Chapter 11 #2
That was Josie’s last thought before she slumped into the woman next to her, darkness taking over.
* * *
Josie awoke in a hospital bed, surrounded by green curtains. Next to her, beyond the fabric, a man was groaning.
Right. The bike crash. Birthday . . . Something bad about Rob.
She tried to push herself upright, but her left hand hurt when she put pressure on it.
A doctor with hair graying at the temples pulled the curtain open, stepped in, and closed it with a swoosh. He gave Josie a wide grin, white against his dark skin, and picked up a chart.
“You need to be more careful on your bike, Ms. Cavendish, I think.” His voiced was heavily accented.
South African, or maybe Zimbabwean, she thought.
“You fainted in reception, but you’re okay, a little bruised on your wrist and hip, but no head injury.
” He smiled again. “Your friend is finishing up your paperwork, and she’ll take you home.
No need for you to take up a bed here. Some strong painkillers will do fine. ”
“Thanks, doctor.”
“You’re most welcome, Ms. Cavendish. Now take better care, you hear.” The doctor flashed a final grin, then swooshed out again.
Josie sat up, gingerly swinging her legs off the bed. She was upright, at least. And still dressed. The man next door groaned again, his piteous noises apparently unheeded.
Josie’s mind flashed to Rob. He’d be frantic with worry by now.
“Can I come in? I can’t knock, with these curtains—” Suzie’s drawl was unmistakable.
“Sure. Come in.”
Suzie pushed the curtain aside, looked at Josie critically. “Good, you’re up. Let’s go. I filled out your paperwork from the insurance details in your purse, so we’re set. A car is picking us up.” She held out her arm. “On your feet, sister.”
“Thanks. What an idiot. Sorry I ruined your night.”
“Our night. And it’s fine. What are friends for?”
She grabbed Josie’s coat, the one that wasn’t hers, and the old purse. Josie’s head was still spinning, more from confusion than trauma, as they walked out to where their car-share ride was pulling up.
Suzie confirmed her identity to the driver as they climbed inside. As the car pulled off, Josie asked again, “Have you called Rob yet? He’ll be frantic.”
Suzie gave her a strange look. “I don’t have a number for a Rob — is he someone you’re seeing? You haven’t mentioned him before tonight. We had dinner plans, with some of your choir. Were you meeting him later?”
“Suzie, what are you talking about? Rob! The guy I married? You were at my wedding, Donald too, and everyone. Even David. Before . . . you know. The helicopter crash.”
“Married? Helicopter crash? What?” Suzie was staring at her as if Josie was crazy.
Josie shook her head in disbelief. “The crash that killed my brother, and Charlie. Right after my wedding. Two years ago. You were there. You were . . .” She ran out of words.
“Sweetie, I think you had some pretty vivid dreams when you were knocked out. You’ve never been married, and I can promise you David and Charlie are alive and well.
You’re just confused, honey. Everything’s fine .
. . I’ll get David to call you, how’s that?
You’ll feel better. I’m taking you home with me.
I’ll send Don to yours to fetch some things. ”
“Sure . . . Thanks.”
But all Josie had registered was that David was alive. How was that possible?
Josie pressed her lips together. The way Rob did when he was trying not to say something.
They pulled up to Suzie and Donald’s Brooklyn brownstone — at least that was the same. Donald was already at the door, the lights in the hallway behind him bright. Suzie helped Josie up the stoop and on the top step, kissed Donald.
“The twins were feeling a wee bit better after dinner, they’re zonked out now,” he said, stroking Suzie’s short hair. “Hey Josie. You gave us all a scare.” He pecked Josie on the cheek.
“Sorry, Don.”
“Don’t fret. Come on in.” He stepped aside, holding the door open.
Suzie ushered Josie straight upstairs. “Try not to wake the twins.” Her voice was a stage whisper. “The bed’s made up in the guest room. Back soon. I’m bringing you some codeine and water, okay?”
Suzie left Josie in the pale blue guest room with pretty, floral bedding and calm prints of sandy beaches and ocean.
Josie slumped down on the bed, her confusion eased by the downy softness of the bed, the low lighting.
She fished around in the black purse for the unfamiliar phone, unlocked the screen, and went back to the list of contacts.
She scrolled back to the Rs, checking she hadn’t missed Rob’s number last time.
No. Was it in the Bs, under Billing? No.
It was clear the names were ordered by first name.
She scrolled further, then stopped when she saw it.
David Cavendish.
David’s number. Right there.
Josie had deleted his number from her own iPhone about 18 months ago. About six or seven months after he died. Him and Charlie. But then, this was an older phone, so it made sense it would still be there.
She scrolled up and saw Charlie’s name, too.
Josie inhaled and returned to David’s entry. She clicked on the contact details. The same number he’d had for years, with all the eights in. Should she call? The bedside clock displayed 11.17 p.m. That meant 4.17 a.m. in London.
A text, perhaps. To see.