Bleeding Out (39 page)

At length, Kennedy groaned and stretched away from the table. She started clearing their plates while Frank stared into her jeweled wine. A cello suite played softly in the background. The fire popped and flickered warmly. It was a lovely Christmas Eve, and Frank was intensely detached from all of it. She felt like she was living the night from inside a plastic bubble. She could see and hear everything around her, and seemed to respond to it appropriately, but she couldn’t feel any of it. It was like watching herself in a dream. She started to wonder if maybe she was asleep. Maybe she’d taken that nap after all and was just dreaming all this. When she woke up she’d taste the food and laugh at Kennedy’s stories and be grateful for all that she had tonight.

Frank realized Kennedy had said something to her, had knelt next to her chair.

“I’m sorry. What’d did you say?”

“I said, ‘Where are you?’ You’re a million miles away.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just tell me where you are.”

Kennedy’s face was compassionate and concerned. Frank wanted to ease her worry but didn’t know how. It was an effort just breathing around the cold heaviness in her chest, no less speaking.

“Sorry I’ve been such a drag tonight.”

“You haven’t been a drag. It’s just obvious you’re not all here.”

Frank reassured Kennedy it wasn’t anything to do with her.

“You sure? ‘Cause I can go home. It’s no big deal, it’s still early.”

“No. Stay.”

“You sure? I feel like I’ve been in your hair all night.”

“No.”

Frank looked at the shiny hair, remembered how she’d wanted to touch it that night. The feeling seemed distant.

“I’m glad you’re here, sport. I’ve just got to…I don’t know…get some sleep.”

“Tell you what. I’m gonna go for a walk. Why don’t you head on to bed? Get a good night’s sleep.”

Facing the night alone and so early was the last thing Frank wanted to do.

“I might go read in the den for a while.”

‘“Kay,” Kennedy said, rising, “I’ll try to work some of this food off.”

“Hey.” Frank took Kennedy’s hand. She wanted to explain where she was but she didn’t know. She studied the young face as if a clue might be there. Finding no answer and no words she finally said, “Be careful, huh?”

Kennedy chuckled. “As always, mother.”

Emptying the wine bottle, Frank paced slowly in front of the fireplace. She was restless but exhausted, tired but not sleepy. Pausing in front of an old marble-topped desk that had belonged to Maggie’s grandmother, she wondered about her folks, how they were doing, how old they were now. She shook her head, definitely not wanting to go down that road. Frank moved in front of the fire. She wondered what pressed logs were made of that made them flicker blue and green. She hoped Kennedy was safe. A sigh did nothing to ease the weight in her chest. Frank meandered into the den. The Bach had grown wearisome, and she flipped it off.

The fire crackled in the living room. Frank closed her eyes and saw Maggie on the floor, glistening and sated, her breath slowing to normal. Frank remembered feeling sure her heart had to burst because it couldn’t possibly hold that much love.

She held the wine up in front of her. Red. Like the blood in all her dreams. Frank’s life story was written in blood. Suddenly, the house was too quiet. Frank searched through her CDs. Plopping Donizetti into the CD tray, she cued it to “Una Furtiva Lagrima.” She listened to the music sitting on the couch, and when it ended she played it again.

Frank had laughed when Maggie’d lovingly unpacked all her opera tapes, but before long she found herself walking to class whistling a love song from
Turandot
or
Tosca.
After she’d died, Frank had put all her tapes into a box and stored them in the hall closet, planning to get rid of them eventually. Then, almost two years to the date of Mag’s funeral, Frank heard the “Flower Song” on the radio. She’d been driving home from work on Manchester and had to stop in a U-Auto-Do-It parking lot to listen to the music. Cranking the Honda’s creaky stereo up as high as it would go, she’d let the music wash over her, cleansing her. She’d been glad it was dark and that no one had seen her wiping her face.

Yet here she was, years later, hoping that another opera could force the tears. Frank was even willing to cry to rid herself of the hollowness inside her. At least then Frank had had a good reason to cry. Now she had none, and that was even more maddening. Her life was good—she was a lieutenant with the LAPD; she’d found a serial killer, the largest coup of her career, even if she hadn’t gotten any credit; she was healthy, physically at her peak; she was financially secure. She didn’t have Mag but she’d learned to live with that. It was okay.

