19. Chapter 19
Driving out of the city always brightens my mood. While I love all the bustling city has to offer—the live music, the cuisine, the excitement, I also get sick of the congestion, the hustle.
I always wanted Lizzie and I to have a house with a yard. It doesn’t have to be anything huge. That’s why I bought the one-and-a-quarter-acre lot about twenty minutes outside the city. It’s pretty flat in this part of the state, but the property is slightly raised so you can see out a few miles. The lot backs up to a creek, and it’s nice in the fall when the leaves are changing colors. It’s a residential neighborhood, and I got the permit a few years ago to build a two-story, 1,200-square-foot house.
I bought the property without telling Lizzie, and luckily she didn’t kill me for it. Ever since, we envisioned ourselves in the yet-to-be-constructed home on it.
It’s taking forever for me to get the house built because the guys from work are helping me with it in their spare time. Then, I stepped away from it after the accident and our separation, but I’ve decided I’m going to finish it. I can’t stand the thought of it unfinished. I also can’t stand the thought of selling it if Lizzie doesn’t take me back, but God knows I can’t live there without her.
What a beautiful mess we’re in.
I pull onto the residential street, where a middle-aged guy who is playing catch with what I assume is his son stops to wave at me, and I wave back. A few houses down, an older woman is shuffling out to her mailbox in her bathrobe, coffee mug in hand, and also waves. Again, I wave back.
People are freakin’ friendly in the suburbs, including me. You almost wouldn’t be able to tell how resentful I am these days.
I pull into the lot, thinking I need to get the structure into better shape before winter sets in. It has the foundation laid, and some of the walls and supports are partially up. I park next to Bram’s truck in the worn grass from the vehicles always parking there. The driveway isn’t yet paved.
“Morning, brother!” he shouts to me as I exit the truck. He’s coming around from what will be the back of the house, a Tim Horton’s coffee cup in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. He’s dressed in a pair of old jeans and work boots, and a gray hoodie. “Aren’t you going to be cold?” he asks, pointing out that I’m only wearing a flannel over my thermal shirt. Like him, I’m wearing jeans and work boots.
“Nah, I’ll be sweating in no time.”
When Bram gets to his truck, he opens the passenger side door and reaches in and grabs another cup of coffee and a small Tim Horton’s bag. “Got you a donut,” he says as he hands me the goods.
“I hate donuts,” I say before I reach in, grab the Bavarian cream delicacy and consume half of it in one bite.
“Clearly,” he says, popping the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, then continues to speak around a mouthful of food. “I thought you said you hadn’t made much progress. This place looks like it’s in good shape, though.” He wipes his hands on his pants, passing his coffee from one hand to the other as he does.
I lick the cream oozing out from the donut before taking another giant bite, and then toss the last piece into my mouth before saying, “I had hoped to be further along. I want to have all the walls up before snow comes again, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen.”
“We’ll get you there,” Bram says as we lean against his truck and sip our coffees.
After a moment of silence, he asks, “How’s Dad been?”
“Good. Good,” I answer. “I think it would be nice if maybe you and Emily brought Samuel over for dinner sometime soon.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to stop by, just been busy with the Hamlin job, and Emily just entered her third trimester so she’s exhausted …”
I stop listening to his excuses as he drones on. Truth is, Bram hates going to the house ever since Mom died. And I get it. It’s not the same. It feels cold and dead without her there. But for Dad, that house holds all the memories he and mom created with us.
“Anyway …” Bram’s voice trails off. He places his coffee back in the truck before walking around to lower the tailgate and start pulling two-by-fours out of the truck bed. I follow suit. With three stacked on my right shoulder, I head over to the back of the house to pile them up.
As we walk back to the truck for another load, Bram lowers his voice and mumbles, “How’s things with the missus?” It’s as if he’s afraid or even embarrassed to ask.
I let out a hard breath, and he immediately backpedals. “You don’t have to answer that, man,” he says as he grabs three boards and hoists them on his shoulder. “Was just wondering if you wanted to talk about it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s that I just don’t know what to say.” I grab the last of the boards in the truck and follow Bram around the side of the house. After gently depositing them, I stand up, hands on my hips. “She fucking hates me,” I say, squinting into the sun. “Can’t say I blame her.”
Bram’s posture mimics mine, except he’s not squinting since he’s looking in the opposite direction, at me. “So, it’s true, then? You, uh, you know …” He looks at his feet as he kicks some loose dirt.
“Yeah, Bram,” I answer, staring at the top of his head as he looks down. “I fucked up. Big time.”
“Shit,” is all he says.
“Yeah. Shit is right.”
He runs a hand through his hair, just like I always do.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Just say it,” I edge him on.
“It’s just,” he looks at me with a pathetic, sympathetic gaze, “I guess I didn’t think you had it in you, man.”
