The Alignment (3 page)

I didn’t realize I’d have to break in a new nurse today. I should have asked for one of the regulars.

“I’m only asking in case you need a tetanus shot.”

“Just the stitches.” How many times am I going to have to say it?

She presses her lips into a tight line.

How did I not notice my own truck in the parking lot? My apathy will be the death of me if I don’t recover my focus. Maybe I need a change. I’ve been here what—ten years? Twelve? I can’t stay much longer. It seems a good time for a change of scenery. Putting that plan in action may prove to be a problem with my current state of lethargy and indifference though. It would be a hell of a lot easier just to lie in bed at night and wait for them to come for me. Get it over with. My thoughts make it seem so simple, but I know I could never allow them to win again.

The silence hits me and I return to the present to find Liv Gilchrist’s blue eyes boring holes into mine.

“What?” I ask, feeling as if there is an unanswered question hanging in the air between us.

“Do you want to wait for the doctor or would you like me to give it a try?”

“Usually one of the nurses does it,” I answer without thinking. Give it a try? Fuck. I’m probably better off doing it myself.

The look on her face tells me she expected a different answer. Or she’s just been sentenced to the electric chair. “That would be me. But we don’t suture a head wound. We usually—”

“Just do something.”

Her pause feels twenty minutes long. “Lie down on the table and keep your eyes on the corner of the ceiling.”

I slip out of my jacket and drop it on top of my helmet. As the paper on the table crinkles under my weight, it occurs to me this might be a bad position for me considering what I did to her car yesterday. She rummages through the drawers then abruptly exits the room. When she returns, she’s empty-handed. She leaves the door wide open. My discomfort in this closet is either obvious or contagious. She selects supplies from the drawers, and I realize she’s not going to fill the time by talking my ear off. With me captive on this table, she could really chew me out—or worse. Endless trivial details about children, friends, or boyfriends—she keeps it all to herself. Reluctantly, I give her bonus points for that. And it sure beats the hell out of waiting around all day for the only doctor. She finishes in half the time I expected and starts to clean up, so I stand.

With her back to me, she says, “All done. You can check out with Rachel up front.” She stiffens and covers her mouth like she’s about to sneeze.

I grab my jacket and helmet and head out.

Outside, the glaring concrete blinds me, and I pause in sudden awareness of the bright and vast blue sky. The clear air fills my lungs as my eyes adjust, and I try to remember if the weather was this nice on my way to the clinic. The skin on my forehead feels itchy and tight, but the relief I feel walking away from the clinic is a potent amphetamine injected straight into my heart. I swing my leg over the Ninja and start it up. The ride toward the highway passes in slow motion. As soon as I hit the entrance ramp I open it up and fly.

Chapter 3

Liv

T
hank god Trey
Bevan is no conversationalist. I wasn’t sure how to break it to him that his truck and I don’t get along. I may not be able to forgive his driving, but it doesn’t matter. It’s going to take a lot more than a nonfatal car accident to shake me. It was nice of him to let me borrow his truck, even nicer that he thought to grab my stuff out of my car. Especially the Pepto-Bismol. My volatile stomach turned on me again at the clinic. No warning, just like the last time. I can’t believe I chugged the rest of the bottle.

I sit in the truck preparing myself to drive it again, wishing I had demanded a rental car. I should’ve asked him when I had the syringe poised over his face. But right now, I need to run by the pharmacy and pick up another bottle of Pepto.

Maybe this nausea is a new spin on the torment, the latest method to keep me reminded of my solitude. I can’t deny it seems at its worst when I’m around other people. It’s like some torturer has taken over my life, assigned to the duty of keeping me on my toes. Preventing comfort. Hindering rest. And now I’ve conjured up some bogeyman to explain what must be simple nerves resulting from a cross-country move and a run-in with the jerk of the century. The only prescription is time. Everything is better with time. Not perfect, but better.

I start the engine, jam it into first gear, and the truck lurches forward. Luckily, I can pull forward through the empty parking space in front of me. As I shove it into second, the grind of the gears shakes the whole vehicle. I miss third, and the engine revs so loud it sounds like it’s going to explode. I stomp on the clutch and try to find second again. I’m not sure if I hit second or fourth but finally I’m cruising, if you can call it that. I try to avoid red lights as I hit the pharmacy and drive home.

Coyote Dog rises from his lookout on the porch to greet me but ducks and lowers his tail when I miss another gear and the truck shudders and dies fifty feet from the house. Close enough. Maybe I should call a cab tomorrow—but I doubt they have cabs here. I drop down from the truck and trudge up to the house, immediately nudging the thermostat up a few degrees and changing into jeans and an old thermal shirt as soon as I get inside. My pinky catches in a hole near the cuff, and I make a mental note to buy some new clothes. I pull off both socks. Pine floor and bare feet. A pleasant combination to make me feel at home when home has never been so far away.

I go to work cleaning, starting with the dirty windows obscuring my mountain view so still and perfect it seems to be painted on the windows instead of dwelling outside in real life. Throwing myself into the task relieves me like a deep meditation. The Zen of a rag and some window cleaner. Doctors should prescribe it.

