Code Triage (15 page)

The verses about love came before he could stop them:
“It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
First Corinthians. Words that he, like so many others before and after, had wanted to include in their wedding ceremony. But he’d let Leigh talk him out of it and into using something more “contemporary.” Then, of course, their love
had
failed. His fault. And nothing he’d done since had ever fixed it, ever would. He’d be divorced on October 3, a matter of days; he’d find someplace to live, try to move forward with his life.

His cell phone buzzed on his belt. He squinted at the number, then exhaled slowly and answered. “Sam.”

“Great, I caught you.”

Nick stared out at the lights, trying to tell which belonged to a Greek restaurant that was now a Mexican bakery. Impossible. And pointless. “Yes,” he said softly. “You did.”

“Elisa still wants to give you that macaroni butterfly. I don’t suppose you have time to come by? She—we—would love to see you.”

“I was going to Buzz’s to take a shower; I’m pretty grubby.”

“There’s a shower here.”

“Don’t come here again. . . . You don’t belong here. . . .”

“But if you’d feel more comfortable at Buzz’s . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off.

“I’ll shower, then be at your place in half an hour.”

+++

“I was making one last call to check on Frisco,” Leigh explained, setting the phone down as Caro walked into the kitchen.

“How is he?”

“The vet’s going to check him again tomorrow.” Leigh stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I’m kind of tired.”

Caro picked an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it between her hands. “You should be. How long did it take you to do all that lawn work? There must be three bags out there.”

Leigh’s heart cramped. “Not me. Nick. He pruned the hedge for Harry.”

“Oh. That sounds like him.” Something sad and vulnerable flickered in Caro’s eyes. “I see that the boxes in the living room are gone.” She was quiet for a long moment, tossing the apple back and forth. Then her eyes met Leigh’s. “Do you think Mom was right?”

“About what?”

“Happy endings—that there’s no such thing.”

Leigh’s stomach sank. “She actually told you that?”

“At the end of
Cinderella
, every time. Like a disclaimer.”

“Wait. She read to you?”

Caro laughed and the Evers dimple appeared beside her mouth. “Are you kidding? I meant the video. I always had a suitcase full of them.
Cinderella
,
Sleeping Beauty
,
Little Mermaid
; it was the first thing I packed up whenever we moved.” Her smile faded. “Did she tell you that, too? That happily ever after was so much bull; that you need to track down whatever you wanted in life, go after it, never, ever look back, and . . .” Sudden tears welled in her eyes.

“And nothing lasts forever.” Leigh breathed around the lump in her throat.

“I guess, in spite of that, I wanted to believe it could. But now after you and Nick . . .”

God, please, don’t do this. Not this, too.

A tear slid down Caro’s face.

“Oh, sweetie . . .” Leigh moved forward and drew Caro close, wrapping her arms around her, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling her sister’s shoulders shake. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Caro moaned. “And don’t worry; I’m taking my pills, staying sober. But I can’t seem to shake these feelings. . . .” She pulled away at the sound of frantic shouting in the distance. “What is that?”

Leigh rushed into the living room to find Antoinette standing in the open doorway, moonlight spilling around her.

“Thank the Lord—you’re here,” she gushed, staggering toward them with her snowy hair wild, glasses askew and cracked over a swollen and discolored eye. “It’s Harry,” she said, wringing her hands. “He’s frantic and I can’t get him calmed down. Please come quick!”

Chapter Eleven

Leigh grasped her neighbor’s arms, eyes scanning her bruised face and several tiny, scattered lacerations over the bridge of her nose, likely from the broken glasses. She had to ask. “Did Harry hit you?”

“Oh, my. No, dear.” Antoinette shook her head and the red frames slid down her nose. “I was trying to keep him in the bedroom and he pulled on the door, and I fell down. I’m fine, but we have to hurry. I’m worried that he’ll run off. He’s so confused. He thinks that it’s our anniversary and we’re going to the Tonga Room for dinner. He pulled his oxygen off and was rummaging through the closet for his dress clothes. He got so frustrated that he started to throw things.”

