Chapter 7
Idon’t hear from Alex that night. My fear just grows and grows.
It's like there's a creature living in my midsection that's getting stronger while it eats my stomach.
Even so, I still have to work. People still need their meds.
And it's good for me to have something to do to keep me busy.
If I didn't do this, I'd just be at home driving myself crazy with the possibilities. With the doubts.
Maybe I should call the cops, I think for the millionth time.
"Gabriella," a silvery, cheerful voice calls.
Despite my worries, I smile and duck into Mrs. Norris’s room.
"Hi, Mrs. Norris," I say.
"I'm so glad you're here, dear." She clasps my hand with her cool dry fingers as if to prevent me from leaving. "He's here."
"Who is?"
"My grandson, MacArthur."
I glance around the room. Unless the little guy is hiding in the profusion of plants near the window, I think Mrs. Norris might need to evaluated.
"He's in the bathroom," she whispers conspiratorially, pointing with a age-bent finger like I don't know where the bathroom is.
"Oh, that's nice," I stammer.
This is the last thing I need. I'm so not in the mood for any of this today. I'm exhausted and the circles under my eyes are too much for cover-up to handle. Beyond that, I'm so, so sad. It's like the first nights when Alex was in prison, only worse because I don't know where he is.
Mrs. Norris’s eyes narrow. "Is everything alright, dear?"
I realize the smile has slipped off my face completely, and I hitch it back to where it needs to go. "Of course."
Her eyes drift down to my hand and her lips thin.
She's studying the dark bruises blooming on my arm--the ones obviously in the shape of fingerprints.
I'm dimly aware of the bathroom door opening behind me, but I'm desperately trying to figure out how to redirect Mrs. Norris’s attention from my the bruises on my arm and the scabbed hamburger of my palms.
"Are you in some sort of trouble, dear?" she finally asks.
"Of course not. Everything's fine." I give her my most convincing smile.
"That's precisely what I used to say when people asked me about my bruises," she says, covering my hand with her other one. She gives a gentle squeeze. "But I was lucky to have good people in my life that didn't believe my bullshit. How about you? Do you have anyone to tell your story to?"
I'm blinking back my tears. I shake my head. "Really, Mrs. Norris. I'm fine."
"Your dad is gone. What about that brother of yours? Or is he the one who put those marks on you?"
"No, he wasn't the one who did it."
She gives a triumphant smile. "At least you're admitting someone did. It took me years before I could do the same."
"I'm fine, really," I say.
"Of course not. No woman is fine when she has marks like that." Her eyes flick up behind and above me. "But you can tell my MacArthur about it, and he'll help you. Won't you, dear?"
I turn, my hand still clasped between both of Mrs. Norris’s. I turn and look up and then up. Because the man standing behind me isn't the weak, sun-starved wimp of my imagination. He's about six foot two, with dark hair and olive skin.
He's got a wide jaw that appears hewn from granite.
I don't think I've ever been in the same room with a man half as handsome, or as muscular.
It's like the guy from that Reacher show has a half-brother who's a smidge shorter and a lot tanner.
It's intense--my nervous system reacts like I'm about to take my nursing exams all over again.
"MacArthur, this is the young lady I've been telling you about. My favorite nurse, Gabriella Ramos."
"Hey," he says in a deep voice, extending a hand. Mrs. Norris is forced to give up her surprisingly strong grip for me to shake his hand, and I wonder if he did that on purpose.
"Nice to meet you," I say on rote.
His hand is huge and riddled with callouses. It's a very manly hand. Warm, without the ghost of any moisture. I don’t know why, but guys with clammy hands give me the instant ick.
He holds on well after the handshaking has run its natural course and flips my hand over, examining my palm and the bruises along my arm. His expression goes darker; his shoulders bunch and roll back. His muscles are crazy--it looks like he's smuggling slabs of beef under his t-shirt.
Have I mentioned how much I like steak?
"Come on," he finally says, dropping my hand and jerking his head toward the door. "Nana isn't going to rest until we go on a date. I'll buy you a soda. That ought to count."
I follow him down the hall to the vending machines, sliding my eyes to the art on the walls, the commercial carpet, and then back to him.
