Cited to Death (11 page)
Pete reappeared with a bathrobe. “Here. You can use the guest bathroom and just leave your clothes in there. I’ll toss them in the washer. Do you want pajamas?”
“Do you have just a pair of gym shorts?”
“Yep. Coming right up.” He headed back up the stairs. I left my computer bag on the sofa and followed him, then turned off into the guest bathroom. I dropped my clothes on the toilet lid and put on the robe, then headed for the master bedroom.
Pete was putting the comforter back on the bed. “I put a pair of shorts in there.” He indicated the master bath with his head. “There are clean towels in there and a new toothbrush. Help yourself to shampoo or whatever else you need.”
I nodded. I was too tired to form words. The shower had a seat molded into its shape; I turned on the water and sat down. Once I was done and dry, I put on the shorts and the robe, brushed my teeth, and headed for the kitchen.
Pete was starting the washing machine. “Feel better?”
“Cleaner, anyway.”
“Well, that’s a start. Want something to eat?”
I didn’t feel hungry, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I guess I’d better. But not much.”
“How about tomato soup? Some crackers?”
“Actually, that sounds great.” And it did. I sat down at the little dining table and waited.
We ate. I needed to check my peak flow again, but realized the flow meter had been in the apartment. I wasn’t going to do anything about that tonight; I’d get it replaced in the morning. I rubbed my face.
I was whipped, but the worst side effect of all the drugs dumped into me over the course of the day was a jittery exhaustion that made sleep impossible. So there wasn’t any point in going to bed. Pete arranged a mass of pillows on the sofa, and I propped myself up with my laptop and a glass of water. Pete went out briefly to get my prescriptions filled, then settled on the love seat to grade papers.
Pete was coming down off the adrenaline of the day and was soon napping. I leaned back and closed my eyes, but sleep still wasn’t coming. I sighed and decided to take a crack at rearranging the translated Welsh article. I wasn’t going to be able to read anything tonight, but maybe I could unscramble some of it.
I pulled the document out of Dropbox and paged through it. The article was arranged in sections, similar to the research articles I was used to seeing – abstract, introduction, review of literature, hypothesis, methodology, statistical analysis, results, discussion. I decided to start with the methodology. That would be the most interesting comparison to Oliver, Wray, and Goldsmith’s article. I took a deep breath – at least as deep as I was able to – and jumped in.
About an hour later, Pete woke up. “Whatcha doing?”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you. The Welsh-language article came today. I’d run it through the translator and saved it before Harley came in.”
“You’re working on that
now
?”
“Well, I have to do something. I’m still all juiced from the drugs. The worst of it will wear off in a couple of hours” …breathe… “and I’ll be able to sleep then, but until then I might as well do something. And I can’t do anything that requires concentration or precision. So I might as well do this.”
Pete just shook his head. I turned back to the article. I’d almost finished with the methodology section. The terminology sounded very similar to that of the Americans’ article, but that was no surprise. If the successful procedure was a modification of the earlier one, the methodologies should be somewhat similar.
I completed the last paragraph of the section, saved it, and logged off. It was after midnight now. The jitters were wearing off and exhaustion was starting to steal over me again. I decided to check email before shutting down. Nothing important, except for a message from Detective Blake.
Dr. Brodie,
We’ve taken a preliminary look at your computer and haven’t found any evidence that it was hacked into from outside the UCLA network. I interviewed Ms. DeLong today, and she denied having done anything to your computer. She was quite upset by my questions, however.
We have several other things to look at, and I will let you know the outcome. Just wanted to let you know that, so far, this looks like an inside job.
Regards,
Roger Blake
I considered that. The possibility of an inside job was the only logical explanation, really. But who at UCLA would want to do that? I didn’t remember any students getting mad at me. And it was hard to imagine Roberta, the unfriendly staff assistant, going to these lengths.
I yawned. Pete looked up, then laid down his book and stood up. “Okay. Time for bed.”
I didn’t argue.
I'd been in Pete's bed before, but not this one. He'd upgraded since we'd dated. I slipped in between the clean, soft sheets and almost groaned with pleasure. I wouldn't mind sleeping here for a few nights.
