Miles to Go (4 page)

Eskelson took his phone and showed me a picture of a young man. The picture had been taken in the hospital. “This guy?

I had to examine the image closely. The young man in the picture looked much different than the cocky, knife-wielding thug I’d encountered. Half of his face was eclipsed by gauze bandages and an oxygen tube ran down from his nose. He looked small and frail.

“That looks like him.”

He scribbled on his pad. “Were those his exact words? ‘Do you want to die?’”

“I’m pretty sure of it.”

He wrote on his pad. “Then what?”

“I don’t remember being stabbed. Someone kicked me in the face. The next thing I remember was the paramedics
loading me onto a stretcher.” I combed my hair back with my hand. “So tell me, why am I still alive?”

“Luck,” Eskelson said, dropping his pad to his side. “Or God didn’t want you dead. While you were being assaulted, a truck passing westbound saw what was happening. Fortunately for you, the truck’s occupants had both the inclination and the courage to get involved.”

“And shotguns,” Foulger added.

“The men had been out duck hunting,” Eskelson said. “They laid on their horn, then drove across the median right up to the crime scene.”

Foulger jumped in. “As they got out of their truck, Marcus Franck, the kid with the knife, went at one of the men, so he shot him.”

“How is he?” I asked. “The kid.”

“Not good,” Officer Foulger said, his lips tightening. “Twenty-gauge shotgun blast from eight, nine yards, he’s a mess. He probably won’t make it.”

“The nurse said you’re guarding him.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Foulger said. “We’re more concerned about who might come to visit.”

Officer Eskelson continued, “The hunters ordered the rest of the gang to the ground and called 911. You were bleeding pretty badly. One of the hunters administered first aid until the paramedics arrived. They saved your life.”

“What are their names?” I asked.

“Since there’s a potential fatality, their names are confidential. But I can tell them that you’d like to talk to them. I’ve been keeping them apprised of both yours and the boy’s condition.”

“I understand.”

“The doctor told us you’ll be here for at least a few
more days. After that, where can we get ahold of you?” Eskelson asked.

“My place,” Angel said. “He’s going to be staying with me until he’s recovered.” She gave them her phone number.

Eskelson said to Angel, “You look familiar.”

“I’m a dispatcher for the Spokane Police Department.” “I thought I knew you,” Foulger said.

“The nurse said you might know where my backpack is,” I said.

“It’s at the station. We can bring it by later tonight.”

“Thank you. Will you let me know how the boy does?”

“No problem. At least one of us will be here for the next day or two. If you need something or remember anything else relevant to the assault, just call.”

“Get well,” Foulger said.

“Thank you.”

After they left, Angel walked up to the side of the bed, placing her hands on the railing. “You okay?”

“Yes. So you’re with the police?”

“Not really. I’m a dispatcher.”

“Were you on call when I was attacked?”

“No. That was someone from the night shift.” She patted my arm. “I better go. It’s late. But tomorrow’s Saturday, so I’ll be back in the morning.” She started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “I didn’t know the whole story. You know, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

I carefully rubbed my hand over my abdomen. “I suppose so.”

“Makes you think,” she said thoughtfully. “Good night.” She walked out of the room.

Sometime in the night the police returned my backpack. I woke to see it propped up in the corner of the room. I had the nurse on call look through it and retrieve my diary and a pen.

Angel arrived a few hours later. She was dressed in an exercise outfit. Her hair was pulled back and, in the morning light, I noticed for the first time the deep, ragged scars that ran across her hairline and down the right side of her face to her jaw. I wondered how I’d never noticed them before.

“Good morning,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better. They might get me up to walk today.”

“Big day.” She looked curiously at the leather book lying by my side. “What’s that?”

“My journal. I’ve decided to chronicle my journey.”

“Really? Am I in there?”

“Of course.”

“I wish that I had kept a journal,” she said. “In high school I had a friend who kept one. She used to write lies in it.”

“She’d lie in her journal?”

“She said that when she was old and couldn’t remember anything she could read her journal and think she had a great life.”

I grinned. “There’s a certain logic to that.”

“I suppose.”

“I used to write copy for an advertising agency. So I guess I’m not so different from your friend.”

This interested her. “Really? I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

“What kind?”

“I want to write screenplays. I’ve actually started one.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s still rough, but it’s about a woman who is betrayed by her husband and friends, so she fakes her own death and takes on a new identity.”

“That sounds intriguing.”

“I have the first half finished. I just can’t come up with a good beginning. Something catchy, you know?”

“I’m an expert at catchy. That’s the domain of the ad guy—thirty seconds to own you. How about something like this—‘Even though the police dug in my backyard all afternoon, they didn’t find a single body.’”

She laughed. “That’s compelling. But what if my character doesn’t have any bodies in the backyard?”

“Everyone has bodies,” I said.

I noticed a slight twinge.

A half hour later Norma came into the room holding a long white strap with a silver buckle. “Well, Mr. Alan, I have good news and good news. Which do you want first?”