So what’s your problem? Frank asked herself. She promptly assured herself with another sip of wine that there was no problem, she was probably just getting her period. Relax, she told herself, don’t worry about this. Listen to the music.

She’d self-medicated for so long she really believed that arias and alcohol could cure anything. So she drank and let the music cry for her. Picking out each tremulous note and haunting chord, Frank gave herself up to the opera. She regretfully turned it off when she heard Kennedy close the front door. The silence flooded back into her like cold, gray river water. When Kennedy popped into the den, Frank stared at her. In the handsome young face, brown again from sun, Frank saw happiness and confidence, optimism and courage—all the things that Frank had lost. She felt broken, and wanted to push Kennedy away.

“Why don’t you go home?” she asked quietly.

“Do you want me to?”

“You should be out having a good time, dancing and laughing with someone your own age instead of nursemaiding a broken-down old cop.”

“I am having a good time. I had an incredible dinner with a wonderful woman and I’m gonna go to bed and sleep without an alarm clock and have wonderful dreams.”

“I hope you do.”

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Very. You get to bed, sport. Have those sweet dreams you’re talking about.”

“You too. Go to bed soon.”

Frank nodded, aware of the soft breeze Kennedy left behind. Now there was nothing left to do but stare down the night.

Kennedy wasn’t surprised when she woke up thirsty; Frank was a great cook, but heavy on the salt. Throwing the covers back she heard music playing in the den and saw the lights on. Frank had probably fallen asleep in there. Kennedy popped a Coke and downed half the can. She put the rest back in the fridge and tiptoed quickly to the den, the tile like ice against her feet. Peering around the doorway, she was surprised to see Frank awake and sitting on the edge of the couch.

“Hey, girl, you’re supposed to be asleep.”

When Frank didn’t respond, Kennedy walked into the room. She stood right in front of her, but Frank wouldn’t look up. Kennedy bent over, her face just above Frank’s, and said her name. She still didn’t respond. Kennedy felt the first cold fingers of alarm. Kneeling, so she could see into Frank’s face, she said her name, sharply and loudly.

Frank’s eyes flickered toward hers, and Kennedy reflexively checked their reaction time. The pupils were normal and bright, but Frank stared at her like she was a stranger.

“Frank, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”

Frank didn’t answer. Kennedy was beginning to wonder if she’d had a stroke, maybe some sort of seizure. She grabbed Frank’s shoulders and shook her.

“Frank, say something or I’m calling a fuckin’ ambulance!”

Slack-jawed, Frank struggled to focus on the face in front of her. She saw Kennedy’s fear and heard it, but she felt too far away to respond. She’d found a place inside her that was deep and dark and quiet, and she didn’t know if she wanted to leave it. When Kennedy rattled her, snapping her head back, Frank tentatively reached for her. Her fingers found Kenndy’s face. They landed lightly, but Frank was too far away to feel the soft skin beneath them.

She heard someone asking, “Did you have a bad dream? Is that it?”

Frank struggled to understand the question. She whispered, “I dream all the time. I can’t stop dreaming.”

Kennedy opened her palm against Frank’s face, and Frank felt like she was falling, falling, falling. Kennedy pulled Frank against her. Frank gave in easily, without resistance. She felt an arm around her back and another on her head. Then she was rocking back and forth, back and forth, and someone just kept saying, “Shhh, shhh,” even though Frank hadn’t made a sound. Frank pressed her face tighter into Kennedy’s neck.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered, the words warm and damp and secret. “I’m so tired and I can’t sleep. There’s so much blood. Every time I close my eyes there’s so much blood.”

“Shhh, you’re okay. There’s no blood here. It’s all gone. It’s all gone.”

And then the arms were tighter around her, and Frank felt her own arms come up, grabbing at Kennedy, clutching her shirt in her fingers, kneading it in hard bunches, and the still rational part of Frank’s brain wondered if she could burrow any deeper into Kennedy’s shoulder without breaking bone. But Kennedy just rocked and shushed, rocked and shushed.

Frank held on while Pavarotti cried for her, while she tried breathing around the chasm in her lungs where the nightman stalked with all his demons and henchmen. She squeezed Kennedy to her, wondering how she couldn’t be crushing her, but not caring, knowing this was her last hope. That this tender young woman was all there was to keep her from falling into the hole where death and dying swirled redly, hungrily.