That thought snapped me back to wakefulness. I couldn't stay here for long. This would be pushing friends with benefits too far, way too much like a real relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to Pete.
And it scared me. Because, if I was really, truly honest with myself, I was already a little bit in love with Pete.
Maybe even more than a little bit.
So I couldn't stay here long.
But where could I go?
I'd have to talk to our apartment manager. Maybe there was a studio apartment I could sublet or get a short-term lease on while our place was being repaired.
Finding a place of my own was probably a good idea anyway. When Kevin and I had first moved in together, we were fresh off our divorces (that's what Ethan's breakup had felt like to me). Neither one of us wanted to be alone. Now Abby was there. She and Kevin didn’t have any plans to get married, but even so I was starting to feel like the third wheel, in spite of the fact that my name was still on the lease. But neither one of them would ever ask me to move. At least I didn't think they would. So I'd have to do it on my own.
No time like the present.
So I could kill two birds with one stone. Find a place of my own to get out of Pete's house and to give Kevin and Abby more privacy. And I liked our apartment complex a lot; I could get a studio apartment there and still be close by Kevin and Abby in case they needed help with anything.
Okay. I'd try to do that tomorrow.
Tuesday June 5
I slept late the next day. When I woke up, Pete was gone and the sun was streaming in the cracks between the blinds. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was 9:30. Shit. I'd slept longer than I'd intended. My bladder was screaming at me to get up.
I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, sat up, and was overcome with a wave of dizziness. God, I felt terrible. I sat there to clear my head and took stock. My head hurt a little. My rib cage hurt a lot. Every breath was a reminder of the strain my rib muscles had been under yesterday. I had random bruises on my arms, a couple from IV insertions, and a couple that I couldn't identify. Probably got banged on the stretcher or something.
And I had no clothes.
The dizziness passed, and I stood up. I was dizzy again, but not as bad, and I walked into the bathroom. My clothes from yesterday were folded and stacked on the toilet lid. I sniffed them; the smoky smell was gone. Pete had washed, dried, and folded them. I sighed. I could get used to being treated this well, and that was a problem.
I took a longish shower, letting the hot water beat on my ribs and the steam penetrate my lungs. I washed my hair again; I might be imagining it, but there seemed to be a smoky smell still hanging around in it.
I got dressed, and realized I had no toiletries. Crap. I looked around and didn't see anything. I walked back out into the bedroom and saw that I had missed another thoughtful gesture from Pete. On the top of the dresser was a new deodorant, razors, and a tube of travel toothpaste. He'd left a note as well: "I had these already, help yourself."
I could really get used to this.
I had to get out of here.
I was eating breakfast when Pete got home. I'd put my clothes from yesterday back on, but I felt overdressed. He came in and dropped his computer bag at the door. He looked tired.
"Hey. You found your clothes."
"Yeah. Thanks for doing that for me."
"No problem." He got a bottle of Coke out of the fridge and leaned on the counter. "I figured that was easiest. And they smelled like smoke."
I washed my bowl and spoon and remembered that I hadn’t looked at my phone since yesterday in the emergency room. There was one voice mail. I started listening - oh, shit. It was from Diane. I must have turned paler than usual because Pete said, "What's wrong?"
I put the phone on speaker and started the message over.
"Hello, Jamie Brodie, you fucking ASSHOLE! Guess what? I just had a visit from the fucking UCLA cops asking me if I had sabotaged your fucking computer. The answer to that is FUCK NO! How could you
think
that? You
asshole
!! Here's another question: are you and I still friends? The answer to that is FUCK NO! Fuck you! And the horse you rode in on! You can go fuck yourself! Or better yet, get one of your PIG friends to do it! But no, wait, you'd like that too much! So just fuck off! I never want to see your fucking face again! GOODBYE!"
There was silence for a moment. I erased the message. Pete made like Mr. Spock. "Fascinating."
I groaned. "I was going to call her yesterday morning, then I got busy, then I had the attack."
"That was pretty nasty. And she doesn't have much of a vocabulary."
