The Survivor: A Novel Part 33

The old man's eyes crinkled as he regarded her for the first time. "h.e.l.lo, then."

Cielle gave a self-conscious wave, all wrist. "Hi."

Janie gave Nate's father a quick hug, and then Jason strode forward. "I'm Jason. Her boyfriend."

With minimal interest Nate's father took the kid's oversize hand, looking past him at Nate. "They're not sleeping in the same room."

"You're telling me," Nate said. They studied each other from a safe distance. "I suppose you're wondering what the h.e.l.l is going on."

"In due time. It's late. And you look tired."

For the first time in his life, Nate was pleased at his father's reticence. A rush of grat.i.tude overtook him. "Thanks for coming, Dad."

His father turned for the house without so much as a nod. "No use in standing around out here," he said.

They showered and changed while Nate's father pan-fried some elk steaks, which he served with over-easy eggs and mugs of hot cider. Drying his s.h.a.ggy hair and staring down at his plate, Jason said, "I'm sort of a vegetarian," and Nate's father replied, "Eat the d.a.m.n food, son."

For a man's getaway, the place was surprisingly cozy, with spongy carpeting, throw blankets over the chairs, and exposed wood beams bracing the vaulted ceiling. No television. Nate's father threw some cedar logs in the fireplace, and they ate on the surrounding couches, breathing in the sweet fragrance, letting the flames warm them. Casper lapped meat from a mixing bowl with enough exuberance to push it across the linoleum. His tags dinged against the metal lip, and then he gave out a tragic whimper that the elk was no more.

Wearing a borrowed sweater three sizes too big, Janie leaned into Nate, and he rested his arm across her narrow shoulders, and Cielle looked at them and for once said nothing cynical. He stole looks at his father, not quite believing that they were here under the same vaulted ceiling, and d.a.m.ned if the old man didn't almost smile a time or two. Nate felt his muscles relax by degrees; maybe it was the meds starting to leave his system, or maybe he just finally had the s.p.a.ce to let go a little. Cielle cracked a stupid joke and then giggled at it herself, leaning into her mom. Janie started laughing, too, and then Nate. He caught their reflection off the gla.s.s fireplace screen, something about the arrangement of the three of them tugging at a thread of a memory. And it struck him: the family portrait. Same pose, eight long years later. The sight of them was all different but somehow the same. They finished eating and talking, then sat for a moment in silence, basking in the afterglow, no one wanting the gathering to break up. It was magical, a momentary respite from reality.

After a while, as Cielle and Jason, with some prompting, cleared the dishes, Nate took his cell phone and started outside.

Janie caught his arm. "Where you going?"

"Find a signal. Abara. After the hospital-"

She plucked the phone from his hand and turned it off. "Not tonight," she said gently. "Just one night."

He could give her that.

Later, though it took some doing, Nate climbed the ladder to the open loft where Cielle was bedding down. Beyond the dormer window, black fangs of treetops bit into the star-patterned sky. He combat-crawled a few feet toward her pillow.

"Are you stupid, crawling up here with your muscles all tweaked?"

"Yes." He leaned to kiss her on the forehead, but before he could, she hugged him around the neck, holding on.

"What's gonna happen to us?" Her voice caught, and he felt her cheek growing hot against his.

He pulled away to answer, but she just squeezed tighter. He said, "I will let nothing happen to you."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes. I can."

"Are we ever gonna get home again?"

He thought, I am home.

He kissed her on the forehead and started to back out of the cramped s.p.a.ce when she asked, "Why'd you and Mom split up?"

He halted, hunched beneath the low ceiling. "It took me a long time to come home from the war."

"How long?"

He considered. "Till now."

"So you fell out of love with her?"

"No. Never."

"But you...?"

"Couldn't figure out how to love her right either."

"That's really what men are like? This is what I have to look forward to?"

He smiled a little.

She said, "If you loved her-us-then how could you stand being away?"

"I couldn't. I always thought tomorrow would be different."

"And it wasn't."

"No. But today was."

She smiled secretly and lowered her head to the pillow. "Dad? Will you...?"

"Of course."

He inched forward and lay up there by her until she fell asleep.

After descending with difficulty, he searched out his father and spotted him just outside the back door, sc.r.a.ping leftovers into a composter. He started for him, but a neat row of framed photos hanging in the brief hall brought him up short-his own school pictures from preschool on, ending with his second-grade photo.

