MAGPIE (15 page)

For the next three months, I would pour myself into my work, leading my team through demanding projects designed for our company’s continued success. What that meant for me was long days, short weekends and too many meetings. Chewing over my situation at work (e.g. my boss), I wondered if I should dust off the list I’d started last spring that included, among other life-changers, a new job.

Before starting my workday, however, I went for a morning jog—a no-fee alternative to trendy and over-priced gym memberships. Washington Park was a mile away, so I warmed up with a brisk walk then picked up the pace when I reached the 2.5-mile jogging trail that wound through Denver’s most popular playground. Heading home, I slowed to a walk so I’d be cooled down by the time I walked through the door.

I was greeted by a drooling brown dog and promptly poured his kibble, adding a slice of butter just for the heck of it. Although I walked him regularly, jogging was too much for the old guy. Now a solo activity, I often listen to music to pass the time, allowing my mind to wander freely; what color to paint the house, whether I should dig out a new garden in the back yard and how to carve out more time with my folks comprising the remainder of my cranial space. That morning, though, I thought about Daniel…and Greg.

My shower felt unusually good after my run, probably because I couldn’t get Greg out of my mind. I wondered what his chest looked like, what his back felt like. I mentally scrolled down and imagined a line of pubic hair forming right below his navel, leading to a perfectly proportioned cock, tracing his muscular thighs, the foundation of his Adonis-like frame. Sucking in deep breath, I rinsed my hair with my left hand and found my throbbing pussy with my right, realizing I was surprisingly close to orgasm. Rubbing hard and fast, I came within seconds. I stood under the flow of hot water as a smile crossed my face.

“I could fuck you right now, Greg,” I whispered as I grabbed the towel off the rack. My smile turned impish, recalling a similar declaration a few weeks back; made, of course, on Daniel’s behalf.

Once dressed, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, unplugged it from the charger, and unlocked the screen. I had several text messages, including one from Tony,

Today, 6:24 AM

TONY: Mags, Steve’s had an accident, can’t come in today

After eighteen years together, they’d finally agreed to marry. Vermont was the spot; not only was it Steve’s birthplace, but also an ideal location for a Christmas wedding inspired by the 1942 classic,
Holiday Inn
.

Today, 7:18 AM

MAGS: What happened?

TONY: Bike accident

MAGS: How bad?

TONY: Concussion, waiting on tests

MAGS: What hosp? OMW

Steve had just turned sixty, almost twenty years older than Tony. Both were in great shape, gym rats who worked out five or six times a week. Year-round cyclists, they’d toured much of the U.S. and Canada. Safety was always a concern, so their routes often included back roads and highways. I was stunned and couldn’t shake my nerves.

I called my third in command at work, Stephanie, who took over operations that morning with unwavering dedication. My team was a loyal bunch of folks who supported each other in good times and bad. How could I possibly think about leaving this team just because my boss was a horse’s ass? I made a mental note to burn the silly list I’d been reworking for months.

Tony’s text interrupted my contemplation. Steve was at Swedish, a well-respected hospital with a strong reputation in neuroscience, which made me think “critical head injury.” Messages like Tony’s sent me reeling to the worst possible scenario, a dramatic trait I’d acquired since losing Jack and Michael, and one I’d gladly surrender if given the opportunity.

Heading south on Downing Street for several miles, I found on-street parking fairly close to the hospital. My phone buzzed with a voice message—I hadn’t even heard the phone ring. I hurried to the main entrance while listening to Greg’s voice.

Normally, he avoided texting, relying on it for emergencies or quick check-ins. My voice mailbox was nearly full; I’d saved all of Greg’s messages for no other reason than to listen to the sound of his voice. Each message was different and captured his various moods. Luckily, there was capacity for one more message. Greg wanted to know if I was interested in seeing a play on Saturday night. Not just any play, but “Wicked,” a show I’d wanted to see for years. I’d made it to the elevator, sure I wouldn’t be able to place a call in the steel carriage, and I sent a quick text,

Today, 7:47 AM

MAGS: Friend in the hosp, will call when I can

GREG: Sorry Mags, prayers going out your way

MAGS: Thx

I was glad that he didn’t ask if there was anything he could do, or worse, ask what had happened. Greg had style, no doubt.