I put my head in my hands. "I don't know if I can fix that."
Pete sat down across from me. "I'm not sure you should try. At least not today."
And my phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID; it was a UCLA number. "Hello?"
"Jamie." It was Liz. "How are you feeling?"
"Hey. Better, definitely."
"Oh, that's great. I was afraid they were going to keep you overnight."
"Nah. I've got to be a lot closer to death for them to do that."
"Oh, don't even joke about that. Listen, I wanted to tell you something. That girl that was in your class in library school? The one with the orange Mohawk?"
Uh oh. "Yeah. Diane DeLong."
"Yeah, her. She was here late yesterday looking for you. She was really mad and kind of made a scene. Dr. Loomis had to ask her to leave."
Oh, shit
. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry about that. Will you apologize to Dr. Loomis for me?"
"Sure. But she doesn't blame you." Liz paused. "You know, I never wanted to tell you this because she was your friend, but Diane used to make some really homophobic remarks when you weren't around. Not against you personally, but in general. And also sometimes about Mark Gladwell, who was in my class. Remember him?"
I did. Mark had been young, small, and effeminate. And not yet out. He would have been an easy target. "Really."
"Yeah."
"Well, she said some pretty homophobic things in her message. And she used the P word in reference to my cop friends. And I don't mean P for police."
"Wow. Well, then, maybe she's not such a loss."
"Maybe. But I've got bigger problems than her right now." I told Liz about the fire.
"Oh my God! Do we need to start an emergency drive for you?"
I laughed. A little. "No, I'm fine. Relatively speaking. I'm staying at Pete's for now." That got a look from Pete. "And my computer bag was with me, and I have the clothes I was wearing. And I think I had laundry in my car, which is still at the shop. And we had renter's insurance, so I'll get a check at some point. So don't start collecting anything."
She laughed. "Okay. When are you coming back to work?"
"Tomorrow." That got another look from Pete.
"Okay. I'll tell Dr. Loomis."
We hung up.
Pete's voice was soft. "What do you mean you're staying here
for
now
?"
I cleared my throat. "Well, I was thinking. Who knows how long it's going to be before they get our place fixed? Kevin's fine at Abby's sister’s, but I can't impose on you for an indefinite time. I can check with our apartment manager and see if they have any studio apartments that are going to be empty just for the summer. That way I'd be back near campus and out of your hair."
Pete's face was a mask. "Why would you think that I want you out of my hair? You're not imposing on me."
"Yeah, but -"
He smacked his hand on the table and stood up. "Damn it, Jamie!" He turned away from me, then walked upstairs.
I lowered my head and slowly, gently banged it on the table. Then I went upstairs. "Pete?"
He was in the guest room, at his computer. He didn't turn to face me. "What?"
"I'm gonna take the bus to Westwood. I have to pick up the VW."
That made him turn around. Then he stood up and picked up his keys from the desk. "You're not taking the bus. Don't be an idiot."
I didn't say anything. I followed him out the door and to his Jeep. We drove in silence to the garage. He waited until I was sure that the VW was ready to go, then gave me the door key to the condo. "In case I'm not there when you get back."
I just nodded.
I didn’t hear what I wanted to from the apartment manager. “The studios are really popular right now, and we don’t have one available at all, unless someone breaks a lease. And I don’t really expect that to happen.” She smiled sympathetically. “I’m glad you enjoy living here so much. I’m going to put the pressure on to get your place restored as quickly as possible. We should have you back in there in less than a month.”
I thanked her. I was going to have to gut it out at Pete’s.
Since I had my car, I went to Target in Culver City. In spite of what I'd told Liz, I really didn't have anything to my name except a computer and a car and the clothes on my back. Target opened up to me like an old friend. I bought socks, underwear, swim trunks, gym shorts, lots of t-shirts, a couple of pairs of pajama pants, sweatpants and hoodies, a couple of pairs of jeans, a bunch of polo shirts, and a couple of pairs of chinos. I wasn't going to get dress shirts here; I could get away with wearing polo shirts to work for a while. I did have a pair of running shoes in the back of the VW, and I had the shoes I'd been wearing yesterday, so I could get by there as well until I could get to Penneys or someplace with a better shoe selection. I bought toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, razors, deodorant, soap, and towels. I went to the pharmacy and replaced my flowmeter. And I bought beer and Coke Classic and a huge box of Cheez-Its. Comfort food.
