"How is she?" she asks, placing the flowers on a table by the window. She puts her purse in the other chair and sits down.
"Same as this morning," I mutter. "She did squeeze my hand earlier, though."
"That's a good sign," she says. Claire's eyes fill up and she lets the tears fall.
I turn to her and shake my head. "I should've been with her, I should've stopped him."
"Jack," she says, standing and coming over to me. She reaches out and touches my arm. "There's no way anyone could've known Nick would do this. There was nothing we could've done. Without you, he would've done a lot worse." She pats my shoulder and then pulls me into a loose hug.
"Hey," Carly croaks, "let go of my man."
We both jerk toward her at the sound of her voice. Claire rushes to the other side of the bed and takes her other hand.
"Oh, Carly," she coos, kissing her hand. She lets out a sob and holds Carly’s hand to her chest.
"Hey doll," I say, fighting back tears. "We've missed you."
Carly squeezes my hand. "Water," she asks.
I take the cup from her hospital table and hold the straw to her lips. She tries to sip, but her swollen lips make it difficult. She lies back on the pillow and closes her eye.
"My head is killing me," she whispers.
"Want me to get the nurse?" Claire asks. Carly nods and Claire leaves the room.
"Jack," Carly says once we're alone.
"I'm here, baby," I say, leaning close to her so she can see me clearly with her unbandaged eye.
"Is Nick here, in the hospital?" she asks.
"Yeah, he's here. On a different floor with a police guard."
"Is he conscious?"
"No," I say. "He's not."
"But he's alive?"
"Yeah, he's alive." I clench my teeth. "Not that he should be."
Carly reaches up and feels the bandage on her head. "What's the damage?"
I take a deep breath. "You've got a concussion, a hairline fracture in your eye socket, a cracked rib and some bruising pretty much all over."
She swallows hard and my heart breaks for the millionth time today.
"How's he?" she asks.
"Let's just say he's a lot worse, but not as bad as he should be."
"I'm so glad you made it," she says, her voice cracking.
I have to look away from the pain and fear that’s clear in her face. I know there was no way to know what he'd do, but I hate myself for not being able to prevent it.
"I fought him, Jack. I tried so hard," she gulps and a tear slips down her face.
"Shh," I say, wiping away her tear with my thumb. "I know you did, little pistol." I kiss her cheek as gently as I can; it's the only part of her face that isn't bruised.
Claire and the nurse enter the room and I move to the side so the nurse can adjust something on Carly's IV. Carly stares at me, begging me not to leave.
Claire stands in the corner and stares at Carly.
"Thank you," she tells the nurse. Claire slowly comes back to Carly's side and takes her hand again.
"How's your head now?" she asks, petting at her hand.
"Better," Carly says.
Claire continues to let her eyes pass over Carly's battered face. I wish she'd stop doing it.
"I guess I look like shit," Carly says, attempting a chuckle.
"You'll get better, you'll heal," Claire tells her.
Carly lifts the blanket weakly and looks at her legs. Bruises crisscross her shins and her knees are covered in the splotchy marks of carpet burn.
"Damn, he kicked me hard," she says.
Claire puts her hand to her mouth and fights back tears again. I tighten my fists and then turn to look out the window. The snow is piled up high and still falling.
The nurse comes back into the room followed by a tall man in a suit. We've already met.
"Miss Moore," he says. "I'm Detective Stewart. Are you up to talking?"
Carly reaches for my hand and I come back and take hers.
"Yeah, I think so," she says.
He pulls out the same notebook he used with me earlier and licks the tip of his pen.
I listen as Carly retells everything that happened to her, some parts clearer than others. The beast in me that wanted to kill Nick now wants to crush him underneath the heaviest jail cell there is. Carly looks at me as she recalls certain parts and I see inexplicable shame in her face for me to hear this. The officer scribbles on his pad and then closes it when Carly finishes her story.
"Well, we had the hospital run a tox screen on both of you when you came in," he says. I immediately want to ask why they'd run one on Carly, but I've seen enough cop shows to know they had to. "Turns out, Mr. Anderson had large quantities of," he flips the notebook open and lifts a few pages of his notes, "Rohypnol and cocaine in his system as well as a blood alcohol level of .14 percent."
"I had no clue he was using drugs," Carly says quietly.
"We honestly don’t know how he was able to stand, let alone do what he did to you,” Detective Stewart says. “The officers on scene searched his vehicle and found several packages of Rohypnol in his glove box. We've interviewed some of his friends and turns out, he was selling it at a local nightclub," he thumbs through the notes again, "called Riders."
"My friend Allie was roofied there, and again last year at a frat party." Carly's face would be pale if it weren't so bruised.
Detective Stewart makes note of this and then tucks his notebook in his coat pocket.
