The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(74)

Posh. Another good then word.

Nothing posh about my bedridden life, thought the thirty-four-year-old.

Lying on her Sealy Posturepedic in the bedroom of their first-floor apartment in Brooklyn, Porter looked out the window at Cadman Park, monotone and wet and chill today, which fit her mood pretty well.

The slim brunette barista had been sidelined not by exhaustion or a novelist’s anonymous disease but because she’d tripped over a dog. Not even hers, but a fuzzy little thing that’d slipped a lead while she and her husband had been out jogging and darted in front of her. She’d twisted away, instinctively, and heard a pop in her ankle. Down she went.

Hell, a sprain, she’d thought.

Wrong. It was one fucking nightmare of a break.

Two surgeries to start, then a battle with infection, then under the knife again—to place steel pins. Bionic woman, her husband had joked gamely, though he was clearly shaken by her pain—and, understandably, dismayed by his new responsibilities; the couple had an eighteen-month-old daughter. Dad—a graphic designer in Midtown—was now living a double-shift life. And she couldn’t even think about his cheerfully forced nod when the doctor said it was best to avoid “intimate relations” that would put the ankle at risk for at least six months. (Something Victorian about the MO’s phrase too, come to think of it.)

With a crutch, Porter could just about handle the basics: The bathroom. A trip to the mini fridge that Sam had set up in this, the guest, bedroom. She could get a bottle and the solid food to feed Erin, whose small bed was beside hers. That was about the extent of her activity until the wound healed. How she loved to cook, how she loved to run, how she loved the barista job—the banter, the quirky and bizarre people she met.

But it was another month of being bedridden.

Claire Porter resolved to be good and follow orders. Another fall, the doctor warned, could make the injury far worse. Infection, necrosis of the skin. Ick. And though he hadn’t mentioned amputation, Google had. And once seated in her mind, that thought stuck like a leech and wouldn’t let go.

At least she could continue her online studies. Barista now, owner of a small restaurant consulting business in two years. She lifted the Mac onto her tummy, glanced at the crib. Thank you for snoozing, honey doll! Hell, she wanted to kiss the girl’s toffee-blond hair. But that would be a big project.

Bedridden.

She booted up and worked for a few minutes, then, goddamn it. The urge. She needed to use the bathroom.

It was funny how we can anticipate exactly where and how pain will get us. Porter went through the instinctive choreography of shifting one leg, the other, her torso and arms in a complicated pattern to let her sit up without bringing tears to her eyes.

Or puking.

She negotiated the sitting-up with relatively little discomfort. And she managed to snag the crutches pretty well.

Now the standing-up part.

A deep breath, everything coming into alignment. Okay, scoot forward.

Then…okay slow…then up.

Porter, who weighed in at about 110 pounds, felt the force of gravity tugging her down, down, down. The crutches did this, turned her into a load of bricks. But she managed. A few steps. She paused as her vision crinkled a bit. She was light-headed. Lowering her head, breathing deeply, she reminded herself to get up slowly next time. Fainting? She couldn’t even imagine what a fall would do to her fragile bones.

Then her head cleared and she moved toward the hall. She paused to look down at Erin, who slept the sleep of youthful oblivion, with dreams, if at all, simple and kind.

Claire Porter hobbled onward to the bathroom. Sam had modified it—he’d put a shower seat in the tub and replaced the wall-mounted head with a handheld unit. He’d added a high seat on the toilet so she didn’t need to put much weight on her foot.

One good thing about the accident. No fashion choices. It was sweats, sweats, sweats…Just tug the turquoise bottoms down with the panties and sit. Job done.

Getting up was a bit harder but she knew how to manage it.

Anticipation…

Up and pain-free. Damn, my right leg’s going to be solid wood by the time this is over.

As Claire Porter was washing her hands she felt a shudder throughout the apartment. Windows rattled and a glass sitting on the shelf leapt off the edge and died in a dozen shards on the tile floor.

Porter gasped.

My God. What was that? Another one of those earthquakes? She’d followed the news. Something about that drilling—the construction site they said was responsible was a half mile from here. There was a lot of protesting. Environmental folks versus big business. She couldn’t remember exactly.

Wow, a quake in New York! This was something. She’d have to tell her mother about it when they talked next. It had been a fairly minor tremor—no damage to the walls or windows.

But that was a problem.

And a serious one.

Bare feet. Broken glass.

Stupid, she thought. She had slippers (well, slipper; nothing was going on the bad foot) but hadn’t bothered to put it on. And now five feet of obstacle course to get to the hallway.

She looked down. When the glass hit, it hit hard.

Shit. It would be impossible for her to clean up the mess. Bending over was no option. She could use the crutch to push the bigger pieces out of the way but she couldn’t see the smaller ones on the white tile.

Towels. She would cover the floor with bath towels and place her good foot only where there were no lumps. The smaller ones wouldn’t penetrate—she hoped.