It’s hard not to stare. My eyes hardly know where to linger--the vein snaking down his tanned forearm, his matte-black watch resting over his thick wrist, or the muscular breadth of his shoulders.
He's one of those people I'm instantly jealous of--someone who looks so comfortable and confident in their body that it's hard to believe they ever went through an awkward phase. If he did, he’s certainly well past it now.
His legs are long and lean with muscular thighs and nice calves.
His jeans are effortlessly worn to hug him just right in all the best places.
His simple black t-shirt is turned into a work of masculine art by the form beneath it--taut stomach, wide chest, narrower waist. If he had a cheesier haircut, he could have just stepped from the pages of GQ or off a Tom Ford runway.
Though maybe he'd look a bit more at home on the rugby field, I decide, following him down the hall. Probably the Scotland team, with that frame, and that name.
He feeds five dollars into the slot of the vending machine while I try and collect myself.
"What's your poison?" he asks, a wry smile on his lips.
"Diet Coke, please."
He nods and retrieves our sodas, then holds the exterior door open for me. I step past him, my body perking up as my shoulder brushes his chest. I'm not going to lie, if I would have known Mrs. Norris’s grandson looked like this, I would have paid more attention when she talked about him.
The heat of the late morning immediately engulfs us. Thankfully, there's a couple of weather-worn plastic chairs resting in the shade of the overhang.
"Who did that to your arm?" he says once we're settled side by side.
I huff and shake my head. "So much for pleasantries."
"We already did the pleasantries." He cracks open his soda with a crisp hiss then glances at mine. My fingernails aren't long, but he tugs the Diet Coke from my hand, opens it and hands it back to me.
"It's no big deal. I have it handled." Lies--all lies. It's a huge deal and I have no idea what to do.
"Your brother do that to you?"
"No. The guys looking for him did." I shake my head, wishing I could take the words back. I press three fingers to one of my temples. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that."
He's frowning, those soft lips pulled down at the edges. "Tell me about it."
I don’t exactly know where to start, not when everything’s tied together. Not when you have to know the first thing to understand the next. I sit there for a few seconds and consider telling him everything. MacArthur’s face grows stormy like he thinks I might not tell him anything at all.
But strangely, I want to. It isn't because he looks and feels trustworthy, even though he does. It's because I've needed to tell this story ever since it happened, and he's the first person who's asked. I probably would blurt the whole saga out to a telephone cold caller if they asked me right now.
“I grew up here,” I start, then I proceed to tell him the rest.
Six years ago, when I was eighteen, my parents received an incredible offer for this property.
I still remember how happy they were, how relieved--they'd just found rot in the piers supporting two of the lake cabins and the main building's roof needed to be replaced. The offer was enough to fill my and Alex's college funds, and to pay for my parents’ dream vacation. The corporation was even willing to split the lot so our family could keep the owner’s lodge at the top of the hill--aka, our family home.
They wanted my parents on staff, too--my dad as handyman, my mom in charge of the kitchen.
Salary, full benefits. My parents signed on the dotted line, carted us off to Grandma's, and they went to go see the elephants and the rhinos.
I have the last picture they took framed on the mantel--my mom and dad beaming at the camera wearing super-dorky floppy khaki-colored hats.
The next morning, the bush plane that was taking them to see the giraffes crashed as it landed.
Sometimes it feels like my brother and I were in that plane with them, because our lives as we knew it didn't survive, either.
Alex is four years younger than me, so he stayed with Grandma while I went to college.
Luckily, I'd known what I wanted to do since I was eight and my mom bought me nurse Barbie.
I'd just graduated when the next blow came--out of the blue, Alex was arrested. The shy kid who still only ate the cereal with marshmallows in it had apparently hacked into a local credit union and skimmed a little more than fourteen thousand dollars from a pool of accounts.
He would have gotten away with it too--he'd been smart enough to choose accounts that hadn't had activity in over a year--but one of the accounts belonged to a little old lady whose son was an accountant.
He noticed the discrepancy, notified the authorities, and the cops came and picked Alex up before he even got to buy the used Corolla he had his eye on.