“Surprise me.”

“First, I heard you were looking for this.” She handed me the chain with McKale’s ring.

I eagerly reached for it. “Thank you.”

As I strung the chain around my neck, she said, “The other good news is—you passed your CT scan.”

“Do I get a diploma for that?”

“You get something better. You get to walk.” Then she added, “If you can.”

“What do you mean,
if?
I’ve walked more than three hundred miles in the last two weeks.”

Norma rested her hands on her hips. “Considering your wounds, it might not be as easy as you think. What you went through is like having a couple nasty C-sections. So let’s make your first goal something attainable, like to the bathroom.”

“Followed by a victory lap around the hospital,” I said.

“We’ll see.” She laid the long white strap on my bed.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a gait belt. In case you fall.”

I grinned at the idea of her holding me up, as she was half my size. “You’re going to keep me from falling?”

“I’m stronger than you think. So, can you sit up?”

I thought it a funny question. “Of course.” I pushed my elbows down on the bed and lifted my chest. Pain shot up through my abdomen, taking my breath away. I blanched. “Oh.”

Norma looked at me knowingly, as if she was restraining an “I told you so.”

“That hurt a bit more than I thought it would,” I said.

Norma asked, “Can you swing your legs over the side of the bed?”

As I shifted my body, I realized just how dependent my legs were on my stomach muscles. Walking wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. In one fateful night my goal had changed from Key West to the bathroom door. It took me a couple of minutes before I could dangle my legs over the side.

“Good. Now hold there for a moment.” Norma got some slippers from my closet and brought them over. She knelt down and put them on my feet, clamped off my catheter, then stood. She put the gait belt around my waist and fastened it. “Are you ready?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Now slowly slide forward, putting your weight on the balls of your feet.”

I pushed myself closer to the side of the bed, pulling my hospital gown down over my thighs. When my feet touched the floor, I began to lean forward. Incredible pain shot through my body, like jolts of electricity. “Ah.” I took another deep breath. I was truly surprised by the intensity of the pain. The bathroom now looked a mile away.

“Not ready for the victory lap yet?” Norma said.

I took a deep breath. “That … hurts.”

“Do you want to continue?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll try just a few steps this morning. Baby steps.” She looked at Angel. “Can you give me a hand?”

Angel stood. “What do you want me to do?”

“Let him lean on your shoulder a little.” She turned to me. “We’re going to help you stand.”

Both of them put a hand behind me as I put my arms around their shoulders. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.”

I slid to the edge of the bed. My eyes watered with the pain and I lightly groaned.

“Just take it easy,” Norma said. “We’re in no hurry.”

“I am,” I said. I clenched my jaw, then leaned forward until I was standing. They both took their hands away from me but remained close.

“How do you feel?” Norma asked.

“Like I’ve been cut in two and taped back together.”

“That’s a fairly accurate description.”

I took a small step with my right foot—actually more
of a shuffle than a step, maybe 6 inches. I paused, then moved my left foot up to my right foot.
This is bad
, I thought.

“That’s good,” Norma said. “You did it. Now try another.”

I shuffled forward again, feeling like an old man. I was halfway to the bathroom when I began to wonder how I was going to make it back to the bed. “I think I better go back.”

“Let’s try turning around,” Norma said.

I shuffled in a circle until I was facing the bed. Three days ago I was measuring my walks in miles. Now I was counting steps. Eighteen of them and I was exhausted. I walked back to the bed, turned around, leaned against the side of the bed then lay back. Mercifully, Norma lifted my legs onto the mattress.

“You did great,” Norma said. “That was a great start.”

“There was nothing great about that,” I said.

“Sure there was,” she replied. “You’re just more damaged than you thought.”

Up until that moment I had been in a state of denial, telling myself that in spite of my doctor’s warning, I was going to grab my backpack and walk out of the hospital. The reality was, I was going to have to go through an extended period of recovery. The thought painfully reminded me of McKale’s weeks of hospital rehabilitation after her accident.

“I know it doesn’t seem like much, but your stomach muscles were severed. It’s going to take a while before you’re back at it.”

At that moment I was filled with anger at everything that had grounded me: my body, the Hilton that had no vacancies, the gang, and especially the kid with the knife
who was somewhere on my floor of the hospital. Languishing in a hospital bed wasn’t part of my plan.
Hadn’t I already suffered enough?

To make matters worse, the seasons had already been stacked against me. I had planned to cross through the Idaho panhandle, then Montana and Wyoming, and with some luck, make it out of the mountains before the heaviest snows hit and closed the highways. That hope was gone. By the time I was walking again, the roads would be impassable. Like it or not, I was grounded until spring.

After Norma left the room, Angel sat down again, scooting her chair closer to me. “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” I snapped. “Walking was the only thing I had. Now I’m going to be stuck in this godforsaken place until spring.”

She looked at me, her face showing hurt. “I’m sorry.”

I looked at her and sighed. “No,
I’m
sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m just upset.”