"I think that'll be all for now, Miss Moore. Get some rest and don't worry, Mr. Anderson won't be able to hurt you again."
"Thank you," Carly says. She pulls me by the hand and holds on to me. Detective Stewart nods at me and then leaves Carly's room.
"Oh, Carly," Claire sighs, leaning over her again. She smoothes the hair on the side of Carly’s head that isn’t bandaged. "You try to sleep," she says, stroking the side of Carly's face. "I'll be back to check on you in the morning." She kisses Carly's cheek and then squeezes her hand. She grabs her purse and then lets her hand rest on my arm before disappearing around the corner.
I pull up a chair and sit next to Carly's bed.
"I'm gonna go to sleep now," she mutters.
"Okay, baby. I'll be here when you wake up."
She attempts to nod before finally slipping under.
I pull on my coat and hat, not wanting to be home a second longer than it takes to shower and take care of the house. It's the first time I've left her for more than a couple of hours, but she insisted I come home and get some sleep.
She’s been at the hospital for six days and I’ve been by her side the entire time. Nick hasn't regained consciousness, but Detective Stewart is keeping us updated. I lie in that uncomfortable hospital chair every night and think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped hitting him. I catch myself thinking about walking to his hospital room and finishing the job. My hand is still bruised, but it’s no longer as tender as it was and the skin on my busted knuckles has started to heal.
I sort through a stack of mail in the basket on the counter before I go, but I can’t pay any attention to the names. Mom brought it when she came by the hospital yesterday. She wanted to stay and take care of Carly, but I know what Carly needs is not to have to talk about it, not to have to think about it. I toss the mail back on the bar and grab my keys.
I drive toward the hospital, anxious to get back to her, make sure she's safe. I’ve been unable to sleep without her next to me. She’s a part of me, a part that'll need time to heal, but a part of me nonetheless and I feel so incomplete without her.
The elevator is crowded and I try to disappear in the corner. I avoid making eye contact. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, especially about why I’m here. The story about Nick’s attack on Carly made the front page of the paper on Tuesday and again on Wednesday, but thankfully, the only pictures printed were Nick and his father’s. A prominent prosecuting attorney’s son turned drug dealer turned violent rapist will give the people in town something to talk about for weeks.
The little bell dings and the doors slide open smoothly. People trickle out on each floor and I wait impatiently until I get to Carly. A slender woman with sandy blonde hair keeps staring at me, then at my bruised and battered hand.
“
You’re him, aren’t you?” she asks.
“
Depends on what you mean by him,” I say gruffly.
“
The man who put my son in a coma,” she says. She turns her face to me and I can see the resemblance to Nick’s picture in the paper.
“
I suppose I am him, then,” I say. Another person gets off the elevator and I feel like I’m suffocating.
“
Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” she sniffs. I watch as she wipes tears from her face.
“
No, ma’am, I don’t. He got what he deserved.”
She lets out a strangled moan and then puts her hand to her chest. “You heartless bastard,” she sobs.
I turn to face her, my own anger bouncing inside my skull. “You wanna see heartless?” I say, knowing I won’t be able to stop the torrent of words coming out of my mouth. “You should stop by the room of the girl he attacked. You should see her purple face, the cut on the side of her broken eye socket, her swollen and split open lips. Tell
her
I’m heartless for stopping him before he did any worse to her.”
Her face is haggard and she stares at me with wide eyes that are full of tears. “That girl? The one Nick had been seeing for a year, behind our backs?” she shakes her head and her jaws wobble a little. “That low-life, beer-slinging trash?” she opens her purse and pulls out a tissue to blot at her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she set this up, just to hurt Nick.”
“
Listen, lady,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing her shoulders and shaking the hell out of her to wake her up. “Your son showed up, forced his way into her apartment and pulled a knife on her.” She shakes her head, unwilling to listen to anything I’m saying.
“
I guess I can see why your boy is as fucked up as he is,” I say harshly as the elevator doors finally part on my floor. I leave the woman in the elevator and hear her curse at me as the doors close behind me.
§
Carly’s sitting up in one of the chairs in her room, her long hair cascading down her shoulders and over the big white patch on her head. She’s wearing a loose-fitting pair of yoga pants and a long sleeve T-shirt.
“
Jack!” she says excitedly. She greets me the same way every day; as though she’s been worried I wouldn’t come back.
“
Hey, gorgeous,” I say, walking toward the chair. Her face is returning to its normal color, but her lips are still bruised.
“
Gorgeous, my ass,” she says. “I finally got to look in the mirror today without this,” she points to the bandage.
I wince.
“
See? You grimaced,” she chuckles. “They're just stitches. It’s just bruising. I know it’ll go away.”
“
Well this is a turnaround,” I say. Yesterday she’d still been so depressed and emotional.