Steve was not in his room; he’d been taken away for another scan of some sort. Tony sat in a comfortable recliner all rooms were equipped with. He stared out at nothing in particular; his face gray and his posture stiff—he resembled a zombie character from a movie, but he wasn’t acting.

I quietly walked toward him and said, “Hey, Tony, I’m here. What do you need? Coffee?” There is very little one can do in a situation like this—I know firsthand. He said nothing, obviously needing his space. I pulled up a chair and held his hand.

About forty-five minutes later, a nurse wheeled Steve into the room. He was hooked up to lots of equipment, but one machine in particular stood out: a ventilator.

Tony stood up, weak-kneed, and asked the nurse, “How is he? Why is he plugged into all this stuff? Why is there a tube down his throat?” With each question, Tony’s voice raised an octave. He was panicking, and the nurse was not able to give him the information he was so desperately seeking.

“Please, Mr. Carras, the doctor will be in shortly. Please try to calm down.” I knew exactly what Tony felt the minute she told to calm down, so I stepped forward and said, “Thank you. Can you tell us Steve’s doctor’s name and specialty?”

I wanted to distract the room, and it seemed to work. Tony seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

“Certainly, it’s Dr. Henny, Joseph Henny. He’s our chief neurologist. Steve is in great hands.” I wasn’t comforted, and I knew Tony wasn’t either. Until we met Dr. Henny, we’d be just as in the dark as before, but it bought me a few minutes to figure out how to manage the situation. Tony pulled a chair next to Steve’s side, keeping vigil for twenty minutes until the good doctor walked in—a slight man, about fifty, with thick salt and pepper hair. His eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, and his smile seemed genuine.

“Mr. Carras, I’m Dr. Henny, but you can call me Joe if that works for you.” He extended his hand, and Tony received it with gratitude. “It’s Tony, doctor. Please tell me what’s going on.” Tony began to shake, and I grabbed his hand.

“Ok, Tony, I believe in telling it like it is, and that’s what I’m going to do in Steve’s case, okay?” Eyes fixed on Tony’s, he went on, “Steve has had a severe brain injury. His other injuries are superficial in comparison and will be taken care of in due time. For now, we’re concerned about the swelling of his brain.” He went on, but Tony didn’t seem to be absorbing anything he was saying.

Politely interrupting, I asked, “Can you explain why Steve looks the way he does and what all the tubes are for?” I knew lay-speak was difficult for some doctors; prodding was often the key to unlocking it.

Within fifteen minutes, we’d been informed that Steve was in a medically induced coma to better monitor the swelling in his brain. Until he was brought out of it, the doctors wouldn’t know the full extent of the damage. Tony couldn’t take in any more details, so I gathered as much information as possible, hoping to relay it later.

Suddenly coming out of his own coma of sorts, Tony asked, “Is he going to live?”

“Yes, we feel very good about that. However, we can’t say for certain what the extent of the damage is until we take him off the ventilator and run more tests. I’m sorry we can’t tell you more right now.” Dr. Henny put a warm hand on Tony’s back then shook my hand. After he left, Tony eased back into his chair and began to cry. I kneeled next to him and took his hand in mine, silently crying with him.

By eleven o’clock, several of the couple’s friends had made their way to the neurology floor’s waiting area with armfuls of flowers and food. I greeted them, provided an update, and made my way back to Steve’s room to say goodbye. Tony’s head rested on the side of Steve’s bed, his hand gently on top of Steve’s arm. He’d fallen asleep, and I didn’t want to wake him. I left a note on the food tray, saying I’d be back later, which was a white lie; I wasn’t sure if I could return. Since Jack’s illness, hospitals and all the sounds, smells and medical paraphernalia made me queasy and claustrophobic.

Minutes later and in a daze, I combed the neighboring streets looking for Beater until I finally stumbled across him. I opened the door, got in and buckled my seat belt, frozen in thought until my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered in an unfamiliar monotone.

Tenderly, Greg said, “Hi Mags. You’ve been on my mind. I’m calling to see how you and your friend are doing.”