Night approaches, but my appetite lags too far behind to be noticed for dinner. I make some oatmeal—my fallback when the idea of eating a meal seems more like punishment than pleasure—and go outside to the back porch with a piece of cheese in my palm in case Coyote Dog comes around. With my bowl empty, I stand and notice Coyote Dog peeking at me from around the side of the house. I’m an awful throw but I try anyway, and the cheese lands close enough for him to snatch it up after a calculating look at me.

I wander to the other end of the porch, and suddenly I’m knee deep in floor boards, crying out and cursing as if there’s someone around to hear me. The knee that didn’t plunge through the rotted boards slams into hard wood. I sit and tug my injured leg out. Deep, wide abrasions full of splinters run the length of my calf where the hole’s jagged sides pushed up the leg of my jeans. Then the blood comes, welling up through the wounds and joining forces to run a river down my leg. I’ve seen worse, but I can’t keep the tears from stinging my eyes from yet another setback. Especially since the rotted boards were noted in my home inspection. My mind was simply too occupied to retain these critical bits of information. As I lie down on my back, Coyote Dog inches to my side.

I stare at the darkening sky and feel sorry for myself for a few minutes. That’s all I’ll allow. Every minute brings me closer to the edge of that pit I know too well. I won’t make it out a second time.

Coyote Dog inches closer. I pretend not to notice, hoping he’ll stay. He lies down like a Sphinx a foot away. I owe him a whole block of cheese.

Time’s up.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to call someone to fix this. Right now, getting myself into the house is top priority. I hobble inside and carefully slide out of my
jeans. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I remove every splinter with my tweezers. It’s a good thing I’ve got a strong stomach for this, even when it’s on the fritz. After washing my leg in the tub, I apply ointment, wrap my calf in a bandage, pull on some cut-off sweatpants, and limp into the living room.

A pain reliever would be a good idea but I’m already on my back on the couch, staring into the wooden beams in the ceiling. The skylight is a dark square that reflects a portion of the room back at me. I could kill the lights and watch the stars, but the light switch is too far away and my leg has become a chaos of sensation—the bone-deep throb of a future nasty bruise, the tight, crawly rawness of exposed dermis.

I cross my elbows over my eyes. Falling asleep on the couch is a bad habit I broke long ago when its only purpose was to get me closer to that sound of his key in the lock. One night on the couch becomes two, then a week, and before I realize I’ll be fused to the thing again and unable to breathe without falling apart. I start to drift, knowing that when I wake up sore and disoriented, I’ll remember this moment when I should have stopped myself. I’ll remember every day and night spent on the couch, and how I’m not going to repeat that. And I’ll get my ass up and take a shower and get dressed. Eat. Go to work. Function.

A heavy air settles on me. A pressure change, but I haven’t moved. My arms fall off my face to allow more breath to flow but all it does is make me feel more smothered. I sit up. Saliva floods my mouth like it does when your last meal wants back out the way it went in. I should have my blood work done at the clinic, maybe run my symptoms by Dr. Wu. Just as I lie back down I hear a knock at the door.

I push myself up and shuffle toward the front door, gripping the wall as another wave of nausea overtakes me. This sure is getting old. I hop into the kitchen and down a swig of Pepto-Bismol. Another knock. I know I look a mess with unkempt hair, cut-off sweatpants, and bloody, bandaged leg, but there’s really no one I need to impress. I reach the door and look out the window to see Trey Bevan on my porch. Swallowing bile, I pull the door open and try to hold it together.

He’s visibly taken aback by my appearance. “Did that happen yesterday?”

He sounds a little guilt-ridden. Good.

“No, just now. I fell through a rotten spot in the back porch.” Damn. I should have told him I fell off a ladder. My attempt at humor is always one sentence too late.

“Oh.” He looks past me into the house. “Are you in for the night?”

“Why?”

“I need my truck for a few hours. I’ll have it back by the morning.”

He’s changed his clothes. The jeans are probably the same, but his T-shirt has been replaced by a thick flannel shirt and a puffy nylon vest.

“I’ll get the key.” I open the door wider. “Come in.”

I never realized how tall he is, or how he seems to have a permanent scowl on his face. To be fair, most men are taller than me. Just not as tall as him. And I’m sure my own scowl could easily outdo his. He stands awkwardly in the foyer while I retrieve his key and hand it over.

“Have a good one,” he mumbles, and he’s out the door, scowl and all.

On my path back to the couch I hear the truck start, grind, then start and grind again. Crap. What did I do? The slam of the hood sounds through the front door, followed by loud footsteps back to the house, and rapid, angry knocking. Holding back my churning stomach, I open the door.

“A bit vengeful, aren’t you?” he says.

“What?” Should I be surprised by his vicious expression?

“An eye for an eye? I trash your car so you trash mine?”

“Are you serious? You think I did that on purpose?” I tighten my grip on the door. He’s too close, and I’m not letting him get any closer without a fight.

“Yes. I think it was sabotage. I should’ve seen it coming.” He turns his back to me like he’s looking for someone out in the yard to strangle.

