Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (32 page)

“I think you should go,” Hugh said to the man. As he began to leave, Hugh said, “And can you send someone in to clean this up.”

“Sure.”

“He won’t send anyone,” I said, “because he’s not a real nurse. He’s a hit man.” My heart was racing, but my body and mind were moving in slow motion. I knew it wasn’t safe to stay in that room, but I didn’t have the strength to get out of there.

“Alright,” Hugh said, “How about I find you a nice clean gown?” I looked down at myself and nodded. Hugh was helping me change when a nurse wearing scrubs covered in pictures of teddy bears came in.

“Oh honey,” she said, “You shouldn’t try and get up.” She swung my legs back into the bed smiling at me. “You’ve got trauma little girl.” For some reason her calling me a little girl sounded nice. I smiled at her. “Any fast movement will make you puke.”

“Who was that guy?” Hugh asked her.

“Who?” the nurse asked as she readjusted the pillow behind my head.

“The nurse who told you to come in here, that she’d puked.” The nurse was holding up my head, putting the pillow under it, when she replied,

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie. I’m just doing my rounds. No one came to tell me nothing.”

I was so tired all I could say was, “Hugh, please don’t leave me. I don’t want to die.” I felt him take my hand and squeeze it before I drifted off to sleep.

The Battle Begins

I checked myself out of the hospital the next day. The doctor explained to me that my body had experienced a severe trauma and that they could help me. That without them it was going to be—and then his pager went off, and he didn’t finish his sentence.

A nurse wheeled me out of my room, down a long hallway with white, scuff-marked walls and florescent lighting. Her shoes squeaked on the green linoleum that was graying with age. We rode an elevator two floors down, then maneuvered around a moaning figure on a stretcher to get out the front door.

It was hot, and I was sick. As Hugh helped me into a cab, I wondered how crazy I really was.

The next morning I went to pick up milk at the bodega. I looked down and thought I was standing in a puddle of thick, red blood. I picked up my foot, and it stuck to it like gum. Before I began to scream, it was just the floor again. The woman behind the counter with the long nails was shocked by my face. “My God,” she said. “What happen?”

“I’m fine,” I told her.

“Your boyfriend beat you up?”

“No, nothing like that. I was in a car accident.”

“Oh yeah, that happen.”

I kept waking in the middle of the night hearing James calling my name. Cars backfired and I freaked. I eyed every average-looking person, as nondescript as my last assassin. I thought they were going to kill me.

I was staying at Nona’s because my apartment was a crime scene. My mother called me every day, and we fought for custody of James’s corpse. Reporters called, too. They wanted to know who killed my brother. Why I couldn’t remember?  Were Mulberry and I “an item”?  Did he murder James? Did I have a comment?  If they would just shut up!

I picked up Blue from the veterinary hospital. He was different. He was always on guard, watching out for me. A large white bandage covered his left shoulder. I changed it twice a day, marveling at how quickly his body was healing itself.

I thought for sure my dog-walking route would be gone until I checked my messages and heard Elaine telling me that she and the girls would cover it for me as long as I needed. Their generosity made me break down and cry. Blue rushed to my side and put his head on my knee.

Hugh and I called all of James’s friends, the same crowd that had gathered only two weeks earlier for the house-warming party. My mother invited her friends and planned to petition for James’s body.

“We should just steal it, burn it, and toss it off the bridge,” Hugh said as we sat on Nona’s couch planning our defense.

“We can’t steal it,” I told him. Hugh huffed and took a sip of the coffee Nona placed in front of him.

“I think you have to appeal to your mother in some way,” Nona suggested.

“Maybe a decapitated horse head in her bed would do it,” Hugh suggested, only partly joking. Nona and I laughed. Hugh grimaced. He had lost weight, enough for me to notice.

“"Hugh, you alright?” I asked him.

“Stupid question, Joy.” He leaned back on the couch and rubbed his temples.

“Sorry.”

He looked over at me. “No, I’m sorry. I just haven’t been sleeping.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. It was a dumb question. Neither of us is OK. It will take a long time before we are.”

He gave me a weary smile and squeezed my arm. “You’ve lost some weight.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same to you.”

“I can solve that,” Nona said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Maybe Nona’s right. Maybe you should go to your mother and try and talk to her.”

“How? She’s insane.”

“Either you persuade her not to do this, or we’re going to have to fight her in court and in the media for James’s body.” Hugh’s voice broke. I put a hand on his knee.

“I’ll try,” I told him.

“We just have to figure out how to appeal to her,” Hugh said. Nona walked back in and put two slices of dark chocolate-chip cake in front of us and smiled broadly.

“Now, eat up. It’s good for you.”

Blackmail?

Bill and April Madden were staying at the Luxor. As I rang the bell to their room I had to resist the urge to make some sort of comment about how well God paid. Bill answered the door holding a glass of Scotch and wearing a hotel robe. Ice clinked when he turned to yell to my mother that I was there. He turned back to me, with more clinking, and smiled, his lips sliding over his teeth.

“Good to see you, Joy,” he told me, starting at my feet and ending at my breasts. I swallowed my revulsion.

“Bill.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile. A large gold cross hung around his neck, nestled in his graying chest hair. I remembered when that hair was jet black, and he’d wanted me to sit on his lap. My mother came out of the bathroom, her makeup freshly applied.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Hi.” She smiled. Her foundation cracked, making her instantly older.

“Ma, can I talk to you alone?” I asked over Bill’s hulking figure.