“I don’t know where to begin, really,” I said flatly. “My friend, Tony, is my admin at work. He’s been with me for years. His partner, Steve, was in a biking accident. I just don’t know what to think.” I began to cry and could feel the knot in the back of my throat building, I said, “I’m sorry, Greg, it’s just so much to take in. Any chance we can talk later?” But I wanted to see him more than ever, and I silently cursed myself for cutting him off.

“Mags,” Greg said evenly, “Why don’t I come over, bring some tea and make you some toast. I don’t think you really want to be alone, do you?”

How could he have known? Giving in, I said, “I’d like that Greg, I really would. You’ll have to forgive my state, I’m a complete mess right now.”

Forever apologizing
…
Jesus, will I ever stop
?

Not taking my bait, Greg simply said, “I’ll see you in about an hour. I want to run to the market. Please drive safely, Mags.”

When I arrived home, Cody sensed my sadness and kept out of my way as I headed straight for the bathroom. I barely made it to the toilet before heaving what little was in my stomach. I was so sad for Tony and Steve and their future; once again, I was pissed at God, demanding to know why bad things happen to good people. I didn’t expect an answer, but it felt good to curse Him.

I ran a hot bath. Greg wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes, and I longed for a much-needed soak in steaming water and lavender oil. It was early afternoon, and it felt odd being home in the middle of a workday. The neighborhood was quiet, and I was grateful for the solitude.

Closing my red, swollen eyes, I listened to a playlist brimming with my favorite female artists. The haunting voice of Joan Baez was lamenting “Diamonds and Rust” when I heard Cody bark.

I’ll be damned; here comes your ghost again…

“Cody, come here boy,” I shouted, but he kept at it.

“Cody! Don’t make me have to get out of this bath!” I was just about to hoist my tired ass out of the tub, when I heard a voice, “Hey there, I remember you.” It was a male voice, obscured by the music and the span of the hallway.

“Hello?” I shouted, not feeling particularly frightened because it dawned on me that it was most likely Greg, recalling that I’d left the door unlocked.

I remember your eyes were bluer than robin’s eggs…

“Mags, it’s just me, Greg. Your door was partially open, not just unlocked. Are you okay?” Greg held back, having figured out I was in the bath.

I said with a sense of familiarity, “Yeah, all good here. Still soaking. Is Cody behaving?” Nerves began to get the best of me—what if he decided to bring me something? I had Harpo hair, mascara dripping down my face, and my legs, underarms and bikini line were certainly unsuitable for viewing.

Another shout from the kitchen, “Just making some tea. I brought over some
Tomme Estaing
, I get it from
Fromage
. I think you’ll like it. I’ll toast the baguette,” he said casually like we’d been doing this sort of thing for a long time.

We know what memories can bring, they bring diamonds and rust…

“You brought over what?” I had no idea what he was talking about, and I frantically washed my face then wrestled to find my razor. Like I’d been hit by a brick, I slouched back into the tub; I needed to let it go—not of the cloth, but my crazy way of trying to be exactly what was expected of me…or so I thought.

“Cheese! Give me just a second.” Greg said with a focused tone.

Well you burst on the scene, already a legend…

I gave him a second, and then some. I sank into the water, closing my eyes, feeling the sensations of water and sound…

I heard footsteps and then his voice, “Mags, here’s your tea.”

Opening my eyes, I stared into Greg’s piercing blue ones. He’d found one of my Italian ceramic serving trays and loaded it with a steaming cup of chamomile tea, English biscuits and a semicircle of cheese and toasted baguette rounds. He’d crafted a tantalizing arrangement—something I’m not sure I could do.

The light was dim, a few candles burning on the edge of the tub. I looked up and saw Greg looking at me, my body wet with lavender water. I caught my breath and said thank you, but before I could go on, Greg said, “Maggie, you are lovely, truly lovely.”

I couldn’t escape his eyes, and as much as I wanted to turn away, I couldn’t. I said nothing as I reached for my tea. No one—not even Jack—had offered me anything while I soaked in the tub. My bath time was off limits to kids, husbands and dogs. And yet, Greg had managed to penetrate my sanctuary with such ease.

Greg kneeled beside the tub and kissed my cheek. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. His right hand traced my face, my neck, and stopped at the curve of my breasts. His left hand then stroked my head, moving to my neck with gentle pressure.

Our breath comes out white clouds, mingles and hangs in the air, speaking strictly for me, we both could have died then and there…