Red Light (13 page)

“Kerry,” Roy answered for me succinctly, as he half caught the box with me.

“Trouble?” he asked, as he shifted his own bag over his shoulder.

“Who’s Kerry?” Bennie asked.

I sighed. “My ex, my ex-girlfriend.” I stared at the spot where I’d seen her last.

“Well hey, then,” Roy said, and clapped me on the shoulder, “you better put that thing in a bucket of water.”

“Huh?”

Roy smiled brightly. “You know, bomb defusion?”

It took me a moment. “Oh. Oh, yeah!” I smiled back. “Nah, that’s not an issue. We going to Mike’s Place?” I deliberately changed the topic, tucked Kerry’s present into my knapsack, then reached for a pack of cigarettes.

“Gotta spare?” Roy asked as I slid one out of the almost-full pack. He rarely smoked, and I’d practically given it up—not because anyone had asked me, but out of respect and concern for my beautiful cousin who would more than likely pass on that delicate Del Castillo face to my new niece or nephew.

Still, every now and again? It was better than drinking, anyway. At least I could drive without worrying about hurting anyone because I’d done something stupid.

We debriefed from the exam at the diner, and after discussing every possible scenario we could think of, we finally said good night to one another. Roy drove Bennie home.

Exhausted by the time I parked and got inside, I was thankful for the foresight that had prompted me to take the next few days off.

*

I was dreaming, dreaming I was outside with my grandmother, her skin soft and warm as her fingertips held mine and I skipped along beside her down the sidewalk, kicking at little stones, scooping up dandelions. The sun was bright on our heads.

I don’t know what made me glance in that direction, maybe it was the wink of glass embedded in the asphalt, maybe it was a flutter of movement, but I looked.

In the middle of the road, almost next to the Day-Glo yellow double lines, was a bird, a pigeon that walked forlornly with one wing held awkwardly away from its body.

I slipped my Nana’s grasp and dashed into the street to save it, to take it home and nurse it like I already had with other birds, two mice, one kitten, and one rabbit.

My grandmother snatched me up and away over my wiggly protest before I took half a step.

“But, Nana,” I pleaded, “the bird! A car—” One roared by at such speed it drowned my words of explanation and blew my hair into my face.

I began to cry hysterically while Nana held me tightly.

“Victoria!” she admonished. “You must never,
ever
, do that again!” Her arms tightened even further and swayed me with her while I sobbed harder. That poor bird!

“What would I have done if it had been you?” she whispered into my ear. “Who would save
my
little bird?”

I woke up with tears in my eyes, because she had been
so
real. I could still feel the silkiness of her cheek as it pressed on mine and the absolute comfort of her arms around me. A sob caught in my throat when I realized she’d been dead for the past eleven years—a long time, a very long time.

I glanced over at my dresser where my clock read six a.m. in unforgiving bright blue, then sat up and swiped at my eyes, all hazy dream sorrow gone, only to be replaced with nervous anticipation. Today was the day, today was the state practical exam. I jumped out of bed, rapidly showered and dressed, and as quickly as I quietly could, tripped down the stairs to the kitchen to grab some coffee before I left.

As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I could smell the food cooking and knew Samantha and Nina were already up.

“Sit and eat,” Samantha said as I stepped into the kitchen.

“I’m just gonna have some coffee. I’m a little queasy.”

“Today’s your practical exam, right?” Nina asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, then, it’s going to be physical, which means you have to perform. No one performs well hungry,” she said, “so have some juice and just pick at something.”

She was probably right, so I sat down, Samantha passed me a glass of juice and a plate of scrambled eggs and home fries, and that was that. I stopped protesting after the first bite—Sam made some mean home fries, and sure enough, I was starving.

“You know, I had the weirdest dream,” I told Nina and Samantha while we ate. Sitting there and eating breakfast with them was a little like when we were kids and Nina and Nico used to watch us smaller ones. They made breakfast, and while we all ate, we’d tell each other what we’d dreamed.

Since I’d moved into Nina and Samantha’s, on the rare occasional mornings when we all caught each other, we fell into the same habit.

“By the way, I’ll get breakfast tomorrow,” I offered, since they’d gotten it this morning.

“Sure,” Samantha agreed, as she reached for the salt. “So, what was it, the dream, I mean?”

I recounted it to both of them.

Nina sighed and studied her plate before speaking. “Tori, you were eight when that happened.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you cried yourself sick over it, and Nana took care of you. You don’t remember?”

I frowned as I focused. “I remember…I
think
it was the first spring or summer we moved here…I was really sick and…yeah, you’re right—I do remember that. Hey!” I smiled as it hit me. “She made you sing to me, right?”

Nina nodded and chuckled. “Yeah, she did, and you wanted show tunes, nothing but show tunes!”

“Huh! I did not!” I felt the burn in my cheeks and Samantha raised a brow at me.

“Well, there was at
least
one,” Nina teased.

“Hey, ‘The Rose’ is a rock ballad, it doesn’t count,” I parried as I loaded my fork. I chewed thoughtfully for a moment and remembered another detail. “Or if you sing it in cartoon voices,” I added innocently.

Samantha’s eyebrows shot to her hairline as she goggled at her wife. “Cartoon voices?”

“She was
eight
years old,” Nina countered. “Should I have explained to her about the heroin addict instead?” She smiled.

Samantha shook her head and took a hearty swallow of her juice. “Cartoon voices,” she muttered.

We ate in silence for a few moments.

“Hey, Tori, you know Nana was kind of a rescued bird herself, right?” Nina asked.

“Huh?” I swallowed my coffee.

“Nana, you know, the
story
?”

