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“I have today off,” I told my husband. It was just after eight. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and speed-dialed an important number and left a message.
“Hi, it’s Lindsay Boxer. I know it’s short notice, Dr. Greene, but if you have time for me, I can be at your office any time tomorrow.”
I called Richie and left him another message. Between last night and this morning, it was my fifth or sixth. Worried, I said, “If you don’t call me back, I’m sending the police.” I clicked off.
Joe said, “Talk to me.”
I got back under the warm bedclothes and my husband’s arm.
I said, “I don’t know where to start.”
“Try.”
I told him everything, or tried. About Catton aiming at me, telling me to drop my gun and that I’d done it putting well-placed faith in God and Richie. “Richie shot him in the arm.”
“Bad aim?”
“Catton swerved, but Rich’s shot was good enough to put him out of action.”
I fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. Woke up. Apologized to Joe.
I said, “Where was I?”
“The basement room and the pictures of Blackout’s hit list.”
It was right there before my eyes, but I couldn’t bear todescribe it. I woke up again when my phone rang. Dr. Greene. We confirmed an appointment for tomorrow at four.
The smell of brewing coffee and cinnamon buns brought me to my feet. I got out of bed and stumbled into the living room, which shares a large, open loft space with the kitchen and dining room. I was safe at home. We were all safe.
Joe was dressed, pouring coffee.
He said, “I can’t stop worrying about you, Blondie.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Joe. Dr. Greene will weigh in. Where’s Julie?”
Joe said, “With Mrs. Rose next door. Eggs with everything?”
“For sure. Did I eat last night?”
“Sort of. You shower, I’ll cook.”
The phone rang again only inches from my hand. Richie.
“Cindy’s responding very well,” he told me. “She’s out of the ER and in observation, as of just now.”
“Thank God.”
“She’s weak but she knows what happened to her.”
I signed off with Rich and sat at the kitchen table, let my husband take care of me. He set down a plate of scrambled eggs with cheese and mushrooms and a cup of coffee, heavily sugared. A cinnamon bun on a little plate. And he propped a drawing of Julie’s against the coffee pot; a crayon drawing of me, Julie, Daddy, Mrs. Rose, and Martha. I had to frame this precious drawing of everyone I loved. And they loved me, too.
I wondered. Could I retire? Stay home and take Julie to the school bus …?
“Eat,” Joe said.
“Cindy’s in observation,” I said, again.
“Wonderful news. Eat.”
