Trauma Plan (32 page)

“Now,” Margo told her, “hunker down and make your way toward the door.”

Oh, please, God . . .
Riley’s heart wedged into her throat. She started to move, remembering what Bandy had said about God’s hands. That they held you, even at times when you doubted they could, and you had to trust—

“Closer to the door, Riley. Right to the edge—right up there.”

The wind snatched at her hair. The ground blurred below.
Why am I doing this?
Riley’s heart pounded in her ears. She thought of the pecan branch . . . her parents . . . the staircase in the hospital garage. A fall of less than fifty feet had broken her neck.

“Cross your arms and grab your harness.” Margo placed a palm on Riley’s forehead, pulled her head backward to cradle it against her shoulder. Margo leaned forward, and Riley’s backside lost contact with the doorway. “Here we go!”

Oh, God, help . . .
Riley braced herself for a fall . . . that didn’t happen.

Instead there was an incredible sense of simply merging with the air. An outward, lifting stretch and forward momentum, as if riding a wave. Like a feather in an updraft—or those childish dreams of flying. But with ear-buffeting noise: rushing air and crisp flapping of jumpsuit fabric. Riley responded to Margo’s prompt to spread her arms wide. And at once her palms crested the air currents like a kid’s from the window of a car on the interstate. Cold wind whipped her hair, jiggled her cheeks, puffed her nostrils . . . chilled her teeth. She giggled and shouted against the wind, teeth going numb. “I’m . . . doing this! I’m—” She turned her head, looking as Margo tapped her shoulder again and pointed.

A flash of gray, big and spread out like an eagle riding a thermal. A hand, a thumbs-up—the windswept but familiar grin.
Jack!

Riley grinned back, felt air floss her teeth. “Look, I’m—”

Margo tapped again, grabbed Riley’s forehead, and deployed the parachute.

Oh!
There was an abrupt upward yank, the harness grabbing at Riley’s hips and shoulders, legs dancing like a marionette’s . . . and then complete, pristine silence. She glanced down at an impossible view: her shoes dangling free, silhouetted against a patchwork panorama of Texas countryside. Ribbons of highway, minuscule buildings and vehicles . . .
God’s view.

Margo loosened the harness for comfort—causing Riley a split second of panic—then pulled expertly on the strings, making the canopy swirl as they changed direction. Riley relaxed, awed by the graceful silence and an unparalleled sense of peace. She floated downward like dandelion fluff set free by a child’s wish.

If only my life could compare . . .

* * *

Jack gathered up the last billowing yards of his black parachute while keeping one eye on the sky. He’d maneuvered his canopy to land before Riley. And . . .
She’s there. She’s fine.

He shook his head, still confused by the unexpected rush of feelings that had started while he was in the plane. He’d started out as stoked as ever, joking with the other divers, eager to free-fall and excited to be sharing the experience with Riley. It was the ultimate high: thin, fuel-scented air, the roar of engines, the secure bulk of his parachute, a chilling rush of air through the exit door—and a beautiful woman to share it with.
Incredibly beautiful.
If possible, Riley was even more attractive at thirteen thousand feet—in that jumpsuit, with her breathing quickened, cheeks flushed, and long strands of hair coming loose. Truthfully, if she hadn’t been harnessed to Margo, Jack would have had a tough time keeping his hands off her.

It had been his Superman fantasy made real—until the fear in Riley’s eyes hit him like a bucket of cold water. Then suddenly Jack was remembering that she’d spent a full year recovering from bone-shattering trauma and was still struggling to reclaim her life. He started to worry. What if she had a bad landing, reinjured her neck . . . or worse? Her parents had already lost a child. With a wave of guilt, he’d reminded himself that Riley wouldn’t be in the plane if it weren’t for him.

He’d found himself questioning Margo’s expertise, the integrity of the equipment, the sobriety of the pilot, the accuracy of the blasted wind sock. And in a stomach-churning instant, he remembered Abby’s funeral. If he hadn’t known that Riley was probably praying, he’d have been tempted to try it himself.