Caro glanced sideways at Leigh. “Do you think we should call 911?”

“No, please don’t.” Antoinette’s chin trembled. “They’ll take him away. That’s what happened to the husband of one of my friends from church. And he only got more confused. He never came home. Please. The visiting nurse keeps a vial of sedatives at the house. If you could help me . . .”

“Of course,” Leigh assured her. “But let me go in first. To feel things out, okay?”

Caro took their neighbor’s arm, and Leigh led the way down the porch steps and across the driveways, glad for the light of the full moon. Though, she thought, this particular lunar phase very likely had much to do with the events of the last couple of days. The overdose, the shoe assault, the confrontation with Sam Gordon, maybe even Frisco’s current state. She’d been in the ER long enough to know that the full moon inspired much more than romance.

They heard Harry before they saw him. His querulous voice filtered under the closed bedroom door, blending with Cha Cha’s agitated squawking. “We’re . . . late,” he shrilled. “Can’t be . . . late. Have . . . reservations.”

“
Awwwk
—forever and ever!”

“Harry, poor darling.” Antoinette stepped forward, but Leigh stopped her.

“Let me, Antoinette.” She flinched at the sound of something striking the door, then shattering. “Caro will help you get some ice on that bruise, and I’ll . . .” There was a loud thump behind the door.

“Harry?” Leigh called, close to the door, after watching Caro take Antoinette into the kitchen. “It’s Leigh Stathos, your neighbor. May I come in?” She waited a few seconds, listening. “Mr. McNealy?” She opened the door cautiously.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked except for a tuxedo shirt that he’d managed to put on backward like an old straitjacket. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and his face was pale, ashen. Beside him was an opened photo album, pictures strewn across the sheets, and a tangle of what appeared to be colored plastic leis, glittery party hats, grass skirts, and several dusty champagne glasses and tiki mugs.

“I . . . can’t . . . manage . . . these dratted . . . buttons,” he wheezed, looking up at Leigh with watery eyes as he fumbled with the backward shirt. “Can you . . . get my bride? She . . . always helps me.”

“Sure, Harry.” Leigh opened the door wider, and shards of broken glass scraped across the hardwood floor. She scanned the littered room and spotted the oxygen tank and tubing half-buried beneath a sequined gown. “But let’s get your oxygen back on first.”

“No!” he shouted, trying to rise to his feet. “No . . . time. The reservations. Tonga Room . . . won’t hold them.” He wobbled, then sank backward onto the bed, chest heaving and lips blue-tinged.

“There’s plenty of time,” Leigh reassured him, stepping into the room carefully to avoid the broken glass. She grimaced. Harry was barefoot. “Please sit back down. Let me get your oxygen.”

“Don’t need it!” he shouted, rising to his feet again. “Are you . . . insane, woman? Can’t dance with . . . that evil contraption.” He grabbed a champagne glass, hurled it at the dresser, and stumbled forward. “Antoinette! We’re late!”

Leigh turned as Caro arrived at the doorway, followed by Antoinette holding a bag of frozen peas over one eye. The other was blinking back tears.

“I have that vial of medicine,” Antoinette whispered. “I think if we could just give him a little shot, he’d relax. And forget all this business about our anniversary.” A tear slid down her cheek. “My poor darling. I shouldn’t have given him those photo albums. Harry’s very sentimental. Oh, dear. He’s breathing so hard. Sit down, darling, please!”

Leigh glanced from Antoinette’s anxious face back to where Harry sat struggling for breath in his backward dress shirt. Harry needed oxygen. They had no choice but to call for help.

+++

“Thank you, Elisa.” Nick leaned forward on the couch and touched a fingertip to a glued and glittered piece of pasta. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful butterfly.”