I was getting in the VW when Kevin called. He had just met with the insurance adjuster, who had cut him a check on the spot. He was depositing it into our joint account, so when the funds became available in a few days I could transfer half to my account.
Then he asked, "Where are you?"
I told him and filled him in on the other events of the morning.
Then he proceeded to yell at me.
He yelled at me for picking up the car, for going to the apartment complex, for going shopping. He yelled at me for the way I was treating Pete. He yelled at me for thinking that I wouldn't continue to be welcome in my own home with him and Abby. He yelled at me for even thinking of going back to work tomorrow, and he yelled at me for having been friends with "that pink-haired loon" (Diane) in the first place.
He ended with, "What the hell is the matter with you?"
I said, "I don't know." And hung up on him.
Then I sat in the parking lot and called my dad.
My dad and I were always close. He was close to all of us; he’d raised us, with help from our grandfather, after our mom was killed by a drunk driver when I was six months old. But after Jeff and Kevin had gone off to college and my granddad moved back to South Carolina, it was just me and my dad for a year. I’d always been able to talk to him about anything. And I really needed to talk to him now.
When he answered the phone, “Hey, sport, what’s up?” I had to struggle to fight back the tears.
The first thing I managed to get out was, “I just hung up on Kevin.”
“Okay, why’d you do that?”
“Because he was yelling at me.”
“Okay, why was he yelling at you?”
And that’s how it went. Eventually I calmed down enough to stop sniffling and spill my guts.
My dad was pretty much quiet through the whole story, occasionally asking a question to clarify something. When I got to the asthma attack and the fire, he was aghast. “Jamie! If someone is after you up there, then the last thing you need is to be by yourself. Why do you not want to stay with Pete?”
I tried to explain it to him. He wasn’t buying it. “Son, you don’t give Pete enough credit. He obviously cares about you, and he’s a much higher quality person than those last three or four guys were. And he’s
definitely
not Ethan. You need to change trains here. Get off the Ethan train before the Pete train leaves the station and it’s too late.”
“I am off the Ethan train.”
“No, you’re not. You’re still letting him color every relationship you have, seven years later. He’d be amazed to learn that he has this power over you. You didn’t let him rule your life while you were with him, so why are you letting him rule it now?”
A flash of insight that I didn’t know I had until I opened my mouth. “Because it’s safer this way.”
“Well, apparently not, since you tell me your life is a disaster right now.” Dad paused. I could almost hear him deciding what to say. “Listen. I wouldn’t worry about Diane. She’s the one who needs to apologize to you. Kevin will forgive you, and he shouldn’t be yelling at you anyway. But Pete is not going to put his life on hold forever waiting for you to come to your senses. And it’s time for you to do that. To come to your senses, I mean. If the universe is pushing you in one direction, which it clearly is, then trying to maintain your position is pointless. It expends a lot of energy, and you won’t win. Tell me the truth. Do you have feelings for Pete?”
“Well, yeah – I mean, um-” I stopped. And admitted it. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then for Pete’s sake, pun intended, get back to his place and tell him.”
I groaned. “It’s not that easy.”
“Yes, it is. At least talk to him. Graciously accept his offer of staying with him, apologize to him for being an idiot, and see where it goes.”
I sighed. “I’ll try.”
“Okay. And tell Kevin that I said to stop yelling at you.”
I laughed a little. “I will definitely do that.”
We hung up. I sat there for a few more minutes, staring off into the distance. Then I started the car.
By the time I got back to the condo, it was nearly 7:00. Pete was home when I got there. I’d been half afraid he wouldn’t be and half afraid he would. I dropped my stuff at the foot of the stairs and collapsed onto one of the chairs at the dinette table, rubbing my face with my hands. Pete sat down across the table from me.