But instead, Jack had kissed her, whispered, “Blue skies” instead of “Don’t do it.” And he still had no clue why he’d felt all of that.

Jack turned his head, spotted them on final approach, and exhaled in an audible rush. Margo’s feet touched ground, then Riley’s. They were down, safe and sound.

In mere minutes he was beside her, watching as she chattered to Margo in the breathless superlatives typical of first timers. She pulled off her goggles, fussed to control her wind-scrambled hair.

“Jack!” she said, noticing him finally. “I—oh, I’m dizzy.” She took a step and staggered sideways. “But I did it. You saw. I did it and I’m still alive, and . . .” She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. And then began to tremble—chin, shoulders . . . all of her. “I d-don’t know why I’m crying. This is . . . so crazy.”

“Here.” Jack slipped an arm around her. “Let’s get away from the landing area. Over there.” He guided her toward the shady side of the hangar, the swishing of their flight suits filling the void in conversation. They stopped, and before he knew it, he was holding her. Tightly.
Safe, where you’re supposed to be.

It finally struck him—the reason for his jumble of feelings on the plane. It was that he couldn’t risk losing her. Talk about free-falling . . .
What am I doing?

25

“I’m sorry.” Riley pulled back to look up at Jack. Traces of goggle lines etched her forehead.
Skydiving marks and surgical scars.

She struggled against another wave of trembling, managed a short laugh instead. “I’m an idiot for crying. And so embarrassed—I don’t know what got into me.”

“Altitude. Thin air,” Jack said, trying to ease her discomfort. He brushed wind-wild hair away from her face. “And First-Timer Syndrome,” he added with feigned seriousness. “Giggling, shaking, dizziness. Miserable hives . . . and relentless retching.”

“Hives? Retching?” Riley eyed him warily.

“And a sudden infatuation with your tandem instructor.” Jack smiled, enjoying her expression. “Which is why I suggested Margo. Even with her really bad safety record, and—”

Riley punched at him.

He captured her hand, laughing. “C’mon,” he said, leading her toward a picnic table a short distance away. “Let’s sit down a minute.”

They sat side by side on the bench, quiet for a stretch of time. The endless loop of “Free Fallin’” in the distance blended with excited chatter of passersby, several of them with arms full of parachute. Riley’s gaze swept skyward, and Jack saw the almost-imperceptible shake of her head. As if she still couldn’t believe what had happened. He knew the feeling. Even after more than thirty jumps, today was different. And whether he liked it or not—even if it felt riskier than a failed chute—Jack had to talk with Riley about it. Had to know . . .

He cleared his throat. “When I took my first jump in New Mexico, it required an hour or so of ground school. A video, the waivers. All that. They asked the first timers, ‘Why do you want to skydive?’” He frowned. “At the time, I thought it was a stupid question. A no-brainer. I was doing it because I wanted to. Period. That’s who I am. But other people started giving reasons. A woman who’d been divorced wanted to prove she could make it on her own; a guy said he was going to start chemotherapy the next week; two people insisted it was on their ‘bucket list.’ And this elderly woman who’d been a card-carrying Audubon member for fifty years explained that she needed to know what it felt like to be a bird.”

Jack met Riley’s gaze. “When you left that message last night, you sounded upset, like you were crying.”

“I . . .” Discomfort flickered across her face. “Tough day.”

When she didn’t say more, Jack made himself go on. “Like I said, for me it’s always a matter of taking the risk, thinking about it later—maybe. But you don’t operate that way, Riley.” He smiled. “You’re like the safety officer of life, and—” He stopped, not expecting her frown.

“Is that how you see me?” Her chin lifted in that way he knew too well. “Like an overprotected hothouse flower? Or some gutless—?”

“Whoa, whoa—hey.” Jack groaned, remembering what Rob had said about his lack of tact. “Wait. I guess what I’m asking is, did I coerce you into doing something you didn’t want to do?” He hurried on, insisting she hear him. “I wouldn’t want to do that. That’s all I’m saying. In my inept way.”
Because I care. More than I want to.