The toddler, in Little Mermaid pajamas and smelling sweetly of strawberry shampoo, grinned at him. She wiggled closer and rested her palm, like a tiny starfish, on his leg. “Ith macawoni,” she said with her soft lisp. “Mommy made it.”

Sam’s face colored. “She means we worked on it together, don’t you, sweetheart?” She dropped her dish towel and walked around the breakfast bar to join them in the family room, her long skirt—sort of soft and pink and printed with flowers—fluttering as she moved. He’d never seen her dressed like that before.

She sat down beside her daughter and pressed a kiss against her downy blonde hair. “And now it’s time for a certain little artist to go to bed. And maybe—” she smiled over her daughter’s head—“if we ask nicely, Nick will read
Goodnight Moon
.”

“I . . .” He hesitated at the intruding image of Leigh’s face, rosy in the light of the rising moon. “Sure,” he said, pushing the memory away. “Would you like that, Elisa?”

“Uh-huh. Pleeease.” She bobbed her head, making her curls bounce.

“Good, then.” Sam lifted her daughter in her arms and stood. Her gaze moved over Nick’s face. “I’ll get her teeth brushed and tuck her in. It will only take a few minutes. I left the rest of the cake on the table.”

“Couldn’t,” he said, lifting a hand in protest. “I’d have to crawl home.” His eyes met hers and his stomach sank. Because he had no home and because he could see very plainly that she didn’t want to him to go anywhere tonight.
Lord, what am I doing here?

He stood after they left the room and walked toward the fireplace, careful to avoid Elisa’s LEGO castle. Sam had added framed photos to the mantel since he’d been there last. Several of Elisa, and a photo of Sam and three other women standing beside a Chinatown storefront with plucked chickens dangling in the window. And one of her brother and Nick at Niko’s wearing aprons, arms raised and laughing as they danced the syrto.

Toby . . .
He lifted the photo from the mantel, the dull ache of grief returning.

“I found it in Toby’s things,” Sam said, walking toward him. “He was always talking about the good times you guys had at your restaurant. The music and the street people you fed after closing time. And what a great chef you are.”

“Was,” he said, looking at the photo and trying to remember exactly when it was taken.
Before Leigh? After?
He’d have to stop measuring things by her. “Not anymore.”

“C’mon,” she teased, stepping close enough that he could smell her perfume. “You’re being modest. Talent like that doesn’t go away. It’s in your Greek blood.” She rested her hand on his forearm and smiled at him. “And if you haven’t noticed, I have a kitchen. I’d love you to cook for me.”

A shower. A kitchen. A daughter waiting for a story.
Was he here because he wanted this? or because he knew she did and what he needed was to be somewhere that he was wanted?

He stepped away and put the framed photo back on the mantel. “I haven’t felt much like cooking since—” He stopped short, realizing that her eyes had filled with tears.

“I know,” she said. “I’ve felt that way about so many things since we lost Toby.”

I meant Leigh.
Guilt washed over him and he moved close, putting his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Sam. It must be tough living in this house, with all the reminders.”

She nodded, her cheek moving against his shirtfront. “It’s hard sometimes, and then—” she leaned back and gazed into his eyes—“it’s good too. Especially now. With you here.”

He held his breath, watching her violet eyes and noticing the faint flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, the warmth of having a woman in his arms again, and thinking how easy it would be to fall into this. Too easy.

“I need you, Nick,” she whispered. “I want you here with me. I’m alone; you’re alone. It’s crazy for you to be sleeping on that couch at Buzz’s.” She startled and then frowned as his cell phone rang. “Don’t answer it.”

“Let me check . . .” He scanned the caller ID and his throat constricted. He walked a few steps toward the dining room table. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Leigh’s voice was rapid, breathless.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Harry. He’s agitated, and I need to get him medicated and back on his oxygen. Caro’s helping, but . . .” She was silent for a few seconds. “I need you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you. I didn’t want to ask, but I know how much you care—” Her voice was drowned out by a deafening series of squawks and Cha Cha’s imperative “Forever and ever!”