The year before his mother got sick.

He stared at the shrinelike display of himself. A collared shirt each time out, the neat side part, his small face not yet shadowed with loss. The abrupt end at second grade. He pictured those pen marks in Cielle's doorway, her heights marked at various ages. Where was the line at which childhood ended? His mind drifted to Nastya in her VIP booth, an ash-heavy cigarette forked between manicured fingers.

Despite our best efforts, we fail each other, he thought, all the time.

And yet there was still so much to keep trying for.

At once his father was at his side, looking on with him at the four small frames. "You deserved to have that wall filled."

By the time Nate could recover to reply, his father had moved on down the hall.

Nate stood for a while, leaning against the wall beside those pictures. He was about to start back when he heard the quiet plucking of guitar strings from the front of the house. He made his way through the kitchen and living room, Jason's form drawing into view outside on the porch swing. The kid sat Indian style, large shoulders bowed, guitar across his lap. Nate drew near to the window. Jason was singing so softly that the words were barely audible, but the song slowly resolved: McCartney's "Blackbird." Jason's voice was startlingly good, high-pitched and pure, almost feminine. Nate kept on toward the door, a s.n.a.t.c.h of lyrics coming clear-"take these broken wings and learn to fly"-but when he stepped onto the enclosed porch, Jason stopped playing abruptly, the guitar lying awkwardly across his thighs like a lapdog that could at any instant turn hostile.

They faced each other there in the light of the dark black night. The door clicked shut behind Nate, cold running up his sleeves and around his neck. "Why don't you play that instead of the other c.r.a.p?"

"You really know how to pay a compliment."

"You really know how to play."

The kid actually blushed. "Yeah, well."

"I'm serious. Why don't you play more like that?"

Jason shrugged, jerking his head to flick the hair out of his eyes. "Dunno. Guess I figured I wasn't supposed to. You know. Be good at something."

Nate sat beside him, the porch swing rocking. "Maybe it's easier to just lump along sometimes."

"No," Jason said. "It's exhausting to be a f.u.c.kup."

Nate laughed.

Jason picked at his shoe. "All my life I was told no. Can't go outside to play. Can't do algebra. Can't date a smart girl. Well, I'm sick of it." A touch sharp-an accusation.

Nate thought for a time, then said, "You should be."

The crickets were at it out there in the blackness.

Jason nodded a bit to himself. "You know when you hear a song on the radio that you just dig? And it sticks in your head, right? So you download it from iTunes. At first you love it. Take it with you to the skate park. Go to the beach with it, everywhere. But then you have it, so you get sick of it. And later you hear it on the radio, it's not as exciting. Because you own it, right?" He licked his chapped lips. "That's how it was with other girls. But I never feel that way about Cielle."

They swayed a little on the porch swing, the silence growing awkward. Then Jason reached over and chucked Nate on the shoulder, a touch too hard. "Glad we had this talk, Pops."

Suppressing a grin, Nate rose. "Good night, Jason."

Jason threw his hands out, all smart-a.s.s smirk. "C'mon. Shouldn't we, ya know, go throw a ball? Quick bonding game of catch?"

Nate pa.s.sed through the door. Safely out of view, he couldn't help but crack a smile.

Janie lay across him in the sweaty aftermath, her lips at his chest, the blades of her shoulders forming an erotic ridgeline in the darkness. Starlight angled through the curtainless pane, blanketing half the bed in a faint blue glow. Her mouth worked up his neck and found his mouth. She lifted her head, catching the sheet of light, her face smooth and beatific save the inadvertent half sneer of her swollen lips. He tugged at her hair, damp and heavy at the nape, and she pulled forward into the gentle pressure, tilting her head as if to stretch her neck.

The moment was timeless-no, it was of a different time. It was before Fort Benning and the Sandbox, before the man-boy shackled to an outhouse and Abibas and a helicopter that capsized four feet above a dune. Before death notifications and a failure of will in the car outside Charles's childhood home. Before nightmares and ghosts and a Westwood apartment with two photographs thumbtacked to the wall. Before safe-deposit boxes and interrogation rooms and oversize footprints in the back lawn. Before neurologists and little white pills and a body that slowly and unpredictably betrayed him.

But of course it wasn't.