At that I just hang my head, then turn on my heel and head back toward the trucks.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I hear him close on my heels.
“Sure you did,” I toss over my shoulder.
“I just know how much you love Lizzie.”
I say nothing as I swing open the back door of my truck and drag out my tool belt.
“OK, fuck it. I know I said you didn’t have to talk about it, but I lied. You do. I gotta know what the hell happened, dude? I mean, was it a drunken night? Was it just, you know, about the sex?”
I spin on him in a nanosecond, seething at that accusation.“Please tell me you know me better than that,” I say.
He remains silent.
I pull my tool belt around my waist and fasten it, turning it and adjusting it so it sits just right on my hips. Lizzie always liked to help me buckle it. Said it was sexy.
“I’m an asshole. You know that,” I say, running my hand through my hair, then reaching in the truck to pull out my cap and placing it on my head before slamming the door. “I’m more of an asshole than Lizzie ever knew.”
I walk past him and reach into the truck bed to get the screw gun and again head toward the back of the lot. Bram is still on my heels.
“You talking about your partying days? Thought those were in the past, bro?”
“Yeah, well, some things never change.”
His hand wraps around my arm, and I let him spin me around and we stare off for a beat, then I swallow. Bram drops his hand, and we just stand there for a minute.
I look down at the screw gun in my hand, at my feet shuffling in the dirt, then back up at my brother. “I paralyzed that woman, Bram.”
He pulls his head back, shocked by the turn in the conversation. “You weren’t under the influence, Knox.”
“I was distracted. I wasn’t paying any attention, and now that young woman may never walk again.”
I look up at my brother, who is quiet. “When Jenny yelled my name, and I looked up and saw the figure in the street standing right in front of me, her entire body lit up by my headlights … I haven’t been able to get that image out of my mind.”
“Knox,” Bram tries to reach out, but I take a step back.
“And then I fucking hated myself. I hated myself for everything. For being distracted, lying to Lizzie …”
“Knox, what—”
“Then I was just so disgusted with myself. I was so disgusted, and I was pissed—at myself and at Jenny.”
Bram is putting things together in his head. “So, you self-sabotaged by cheating on Lizzie?”
I drag in a breath. “No. Yes. Maybe I did. But it gets worse. It wasn’t just anyone.”
I look at him and give him a minute to figure it out.
Bram’s eyes bulge and his hands go to his hair as he takes a half a step back and whisper-shouts, “It was Jenny?!”
All I can do is keep my eyes locked with his. Give it to me, brother. Let me have it.
It takes a moment for the confusion, realization, and then disgust to settle into his features. “Wow, man. Just … wow.”
“Oh, come on. You can do better than that,” I push.
He just grimaces, shakes his head, and turns away from me to pick up some boards.
“Say it,” I urge, this time it’s me who’s on his heels.
He’s silent as he brings a two-by-four over to the chop saw that’s already set up. He grabs a tape measure and marks off where he wants to make the cut, then pulls the safety shield down and cuts the wood, and chucks the two pieces onto the dirt.
He mumbles something I can’t quite make out.
“Gonna have to be louder, man, I can’t quite hear you,” I challenge.
“I said you piece of shit!” Bram shouts at me, turning so he’s in my face. “How could you do that to Lizzie? Don’t forget, you made her my sister, and that means I care about her, too. I mean, cheating on her was bad enough, but with Jenny!”
“Why does it matter who it was?” I ask, exasperated.
“Because she’s not just anyone,” Bram barks back, as if I’m stupid. “She’s not just a drunken night or a hookup. You two have history.”
“We don’t have history—”
“Yes. You do. You guys know each other, and she’s got this teasing rapport with all the guys. She’s the hot little thing at the job site that keeps things interesting, and that’s fine because she’s good at her job, and as long as it stays innocent, I guess … whatever. But Lizzie trusted you to never cross that line with Jenny. That you and Lizzie were solid enough and she didn’t have to worry. And you fucking destroyed that.”
Frustrated, pissed at myself, and at Bram and Lizzie and Jenny, and the planet for its cosmic energy, all I can do is let out a laugh.
“Oh, I’m sorry, am I missing something funny?” Bram asks as I lean down to grab a plank of wood.
“No. That’s the thing, Bram. None of this is funny.” I place the wood under the chop saw.
“So, what gives? Huh?” he asks, close to my side.
“You know what?” I turn and face him. “It must be nice to be so perfect. You met the love of your life in high school, got married, started having kids, got the house … easy fucking peasy.”
“You think everything has always been sunshine and roses with me and Em?” he fires back.
I grab a pencil and measure off the wood, tossing the pencil onto the bench. It rolls off and onto the ground.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, again turning toward him. “And you know what else, Mom and Dad always took it easy on you, too.”
“Oh, here we go,” Bram throws his hands up in the air before placing them on his hips to glare at me as I go off.