She gulped air jaggedly and unevenly, praying, Please God, don’t let me fall in there, please don’t let me fall in. There was no light in that hole. In it whirled sucking chest wounds and spattered brain matter. Dead green babies with gonorrhea sores in their gaping mouths clawed at her, and twelve-year olds giving high-fives over the bodies of friends they’d just shot. And always blood flowing, dripping down the walls of the chasm, pooling on the floor, streaking hands and faces. Lucifer’s own blood.

When she stopped breathing, her body forced her to open and swallow, and she concentrated on the ridge of bone mashing against her cheek and the nuzzle of Kennedy’s hair on her nose, the soft skin against her lips, the arms hard and secure around her, the sweet smell of woman filling her brain. She just held on, and Kennedy whispered assurances until finally Frank’s fingers unclenched and her breathing evened out. When her arms relaxed, Kennedy let go and pulled back slowly.

“Come on,” she said gently, helping Frank stand. She led her into the master bedroom, asking where her pajamas were. Frank was confused but managed to mumble they were on the back of the bathroom door. Kennedy got them and gently tugged Frank’s turtleneck over her head. She slipped Frank into the pajama top, then helped her take off her shoes and socks and slacks. Frank held onto Kennedy’s shoulder while she silently stepped into the pj’s. Then Kennedy led Frank into the guest bed.

“Come here,” she whispered, and guided Frank back into the haven of her arms. “I want you to sleep, okay? Just sleep, and if any dreams come we’ll chase them away together, okay? You’re safe right now. Nothing’s gonna get you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Somewhere in the back of her brain Frank knew that couldn’t possibly be true, but she wanted to believe Kennedy’s soft words, wanted the warm arms to wrap around her, and, gradually, she slept.

When her lips found Kennedy’s, Frank was still asleep, dreaming that she was making love to Maggie. It felt so good to have her back again. Frank didn’t know how that could be possible after all this time, but she didn’t question it, just kept responding to the mouth against hers, and the heat starting between her legs and rising through her. She pressed Maggie’s body against her, and they started slowly moving against each other in a dance as old and as sweet as air.

As the kisses became hungrier and the dance more urgent, Frank realized she wasn’t dreaming anymore. She thought, I’m sorry, Mag. The radiant image she always had of Maggie laughing and turning to say something flashed in her mind, the sky blue behind her, the wind curling her hair around her face. Maggie laughing and Frank knowing it was okay to let go, seeing Maggie speak but not hearing the words the wind carried away.

She said good-bye and tasted the lips heavy on hers, pulling the slight body tighter against her own, rocking together for a different reason now, the breathing labored for a better reason, arms clenched in pleasure and not panic. They moved rhythmically together, like one body, and when Kennedy’s breathing faltered, Frank’s did too, until neither one of them was breathing anymore, and when Kennedy gasped and cried out, Frank breathed again and fell with her, and the dance slowed as gently as it had begun.

They lay entwined in silence, learning to breathe again, gently finding each other’s lips. This time they searched and explored, palming hollows and ridges, tracing bumps and scars, seeking and finding, and after, they slept deeply and unafraid.

Frank woke gently and saw gray light out the window. She didn’t know if it was still early morning, or if the day was overcast. She pressed the length of herself against the back of Kennedy and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her reward was Kennedy pushing even more firmly into her and caressing her arm before they both fell asleep again.

The next time Frank woke up, Kennedy was gone and sunlight poured into the room. Frank groped at the clock and thought it must be wrong when she saw 12:11. She located her pajamas and stretched, sore in places she’d forgotten existed.

Following the faint clunk of metal against metal, she found Kennedy on the Soloflex.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself, sleepyhead,” she grunted.

Frank left her, wondering if there was coffee and what was in the house for breakfast. She was starving. She sniffed the coffee Kennedy had made and poured a cup. Kennedy appeared behind her, and Frank raised the pot.

“Want some?”

“Girl, I’ve been up for hours already. I done coffee’d myself out.”

“Is it really noon?”

“Noon and then some,” she teased. “How ya doin’?” Kennedy asked gingerly.