“No. It wasn’t anything you did.” Riley took a deep breath, exhaled. “Yesterday I heard that I’m not going to be considered for a triage position at Alamo Grace. After all my planning and all that focus, it’s not going to happen. Joanna confirmed it this morning.”

“She got my letter?”

“Yes. And in the end, it doesn’t help. Because I was proposing a position that doesn’t exist. There is no full-time triage nurse. Only staff nurses who triage.” Riley shook her head. “I knew that.”

Jack knew where this was going. Maybe he’d always known.

“They can only hire for an ER staff nurse position. I’ll have to make a formal application. And show competency in all areas: be precepted in manikin practice, IV therapy . . .” Riley glanced down at her hands. “And first, they want medical documentation from my neurosurgeons that I’m physically capable of all that it entails. I’m expecting it any day now . . .” She looked back up at him, tears gathering again. “They asked . . . Kate’s opinion.”

Oh no . . .

“She told Joanna she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of me on her team.”

“Ah, Riley . . .” Jack reached for her hand.

“No,” she said, sliding it away. Riley blinked stubbornly against the tears. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Jack. I’m not really surprised by what’s happened. And I am going to keep at it. I’m not giving up. Mostly, I’m just plain mad. Not at Kate, even though that hurt. I’m more ticked off that after an entire year, I haven’t made the progress I expected. I’ve been fighting and trying—using everything I have—to prove I’m not overprotected and gutless. And incompetent and broken.” Her voice cracked.

“And that’s why you jumped,” Jack whispered, understanding that kind of anger better than anyone.

“Yes. Not because I wanted to feel like a bird; I don’t like them that much.” Her half smile was comically sad.

“Hey . . .” He reached for her hand again and this time she didn’t object. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about skydiving.”

“Besides the rash, gagging, and the way I’m going to feel about Margo?”

Jack laughed. “Besides that. You have to celebrate your first time. Beyond the certificate and that little pin they’ll give you.” He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand. “Whatever the reason you jumped, you have to go out and celebrate. With me.”

Her fingers curled inside his. “What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner. Then somewhere for live music.” He wondered if she could feel how much he wanted this. “And after that, to this great place I know for watching the sun go down.”

“‘Blue skies’ . . . then a sunset?”

“Required—it was in the fine print.”

* * *

It was no use. Vesta set the binoculars down. A painted bunting would look the same as a house sparrow with her vision so blurry. And it wouldn’t clear up until her blood sugar stayed under 300. It had done that only once in the past twenty-four hours. She glanced up at the photo of her colonel, knowing that if he were alive, she’d have been marched to the doctor at the first inkling of illness. No excuses. He’d remind her that health was a gift and that they had to be good stewards, even if it meant sugar tests three times a day, insulin injections, and homely but foot-friendly shoes. He’d promise there were mountains yet to climb, rivers to raft, foreign starlight to dance by.

And now the mailbox seems as far as Africa.
Vesta glanced away in shame and reached for her reading glasses. She’d give the antibiotics another forty-eight hours, and if things didn’t improve . . . what? Her landlady was in Colorado for a week. If Vesta even managed to work up the courage—or desperation—to venture out for help, she’d have to call a cab. Or . . . walk down to the clinic?

She glanced toward the open laptop beside her and reread the e-mail reminder from the action committee about Saturday’s emergency meeting at the library. And a reference to yesterday’s Dumpster fire at the dress shop. She’d heard the sirens. The
Express-News
printed a short article, saying that the police attributed the fire to a stunt by local juveniles and doubted it could be linked to the far more damaging fires in New Braunfels. But that all the fires were still under investigation.

Vesta shivered, not sure if it was caused by the continuing fever or because there had been another arson. One block away. She shed her glasses and reached for the binoculars again, struck by the irony that she was beginning to feel suffocated by the safe confines of her home. She’d come to depend on that stingy glimpse of the outside world more than she’d realized. And now it was disappearing. If she couldn’t see the street, there would be no hope of spotting Bandy Biggs and the sweet little dog that so reminded her of Corky. No way to see fire trucks.
No warning if that man is out there.