I approach him. “And what really kills me, is you have hardly been there for Dad since Mom died.”
“Bullshit!”
“No, dude. Not bullshit.”
“Did I not bring over dinner every night when he wouldn’t eat?”
“You dropped off dinner. You never stayed.”
“Did I not pick him up and bring him to our house to play with Samuel, to distract him, to remind him he still has plenty to live for?”
“You sure did,” I snap, as I turn back around toward the saw.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I shove the wood beneath the blade, “you rarely set foot in that house for longer than five minutes. You never had to walk around under that roof with Dad, who was still very clearly waiting for Mom to come bounding in with groceries or shopping bags, having to remind him she never would again. You never had to look him in the face and break his heart, over and over and over again. And that was because I never made you do it.”
We stare off for a moment, and I see sadness flit across Bram’s face. “Knox, I—”
“Just, fuck off right now, man,” I say, turning back to the saw and adjusting the wood so it’s right where I want it.
“Knox—” he goes to reach for me, but I shrug away.
“I said fuck off!” I yell, slamming my hand down on the lever to depress the saw, and pain sears through me. “Gah, shit!”
I immediately pull away and hear Bram from somewhere in my periphery. “Oh, boy. Uh, fuck!”
I look back at Bram, who has his eyes locked near the saw, and I follow his gaze. There sits a nub of one of my fingers. Which finger, I’m not even sure. “OK, dude. Let’s get in the truck,” he says, feigning calm. “That’s gonna need um …”
“Yep. That’s definitely not good.” I hold my left hand in my right, blood trickling down my arm toward my elbow.
Bram swallows. He’s pale. He looks like he’s going to be sick. “Nah, man, I think you just grazed it,” he says. Snapping out of it, somewhat, he pulls a bandana from his back pocket. “Here, wrap your hand in this and get in my truck. No, actually, get in your truck. You’re, um, dripping.”
“Yeah, OK,” I start walking then turn back toward the saw. “What about the nub?”
“Yep.” He waves me off, and I swear he’s gagging. “I’m gonna get it. Just … looking for something to, you know, carry it in …”
I see him grab an old coffee cup, turn it upside-down and make sure it’s empty, then with one, two, three attempts he flicks the nub—covered in sawdust—into the cup, with a “gahhh” and a shiver, as if he’s handling a snake.
I can’t help but laugh, and that gets Bram’s attention. “What could possibly be funny about this situation?”
“Everything,” I say. “Everything.”
Shaking his head, Bram brushes past me. “Get in your fucking truck, bro. Let’s see if they can reattach this thing.”
Sitting on a bed in the ER behind a section that’s been squared-off by curtains, I’m kicking my dangling feet and whistling as an older nurse takes my vitals. She’s got gray hair pulled up into a bun with pieces sticking out here and there, and crepey skin on her arms, hands, face and neck. Her teddy bear scrubs hug her love handles and stomach, and ample bosom. She reminds me of a grandmother.
“Stop kicking your legs!” she admonishes as she secures the blood pressure cuff too tight around my arm.
A grumpy grandmother, apparently.
“Looks like you did a number on yourself,” she says, pushing her glasses up with one finger while her other hand pumps the blood pressure machine. “You sure you don’t want anything for the pain?”
I just frown and shake my head. They offered me something to take the edge off, but I declined.
“Well,” Mean Nurse begins as she releases the blood pressure cuff, “the doctor will be in as soon as he can, to …” She glances in the cup holding the nub that’s sitting on the table next to the bed. “Couldn’t you rinse it off any?” she asks, taking in the filthy thing.
Bram laughs from the corner, and that’s when I remember he’s still here.
“Feel free to leave any time,” I say to him. “I can get a ride home.”
“Nah, man. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Mean Nurse leaves, and about three seconds later the curtain slides open with force, the sound of the metal rings scraping across the rod echoes, and before me stands the image of fire. Raging, burning fire.
“Lizzie?” I say it as a question, even though I know it’s her standing there.
And of course, she looks phenomenal. I can’t help my eyes from settling on the exact right amount of cleavage exposed beneath the cardigan she’s wearing, with two buttons undone, before I rake my eyes up to her face.
Which is set in a scowl, laser eyes shooting daggers at me. She’s practically frothing at the mouth—and sexy as shit.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
A hand still hanging onto the curtain, the other on her hip, she flips her chin and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I’m still listed as your emergency contact here, asshole.”
There she is.
I grin. “Right. So, they tell you what happened?”
“Yes,” she says, stepping further into my space and pulling the curtain back around. “I got the call while I was at a Chamber of Commerce event with Monty. Imagine my disappointment when the nurse told me you cut off the tip of an appendage, and I found out it wasn’t your penis.” She then steps over to the table and uses a finger to tip the coffee cup toward her so she can look inside. “Or, maybe it was, I can’t tell with all the sawdust.”
