Part 4 (1/2)
”Jakie.”
He clenched the sheet with both hands, tried to squeeze juice from it, pressed his teeth together until his temples ached.
”Calm down. You're scaring me.” She moved to the head of the bed, reaching for the b.u.t.ton that would signal the nurse's desk.
”You should be scared.”
”Do you think this is any easier for me me?”
Jacob looked at her, the green eyes made large by her lenses. He was supposed to love this woman. He knew it, something strong tugged the inside of his chest, a deep memory turned over in the grave of his sleeping heart. How could something so sure and real have turned into this? How could an eternal bond dissolve like mist exposed to the bright glare of morning?
”I'm sorry,” he said. That stupid, useless word crawled out of his dry mouth. He couldn't stop it. The response was automatic. He'd said that word so often in the past ten months.
”This is impossible,” she said. She pulled her purse to her lap, opened it, took out a pair of clip-on sungla.s.ses, and flipped the dark lenses over her eyes. Jacob was glad her eyes were gone. Now he could look at her fully.
”There's something else,” she said. She brought a crumpled envelope from the purse. ”I guess you wanted to get in one last little twist of the knife.”
”What are you talking about?”
Renee fished a note from the envelope and read it. ”'Hope you liked the housewarming present. Yours always, J.'”
Jacob's stomach became a great claw clutching at his other abdominal organs. ”Where did you get that?”
”I found it in my car. I guess you figured it wouldn't burn since I was parked on the street that night.”
”I don't know what you're talking about.”
”It's your handwriting, Jake. Don't play any more games. Please.” A solitary tear slid from beneath the black curve of one plastic lens.
”I still don't know what you're talking about.”
”The fire, Jake. The investigators think it might have been arson.”
”I know. They talked to me about it last week. I told them I don't know why anybody would want to set fire to our house. There's nothing special about it. It's not even the best one on the block.”
”But this note--” Her voice broke and all she could do was hold the beige paper in the air before her face.
”--is nothing,” Jake said, his pulse like a frantic clock ticking against his eardrums, a timer for an explosion. ”Throw it away.”
”It's your handwriting. And the insurance--”
”Don't talk crazy, honey.”
”I'm just confused. None of it makes sense. And Mattie... Oh, Jake Oh, Jake.” She squeezed the paper into a ball, stood so fast that her purse fell and scattered its contents across the antiseptic floor. She leaned over him and put her head gently on his chest.
He reached out a wounded hand and stroked her hair. ”Shh. It's going to be okay. I promise.”
”Please don't let it end like this,” she said, her sobs making the narrow hospital bed shake.
”Everything's going to be good as new,” he said, his heart jumping so much he was sure she could feel it through the thin cotton of his hospital gown. ”Trust me. I'm not going to let anyone take you away from me.”
Especially Joshua. No, he wouldn't let Joshua win this time. Not again. Not like always.
As he spoke soothing words and petted her with one hand, his other hand eased across her body to the paper in her fist. He tugged gently and she let go. He glanced at it, saw the cursive letters leaning to the left. Familiar handwriting. He tucked the paper underneath his sheet, secretly, and let her finish crying.
CHAPTER FIVE.
Jacob Wells was released from the hospital on May twenty-ninth.
Steve Poccora wheeled him from his room to the elevator on the day of his release. Jacob insisted he was fine, but Poccora said it was hospital policy to treat everybody like infirms until they reached the door.
”After that, it's your business,” Poccora said. ”Trip and break your leg, for all I care. But we can't have you suing us for something that happens on the inside.”
Jacob couldn't tell if the nurse was joking. So he sat in the wheelchair and watched the elevator lights blink as they pa.s.sed each floor down to ground level. The elevator opened and a man Jacob recognized from the Chamber of Commerce stepped on with a bouquet of pink roses, tulips, and Queen Anne's lace. Jacob couldn't recall the man's name, though he had the thick neck and jowly, red complexion of a former football player. Probably someone in masonry supplies.
”Jacob,” the man said, flas.h.i.+ng his money smile. ”How's it going? You doing okay?”
”Never been better.”
The smile faded. ”Listen, sorry to hear about... you know.”
”Don't mention it.”
”I've been praying for you.”
”That helps. Thanks.”
The man pointed to the flowers. ”For my wife. She's in maternity. We just had our third.”
Jacob nodded, staring past him at the hospital lobby, the wax sheen of the industrial tiles, the patient information desk staffed by an old lady with pince-nez gla.s.ses. Poccora wheeled him out of the elevator and the doors closed with a soft hiss, cutting off the smell of the flowers.
”Dawson,” Jacob said.
”Huh?” Poccora said.
”The man's name was Dawson. You ever do that, draw a blank when you're talking to somebody, then it pops right into your head later?”
”No, man. I think you've been in here too long.”
They reached the gla.s.s entrance and Poccora stopped the wheelchair. Jacob sat looking at the world outside, a changed world, a lesser world.
”End of the ride,” Poccora said.
”Yeah,” Jacob said.
”Your wife picking you up?”