“Anything you need to say to her you can say in front of me,” Bill interjected, rocking back on his heels and puffing out his chest. He didn’t even look at my mother. He kept his eyes locked just south of mine.

“This is a mother-daughter thing, Bill,” I told him with a very fake smile on my face. “Woman-talk.” I tried to sound cheerful. His gaze moved to his feet, and he thought for a moment.

“I guess you two could go downstairs,” he finally came up with.

“OK, Ma?”

“Sure.” We rode the elevator in silence. I rehearsed my speech in my head. Nona, Hugh, and I had worked on it for hours. We hoped it would persuade her to let James have his dignity. When I looked over at her, she was watching the numbers light up one at a time. She didn't look as though she had been sleeping well. Even under all that paint, I could see dark circles around her eyes. I hoped it was because she missed her son and not because she was worried that he was burning in hell.

The elevator dinged, and we stepped out into the gilded lobby. There was an overpriced coffee shop with several people sitting around with luggage waiting either for a room or a ride. We took a table away from everyone else and silently read our menus. I ordered chamomile tea, and my mother got a water. We looked out the window at the Manhattan street as people with umbrellas hurried by in the rain. We watched as a woman in a navy suit fought with an inside-out umbrella, eventually taming it and then continuing on her way. I scanned the passing pedestrians, looking for anyone who might want to hurt me.

Our water and tea arrived, the waitress walked away, and I began, “Ma, I’m here to beg you one last time to let James have the funeral he wanted.” She sipped her water, not taking her eyes off the street.

“I can’t do that.”

“But why not?”

“Bill and I have sworn to spend our lives fighting for God. I am God’s soldier.”

“This is your own son. He didn’t want this. Can’t you respect other people’s wishes? Not even other people. Can’ you respect your own son’s wishes?"

“He didn’t know what was best for him, and I couldn’t help him in life.”

“Do you think doing this will in any way change his fate?”

“It’s the right thing to do.” She looked back at me. Her eyelids, colored crayon-blue, hung heavy.

“Ma, I love you. James loved you. But if you do this you will have lost not only your son but also your daughter.”

” have to do what is right.” She looked down at her water.

“I didn’t want to have to do this.”

“What?”

I took a deep breath before continuing. “I will tell the world that Bill molested me when I was a teenager.” My mother gasped.

“He never did such a thing,” she said, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t say he did.”

“But no one will believe you.”

“Yes, they will. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because he is a man of God.”

“Even if only a couple of people believe me, it will be enough. I can ruin him and you. I will do it if I have to.” She couldn’t believe what I was saying. “I’m serious, Ma. In fact, I think I would even enjoy it a little.”

“This is blackmail.”

“You’ve got it.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I just did.” I stood up to leave. “Talk it over with Bill.” I turned and walked away.

“Joy!” she yelled after me. I turned to look at her. She was so small, and so silly-looking it almost broke my heart. “Please.” The other people in the shop were watching us, and the waitress was getting nervous. I walked away.

Later that night, I got a call from Bill. He screamed at me that I was going to hell, and I almost believed him. Then my mother got on the phone and begged for me not to do this. Eventually she told me I could do whatever I wanted with James. I tried to remind her that it was what
he
wanted, not I, but she had already hung up. Hugh was as happy as one can be about earning the right to give the love of your life the send-off he wanted.

I got a call from Mulberry the morning of the funeral. It was a stormy Saturday morning. The trees outside Nona’s window bent in the wind, exposing the silver-green of the leaves’ underbellies. “How have you been?” he asked.

“Never been worse,” I told him.

“Can we talk in person?”

“Not today.”

“This isn’t over.”

“Oh. I know.”

“Call me when you’re ready.”

“I will.”

The Funeral

The worst of the storm proceeded east, spreading its turmoil to the ocean. Waves whipped white and lightning crackled. New York City’s streets shone black and wet, dotted with green leaves recently ripped from branches. Occasional gusts of wind caught in the maze of buildings whooshed down streets, splattering resting raindrops violently to the ground. People started arriving at Nona’s soon after the sun set. Nona, then me, then Hugh, then an ice-cold martini, greeted each guest.

We drank for a while at the apartment. Everyone told stories of James’s compassion, his sense of humor, and his vibrant life. I felt like there should be something cathartic about the funeral. Standing with the people who loved James, shouldn’t I feel that some of my grief rested on their shoulders? Even if only for a moment, I wanted to breathe. But their loss only compounded mine. It was all my fault.

The mood turned sober as we walked toward the bridge. We must have looked strange, 30-some-odd people dressed for a funeral walking in a pack through the streets of Brooklyn. Pedestrians moved out of our way instinctively. Hugh held James’s ashes. We walked with our heads held high.

My mother did not show. I wondered where she was as we reached the edge of the bridge. Was she already on her way back home to continue her work? Was she crying at the hotel knowing that she was missing her only son’s funeral because her mind couldn’t wrap itself around something simply different? Would she regret this for the rest of her life, or would she feel righteous and hateful forever?

The wind on the bridge whipped my hair around. My skirt and those of the other women pressed against one side of us. Men’s suit jackets flapped. But we pushed on toward the bright lights of the city.

Hugh stopped us in the middle of the bridge. “Can everyone hear me?” he yelled over the rushing wind. People nodded. “This is totally illegal, so after we open the canisters and we watch the ashes fall, we really ought to run. Those of you in the back should run back to Brooklyn and those of us in the front will run to Manhattan.” More nods. “Before we go, I’d like to thank you all for coming. I know James would have loved this.” People smiled sadly, and I felt a clench in my chest. Hugh turned to me. “Ready?”