I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, the whole castle on the black mountain thing, blahddy blahddy blah,” I dismissed. “I’ve heard
that
story about a million times.”

“Well, I don’t know it,” Samantha chimed in.

“Oh, it’s actually kinda cool, in a weird way,” Nina faced her animatedly and said, waving a hand.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “it
is
kinda cool, if you haven’t heard it every day of your life.”

“So?” Samantha asked.

“What?” I asked back.

“The story?”

Nina told her the family legend.

It was
really
all about our great-grandmother, Blanca Monte Negron. When she wouldn’t let our great-grandfather keep his lover in the house, he stole her infant daughter, whisking her away to the working ranch high in the Andes Mountains. At gunpoint our great-grandmother took two horses and forced a
campesino
(a ranch hand) loyal to our great-grandfather to take her across the mountains in the dead of winter, then back to the city when she recovered her daughter. The fight for her daughter switched the
campesino
’s loyalties—and from then on my family considered his children and grandchildren as friends and cousins. In fact, they still lived and worked on the ranch back in the mountains.

At the same gunpoint our great-grandmother shot a would-be kidnapper who killed her husband during an attempt to steal her baby, our grandmother, and it was her—Blanca Monte Negron and that indomitable strength, will, and courage that had let her face and triumphantly overcome what should have been insurmountable odds for anyone,
especially
for a woman in that place and time—we celebrated whenever the clan got together.

Samantha choked on her coffee and with an uncharacteristic clumsiness knocked the rest over somewhere during the attempted kidnapping story.

“Are you all right?” Nina asked in alarm.

“Fine, just fine,” Samantha croaked, waving her away. “What a waste of good coffee,” she observed as she wiped the table.

I got up and brought her some more, and since no one was dying, which was a good thing because I wasn’t licensed to do anything about it yet, I started to go.

“Kick ass.” Nina smiled at me as I thanked them both and excused myself from the table.

“Yeah,” Samantha agreed, “kick it hard.”

I smiled nervously as I double-checked my belt and my holster. I had everything I needed and they each gave me a hug.

Samantha’s hug was strong, steady, and sure, while Nina’s was just as strong, but with an added something, something that made me feel secure. But there was another element, something off that set a buzz in the back of my head.

I visually examined her carefully, wondering if it was because she was pregnant. “You feel okay?” She did seem paler than usual.

“I’m fine, Tori. I’m not puking or anything,” she laughed, “so go kick some.”

*

I was so focused on getting to the campus that it seemed I suddenly materialized in a parking spot.

My hands were a bit sweaty when I walked up to the registration table and was sent to my first testing station, but my nervousness disappeared as I fell into the role.

I went through all stations, covering a range of medical and trauma emergencies, and I don’t remember any of them, except the difficult breather. I had a patient sitting in what’s called posturing, or tripod, leaning his hands on his knees, raising his shoulders to maximize lung surface. That was an immediate hint, and when I asked for skin coloration, I was told the lips had a faint purple tinge, as did the fingernail beds. I was pretty sure I knew what this was, but I needed to know one thing for sure. I listened for lung sounds and asked what I heard: wheeze on exhale.

I smiled because I’d nailed it—and I knew it. “Asthma,” I said, straightening, and ran through the treatment protocol.

Roe, the instructor who was running this station, smiled. “You know, you’re the only one who asked about lung sounds? Good job, Tor.”

At Kathy’s station, I remembered her frequent admonitions during practical lectures (occasionally reinforced with a cuff to the head for the less swift) to describe the applied triangular bandage as having a “snug” fit for the state exam—or fail the station. If I failed? That wouldn’t be the reason why.

I wasn’t surprised when Bob asked me, Roy, and Bennie to stick around and play victim for the next three testing sessions, but I
was
surprised when Bob took us out to eat after the practical. As we waited in the diner for our food, I was bursting to know how I’d done, and I was certain Roy and Bennie had the same anxiety.

Bob grabbed a piece of buttered toast. “You’re gonna give yourselves a heart condition,” he commented mildly.

“Oh, no, this is a heart condition,” Roe joked, and poked another of our instructors, Ray-Ray, next to her. “Ready?” she asked him, and quirking a grin our way, she picked up her coffee mug, holding it before her in readiness.

Ray-Ray grabbed his as well. “Any place, any time, Roe.” He grinned back.

“Yeah, JVD race!” Joey, another instructor, called out. “I’ll time it!” He stood, displaying his watch to all. Everyone except Bob joined him and grabbed their coffee mugs.

Bob remained seated and calmly ate his home fries. “Check this out, kids,” he told us, indicating Joey with his chin. He wiped the egg yolks on his plate with his toast.

Roy, Bennie, and I just watched in confused amusement as Joey stared at his watch, holding his hand up for a countdown. “Three…two…go!”

Every tech, medic, and fire person there downed their coffee in swift gulps and almost in unison slammed their mugs back down. They stared at each other.

“Yeah…there it is!” Ray-Ray crowed, touching his fingers where his veins began to bulge out of his neck. I goggled at everyone else and, unbelievable but true, I could see the soft swell of a vein on most necks—jugular venous distension—except Roe’s. The crew muttered good-naturedly as to what the exact nature of the winning prize was.

“Tori, what side’s the blockage?” Bob asked sharply, quickly.

“Left,” I answered, not even really taking time to consider as I reached for the home fries. They weren’t bad, but Samantha made them better, I thought as I chewed.

“What else could it be, Roy?” He pointed with his toast.

“Late-stage congestive heart failure, both sides.” He shrugged and buttered his toast.

“What about trauma, Bennie?”

She looked over her coffee. “Tension pneumothorax.”

“And that’s why,” Bob started as he salted his eggs, “I’m comping you guys for the instructors’ course.”