I hear a laugh bellow from Bram who, again, I forgot was even still here. “Hey, brother,” Lizzie says to him as he goes in for a hug. “Hey, sis! Man, I’ve missed you.”
“Same here,” she says as they hold their embrace, and my heart aches worse than my finger.
I clear my throat, and they separate. “You know, you didn’t have to come,” I say.
“And miss this?” she laughs. “Oh, no no no. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“I said the exact same thing,” Bram says, resuming his place in the corner.
The curtain swings open again, and we all look up to see a twenty-something-year-old doctor with chiseled cheeks, coifed dark hair, and tight navy-blue scrubs that hug his pectoral muscles and thigh muscles that look like they belong to someone on Grey’s fucking Anatomy.
“I’m doctor Valentino,” he says, extending his hand to me, then quickly pulling it back, taking in my situation. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” I say to Doogie Howser.
He then turns to Lizzie. “Hello,” he says, and I can see he can’t help but give her a quick once-over.
“Hi,” she says, hand extended. “I’m Lyzbeth.” They shake, and he gives her a full, beaming smile.
“You must be the wife,” he says, hand still holding hers.
She startles. “No, well, strange—estranged, that is. We’re estranged. Separated.” She pulls her hand back and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, which is beet red. She’s flustered.
“Oh, well, sorry to hear that,” Doogie says, still looking at her.
“He cheated on me,” she blurts out, and I swing my head toward her. I hear Bram laugh behind me.
“Seriously?” I bark out.
“Sorry, that was … I guess I didn’t, um … Anyway,” Lizzie points toward the table, in particular at the cup. “Can you sew it back on?”
“Well, let’s see,” Doogie says as he wheels a chair over and sits down in front of me. His legs widen as he gets close to the bed, and I can see his scrubs hugging his huge package. You’ve got to be kidding me.
He makes an event out of pulling latex gloves over his large mitts, then takes my left hand and starts unwrapping the bandana. When my fingers are exposed, he “hmmms” to himself. “Looks like it’s not too bad,” he says, turning my hand this way and that.
Lizzie leans in, “It’s not?” she asks, sounding almost disappointed.
“Nah, I can reattach it,” he says, glancing at her, and I catch his eyes taking in her cleavage.
“Hey, eyes on the injury, doc!” I snap, using my good hand to wave his attention back to me.
Doogie chuckles and reaches for the cup with the nub. “Oh, yeah. We can definitely work with this. I’ll stitch up the cut on the second finger and reattach this to the first finger. It’s a little dirty, though. Couldn’t you find anything else to put it in?”
Again, Bram laughs.
“He can’t help it, he’s filthy,” Lizzie states matter-of-factly.
I sigh, and Bram’s laugh gets louder. “It’s a job site,” I say, exasperated. “You know, a place where people work with their hands. It’s not exactly sterile.”
“Sure. Sure,” Doc says as he stands with the cup. “I’ll just get this cleaned up. When I come back, we’ll numb the fingers and I’ll get to work. In the meantime, do you want something to calm your nerves?”
“No,” I shake my head.
“You sure? We can give you—”
“I said no.”
Doogie silences, then looks between me and Lizzie. “OK, then,” he says and leaves, closing the curtain behind him.
“Knox,” Lizzie starts in. “You can take something for the pain.”
“He’s gonna numb me. That’s all I need.”
“I know, but—”
“I don’t want to take anything.” I look her dead in the eyes, which show sympathy for me and even a touch of kindness for the first time since she entered the ER.
“You’re not an addict, Knox. You can take something in a situation like this.”
I just shake my head.
She lets out a breath and plops down next to me, so we are shoulder to shoulder, our arms touching. “What are you doing?” I ask.
She looks at me like I’m stupid. “I’m waiting for the doctor to come back to stitch you up.”
“Ohhhh no,” I shake my head. “Nope. Get the hell out of here.”
“What?” She feigns innocence, but I can see from the mischievous look on her face she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I drag my good hand down my face. “Lizzie, I swear to God, if you don’t get the hell out of here before Dr. McDreamy gets back and starts drooling all over you when he’s supposed to be stitching me up, I’m going to lose my shit.”
Pretending to be surprised, she replies. “You think he’s attractive? I hadn’t noticed.”
This time Bram snorts behind me.
“You, too, asshole!” I turn toward him, then back to Lizzie. “Both of you get the hell out of here and let me get my finger reattached in peace.”
Bram starts making his way around the bed. “I’m getting hungry anyway,” he says, turning to Lizzie. “Wanna grab a burger?”
She looks at me, then back at him. “Sure. I guess all the fun here is over anyway.”
As she stands, her arm slides along mine and I curl two of my fingers—on my good hand—around hers. She looks down at our hands then shoots her eyes up to mine.
Thanks, I think.
She nods.