In an Instant(65)

76

Kyle walks Mo to her car in the parking lot. A single fat drop of rain hits her cheek, and she looks up at the dark sky. Another hits her forehead, then another, and Kyle grabs her by the elbow and guides her quickly to her BMW. He takes the keys from her fumbling hands, clicks open the locks, and nearly pushes her into the passenger seat before hustling around to the driver’s side to climb in beside her.

Her whole body shakes, and he wraps her in his arms. “Shhh,” he soothes, “it’s just rain.” Still holding her with his right arm, he turns on the ignition and the heat with his left, then rewraps her in a full embrace until her shivering stops.

With a deep breath to suck in her emotions, she pushes away. “I’m pathetic,” she says.

“You’re amazing,” he answers, his face reverent as he brushes a wet tendril from her face and tucks it behind her ear. “I can’t believe you came here. It was incredibly brave.”

“Or stupid,” she says. “I should have known I’d be a mess.”

And then it happens . . . like it couldn’t not happen . . . like what she said was something else entirely, something seductive or romantic. Kyle leans in and kisses her, not smooshing, lip-smashing kind of kissing, but soft and gentle, his lips barely grazing hers as her eyes close and his mouth molds to hers. Then his arms are around her, and they are melting against each other.

The rain patters on the roof, but Mo pays it no mind, her body warm and protected and oblivious to everything except for Kyle kissing her. It’s amazing and grand and beautiful, and I cheer and cheer and cheer, every bit of me happy and jealous as I watch and pretend I am her, all our girlhood dreams realized in the front seat of her car in the rain at the base of a snow-covered mountain.

Her right hand slides from his neck to the zipper of his coat, and he puts his hand on hers to stop her. “Not here,” he whispers, and with the confidence of a white knight, he straightens in his seat, fastens his seat belt, glances over to make sure she has fastened hers, and pulls from the parking lot and onto the road.

He drives to the Timberline Inn, and I watch, stunned, as Mo says nothing to protest the incredible boldness of it all. He parks in front of the lobby and hurries around to open the door.

My nerves are jumping. This is crazy. Mo’s not that kind of girl. She won’t even kiss a boy unless he’s taken her on at least three dates. Or, I should say, Mo didn’t used to be that kind of girl.

Really, Mo? You hardly know this guy. But another part of me is still cheering. Because I get it. You only live once, and no one has any idea how long that once is going to be, so grab on tight and hold on for the ride and don’t worry about it and don’t look back.

Go, Mo, go! Live it, love it, do it. Do it!





77

“I told you, I was carrying my glass of wine from the bar toward a table where one of my patients was having dinner, and I slipped,” Bob says. “The glass broke, and I cut myself. It’s no big deal.”

Karen looks unconvinced, but she knows the lie is probably better than the truth, so she lets it go.

They are in the emergency room, waiting for the nurse to return with instructions and supplies for keeping the twelve stitches in Bob’s forearm clean.

Karen looks awful. She’s never been a great beauty, but pristine grooming and diligent upkeep have always kept her attractive. Since the accident, though, her attentiveness has slackened, and tonight she looks downright disheveled. Her hair is unkempt, and streaks of gray show at the roots. Her face is makeup-less, and her eyes are bruised. Her body has gone soft, and so has her posture, as though distress has devoured her muscles.

Karen’s phone rings. She pulls it from her purse and looks at the caller ID, and despite the sign posted on the wall that prohibits cell phone use, she answers it. “Hi, baby, everything okay? . . . Captain Burns? From Big Bear? . . . He was at the house? . . . Baby, calm down.”

I move to where Natalie is to see her huddled in her bedroom closet with her phone, the clippings she collected from the accident spread out in front of her, the picture of her with the gloves front and center. She is crying and rocking back and forth on her heels.

“Mom, what if he was here to arrest Dad?”

“Arrest Dad? For what?” Karen says, clearly mystified as to what Natalie is talking about.

Natalie says nothing as her rocking intensifies.

“Honey, don’t worry about it,” Karen says. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He probably just has some follow-up questions. I made a pan of lasagna. It’s in the fridge. Heat it for two minutes in the microwave, and make sure you cover it with a paper towel.”

Natalie hangs up and, for a long minute, stares at the clippings, her eyes frozen on an article from a local paper that shows a headshot of Mo, and I know she is wondering if Mo betrayed her. She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes as if trying to blot it away, to erase what she did, but I think even Natalie knows some things cannot be undone.

I return to the hospital as Karen says to Bob, “Babe, are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good.”

She’s right. Bob’s skin is ashen, and he looks like he might be sick. “I’m fine. What the hell is taking the nurse so long?”

“Natalie says Captain Burns came to the house and that he wants to talk to us. What do you think that could be about? Do you think maybe he’s going to reopen the search for Oz and he thinks maybe we can help? I’d like to help. We could organize another press conference. What do you think about that? Maybe even get a caravan together, call our friends and neighbors, go up and help look for him. I could organize it, set up a Facebook page, call the local papers to run an article about it. It’s awful that they never found him. What do you think?”