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“Calder, your name comes up in every news story about the shooting. People attribute their survival to you. You’re big news, and I’m a news reporter who also happens to be your girlfriend.” She spread her arms wide. “I couldn’t dream of a better scenario.”
He thought he might need Cindy to bring him the upchuck bag again. “Signal your crew.”
“Really?”
“Really. Tell them they can pack up their gear and get the hell lost. I’m not doing it.”
“Calder—”
“Peopledied, Shauna! Christ!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He was hoping that she would leave, but when he lowered his hand, she was as she had been, except more subdued… by possibly one degree.
“I’m aware of that,” she said softly. “Right now they’re only names. Grim statistics. I want to present the stories behind the names. Let people know who they were in life. I want to make them real.”
“Trust me. They were real. They bled.”
“See? That’s jarring in its honesty. That’s what you should tell the audience.”
He chuffed, disbelieving that she still didn’t get it. “I’m not saying a fucking thing into a microphone for any fucking camera. Now, can we drop it, please?”
She rested her back against the chair, saying nothing while she fiddled with the gold chain dangling from her neck. Then, quietly, she spoke. “The ME released the little boy’s body. His funeral is the day after tomorrow.”
Calder looked aside.
“It’s tragic.”
“Yeah.”
“You did everything you could to try to save him, and the effort almost got you killed.”
“Yeah.”
“It was fate, Calder. It was his time.” She said it in a way that implored him to accept it. “It was…”
“I know what you’re trying to say. I’ve said it to myself a thousand times. But…” He clenched his teeth, took a breath. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“You’re depressed. The psychologist told me to expect that.”
He turned back to her. “What psychologist?”
“The one here at the hospital.”
“You talked to Dr. Sinclair without—”
“At her invitation,” she said, cutting him off. “She invited survivors’ family members, and, in our case, the ‘significant other,’ to attend a meeting. Naturally, she didn’t go into the specifics about her sessions with each of you. She spoke in generalizations about the stages survivors of a traumatic event go through and what we as loved ones can expect. Depression. Nightmares. Mood swings. That kind of thing.”
“Textbook stuff.”
“Exactly. Psych one oh one. Certainly nothing for you to get upset over. You’ve had two sessions with her. What was your impression?”
That she could see straight through my bullshit.
Buying time away from that unsettling thought, he reached for the unwanted cup of water and sipped. To fill the silence, he shook the ice, took another drink, and replaced the cup on the tray bridging his bed.
When he ran out of delaying tactics, he said, “Both times, she did most of the talking. Wanted to know about me. You know, family background, my interests, education, religious affiliation if any.”
He shrugged with feigned indifference. “Then she said basically what she told you in that meeting. You can expect this, don’t beat yourself up over that, cut yourself some slack, give yourself time. I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist.”
Shauna sat up straighter, appearing relieved. She even gave a light laugh. “I came away from the meeting thinking, ‘She doesn’t know the Calder Hudson I know.’ You’ll rebound in no time.”
