Whisper Me This(26)

My heart is trying to beat a hole through my rib cage.

I sit there on the couch with the gun in my clammy hands, pointing the dangerous end away from me.

I can’t think what to do. I could put it away somewhere. Tuck it into the bottom of Mom’s cedar chest. The top shelf of the closet. But I can’t stop thinking about the crazy way Dad was tearing at the restraints in the hospital. I can’t stop the what if thought of Elle getting shot. I’ve seen enough movies to know I can’t just drop it into a shrubbery or something. A kid might find it. Or a criminal.

The phone number the fireman gave me is still crumpled in the pocket of my jeans. I pull it out and look at it. Tony Medina. I try to summon a memory of him from high school, but again come up blank. He seemed nice enough. If he’s lived in Colville all this time and works for the ambulance and fire department, surely he’s not a lunatic or a serial killer or something.

I haven’t stayed in contact with anybody from home, other than Greg. I don’t even know who might still live here, and I certainly don’t know who else I could call.

Before I have time to be frozen by my usual indecision, I grab my cell phone and try to dial.

The thing is dead. I’ve forgotten to charge it, despite Greg’s instructions. I stare at it, blankly, my thought processes about as active as slugs in a tub of salt.

Clearly I need to get my shit together before I’m functional enough to even call for help.

Very carefully, holding my breath in case the thing accidentally goes off, I tuck the gun into my purse. Taking purse and gun into the bathroom with me for safekeeping, I take a shower. Brush my teeth. Lubricate my eyes with eye drops.

Out of both ideas and excuses, I pick up my parents’ landline phone.

It’s 8:00 at night. I hope that’s not too late to call. Part of me—a big part—is hoping the call will go to voicemail. I’ll hang up. Maybe I’ll leave a message. Maybe I won’t.

“Hey, who’s this?” It’s a woman’s voice, and there’s a hint of laughter in it that negates the apparent rudeness of her greeting. There’s the sound of TV in the background. Voices, music.

Still. It’s a woman. I feel my face heating and know if I look in the mirror I’ll be red with shame. I’ve called a desirable man to help me, and he has a girlfriend. Or a wife. Of course he does. What was I thinking?

My thumb hovers over the End Call button, but her voice stops me. “Wait. Don’t hang up. Shit. I bet this is some sort of work call. You’re looking for Tony, right? I can get him. Especially if this is about work stuff. Do not hang up. I repeat, do not hang up your phone. I shall produce Tony momentarily. Wave of the wand and shazam!”

Shuffling, muted voices, and then a male voice comes on. I think it’s familiar, although I’m so upside down by now I can’t be sure. “Hello? If you have not yet fled to a galaxy far, far away, speak to me.”

“If this is a bad time . . .”

“This is a perfect time.”

“This is Maisey. From the fire that wasn’t.”

“I know who you are.”

“How on earth did you know?”

“I recognize your voice. How are your folks?”

“They kept him, my dad. Up at the hospital. He’s all confused.”

Tony’s voice is calm and sympathetic. “He’s been through a lot. Can’t imagine. How long have your parents been married?”

I don’t honestly know the answer to this. “Longer than I’ve been around. Look, my folks aren’t the reason I’m calling. I mean, sort of, but not exactly.”

“How can I help?”

Just like that. Straight-up. No winding twists and turns, just a question requiring an answer.

So I tell him. My face red with embarrassment, sitting on the counter in the steamy bathroom, feeling helpless and stupid and almost out-of-body.

“I’ll be right over,” he says. No difficulty with decision-making for this guy.

“Look, I realize you’re with family and probably don’t want to—”

“No, it’s fine. I was wanting to get out of the house for a bit anyway. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up.

I’m still standing there with the phone in my hand, appalled by what I’ve just done, when the damn thing rings. It scares the bejeezus out of me, skittering out of my hand and into the sink. When I grab for it, it’s now just wet enough to be slippery and squirts out of my grasp twice before I bobble it and manage to get it in both hands.

I figure it’s probably Tony calling back to cancel, having had an earful from his girlfriend, but it’s Greg.

“Did you find the advance directive?” He doesn’t even ask about Mom and Dad. He is Attorney Greg, and I am now his client.

“Hey, I’m just out of the shower . . .”

“You didn’t, did you?” he says. “You didn’t even look.”

“Dad burned papers, Greg. And he shredded things. Why would he do that?”

Mom told him to. I don’t tell Greg that part, that strange, absurd part. I also don’t tell Greg about the pink blankets and the two babies or my sudden memory of my childhood imaginary friend.

“From what you’re telling me about his current mental state, why doesn’t seem like a valid question. Do you think he burned the advance directive?”