if I’d tossed back two or three drinks. We finally got to her car, a stretched, beautifully maintained Mercedes 280S. It looked like a ’77 or ’78 model, but it was in perfect condition.