The muscle beneath his cheek rippled-a tiny bout of fasciculation-and Janie's eyes tracked down to it. Her breathing changed, ever so slightly. The mood, taking a turn, paradise interrupted by a twinge of the flesh. The illness had brought him home again, but it also meant that he wouldn't be able to stay.

His voice was husky. "I'm gonna die," he told her.

Her fingertips were at his face, fording his lips. "I don't care."

"Do you have any idea how awful this is gonna get?"

"I don't care." Her mouth trembled, then firmed with anger. "Your eyes can dry up and you can stop talking and lie there choking on fluid in your lungs-I don't care." She clutched at him, her nails digging into the skin beneath his collarbone. "You can stop swallowing and have a ventilator rammed down your throat and ... and barely be able to blink, but I still want you there. Dying. For me. I don't care. I don't care."

She lowered her damp forehead to his chest and kept it there for a time. He held her and looked at the stars outside and thought how they'd be there the morning after he died and the morning after that. He stroked her back, and she fell asleep on him, and half his body went numb from the weight of her, but he didn't dare move, didn't want to waste a single instant of it.

Finally she stirred and shifted off him, raising her sleep-heavy face. "I don't mean it," she said.

He ran his fingers gently down her back and up again. "I know."

Chapter 52.

Nate slept hard and awakened new. Beside him the quilt was flipped back to empty sheets; Janie had slipped out, letting him sleep. With wonder he flexed his hands, rotated his feet, clenched his jaw. Hints of weakness, minor aches. Not perfect, but a world better.

Standing, he stretched, straining for the ceiling, fingers spread, pushing as far and high as his body allowed. It felt divine. The drug interaction had given him a preview of the future. Testing the strength in his hands again, he realized that he now had a brief window before the decline happened again and with finality.

He vowed not to waste it.

He paced outside, nose to his cell phone, searching out a signal. Mistaking this for play, Casper ran at his side, thwacking Nate's legs with his tail. Nate wound up in the center of the footbridge, where two bars materialized and a third flickered moodily. The stream below was as clear as air, the rocks of the bed vibrant with mossy greens. He sent a text to Abara that simply read YOU THERE? and seconds later got an answer: CALL ME IN TWENTY. And a phone number.

He wandered back inside, where his father handed him a cup of coffee, the morning newspaper, and a plate full of fresh blueberry pancakes. The rustic Martha Stewart routine continued to surprise the h.e.l.l out of Nate, but he had to concede that years of living alone had made his father proficient in the kitchen.

Nate took a sip of coffee, closed his eyes into the pleasure of it, then handed the mug back. "I can only drink decaf now."

His father frowned at the curiousness of this but asked nothing. Janie was in the shower, the kids up in the loft. The hushed teenage voices were pleasant enough, though experience had shown that a petty argument was likely to erupt at any second.

Nate ate and swallowed his riluzole, glancing at the newspaper's subtle headline: HOSPITAL Ma.s.sACRE. He scanned down, finding little in the way of helpful information. Unidentified shooter, two dead, multiple injuries, all survivors now stable. No mention of Nate or Janie; the agency was probably withholding information for the investigation. Beneath the fold, photos showed the nurse who had manned the front station and the security guard. The two black-and-white pictures held Nate's attention.

What little regard Misha-and Pavlo-had shown for these lives. Obstacles to be obliterated in their pursuit. Scorched earth was right. With Nastya's suicide it seemed that every restraint and objective had fallen away; Pavlo wanted nothing now except vengeance.

From habit Nate flipped to the obituaries and was surprised to see the same photograph of the nurse reproduced there. Luanne Dupries's dedication to her profession and her leadership at the community level within the California Nurses a.s.sociation were an inspiration to her many friends and colleagues. Nate's fingernail underscored the last two sentences.

Luanne is survived by her immediate family: her parents, brother, son, daughter-in-law, and nieces and nephews. She is also survived by her fiance and his four children.

Before her senseless death, Luanne Dupries had made a mark. She had been well loved, and she'd be missed. Nate made her a silent apology, tapped her photograph respectfully, and headed for the bridge with his cell phone.

A host of messages dating back a few days-Sergeant Jen Brown making clear he'd better get his a.s.s in to sign that paperwork, several reporters who had somehow gotten ahold of his number, a few friends inquiring about the news story on the bank robbery. He deleted them all and made the call.

Abara wasted no time. "The f.u.c.k happened?"

"It's a conversation."