“It’s not my fault your truck is a piece of shit. Maybe next time you total someone’s car you should give them a vehicle that’s drivable.” My stomach rolls. It’s certainly not helping the situation, or my attitude.

He places both hands on top of his head as if he’s trying to figure out who to kill first. Me, or…well me. He turns back around slowly. I try to look intimidating, but his eyes cut through me.

His arms drop to his sides, fists clenched. “Well played.”

I’m at a loss for words. This guy is something else. There’s nothing for me to gain by ruining his truck. He glares at me for so long I can barely stand it then turns and storms back to the truck. After grabbing a motorcycle helmet out of the bed, he stomps behind the truck to a black motorcycle I didn’t notice was parked there.
Kawasaki ZX-14
. I’ve seen that somewhere before. Gravel flies as he spins the tires and shoots down the road. Don’t know how I missed the sound of that thing coming toward the house.

Call me a coward, but I’ve given up on this day. It’s a lost cause. Although it’s still early, I take a sleeping pill and tuck myself into bed. Yeah, I said I’d quit the pills. Three nights without them is a great achievement but it’s also three crappy nights of sleep. Somehow I’ll have to talk my doctor into another refill. I stare at the ceiling, counting backward from one thousand until the pill takes hold of me.

*

I awaken to the alarm clock and groan as my sore leg reminds me of yesterday’s events. I can’t call in sick on my second day, and I can’t stay home and feel sorry for myself. But I can get myself out of bed and go to the medicine cabinet for pain reliever. I manage to wash up and dress, pull my hair into a ponytail, and pack myself a lunch. A bowl of cereal and a banana serve as a breakfast I hardly taste. I grab my bag and step outside into the cool, clean morning air. Coyote Dog rolls happily in the dew-covered grass while birds sing to one another across the forest.

Oh yeah. The truck is broken. And he probably took the key.

Coyote Dog wanders up and looks at me, his head cocked to the side. I sit on the stoop. A vehicle passes on the road through the trees but instead of growing quiet its sound gets closer. Coyote Dog sneaks into the woods. Seconds later, a bright red pick-up drives toward me. As it comes to a halt, the window rolls down to reveal a large, bearded man in red flannel and a baseball cap. I’m going to need to buy more flannel to fit in here.

“You Liv?”

“Yes?”

“I’m your ride.” His window rolls back up without my answer.

I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Is the gift horse going to take me somewhere and torture me and bury my dead body in the woods? Entirely possible. Hell, I have nothing to lose. I limp over to the open passenger door and climb inside.

“Trey wanted me to tell you he doesn’t go back on his word, no matter how difficult the other party is. Normally I wouldn’t want to get involved, but he pays good.” He snickers and pulls out onto the road.

He glances over at me and grins. “Well, Trey didn’t exactly use the word ‘difficult,’ but I edited for your benefit.” His laughter seems to shake the truck. I imagine the sound repeating later, when he and Trey can have a nice laugh together at my expense. But that would require Mr. Crabby to lighten up. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen since he’s too busy throwing tantrums in my front yard.

We ride in silence the rest of the way. When he pulls up to the front of the clinic, he asks me what time I get off, and I thank him and slide out of the truck.

Work is uneventful, nothing like the ER in Chicago, but it’s a pace I hope to fall into with time. I’m showered with sympathy about my leg, and I quickly tire of reliving the event for every single person I encounter. If my injury is the most exciting thing that happens around here, I’m going to have to find a hobby. Another nurse named Jennifer removes my old bandage and puts on a fresh one while she describes the clinic’s most eccentric patients to my honest attempt at interest. I desperately want to fit in here despite my rough start in this town.

I run into Dr. Wu as I’m getting ready to leave, and he insists I take tomorrow off. I try to explain that I’d rather come in than sit at home but he tells me my shift has already been covered. The red pick-up is waiting outside for me, and Jennifer walks me out and helps me into the truck. She closes the door and waves as we pull away.

“I won’t need a ride tomorrow,” I say to my driver.

“Yep.”

Figuring there’s no way he could know I have tomorrow off, I assume he’s just acknowledging my statement. We drive in silence, and I stare out the window at the zigzag of the tree line against the sky, rising and falling as if oblivious of the road lying flat below it. As we near the driveway, I spot Coyote Dog pacing near the entrance. He follows the truck to the house and stops to turn and look at me in exasperation, like he’s really being put out.

Trey’s truck perches on jack stands with a pair of legs sticking out from underneath. I want to laugh—the half-tamed wildlife and I seem to be getting along better than I am with my own species. I give Coyote Dog an
I know
nod. He makes three tight circles and curls up by the porch, not taking his wary eyes off our intruder. He must be more frustrated than me. This was his house before it was mine.

I reach for the door handle. My stomach heaves. I slide out of the truck and hobble inside without even a look in Trey’s direction.

“Trey, man! Pay up!”

I slam the front door before I have to hear his voice. The bathroom seems a mile away but when I reach it and flip open the toilet lid, the trek has settled my stomach back into place. I change out of my scrubs into an oversized T-shirt and the same cut-off sweatpants I wore yesterday. Staring at myself in the mirror, I try to relax the guarded expression I wore all day.