Life Plus One Read online

  In an effort to do something wise, I text my mom and Martina that I’m at the hospital and give them the basic information Marcus gave. Marcus exits the room and has to wedge himself in between the officers guarding the room. His eyes light, if you can even call it that, looking as horrible as he does, when he sees me.

  “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call,” he says, swallowing and stopping when he’s a few feet from where I’m standing. At least he’s wise enough to not overstep my imaginary boundaries. “It’s bad, Harp. So bad,” he says, eyes glassing over. “I didn’t know who to call,” he repeats.

  I let my gaze flick to the officers and back to him. “Looks like an attorney, Marcus. What happened?” I ask.

  He looks over his shoulder and then back at me. Shaking his head, he motions to the sitting area I passed on my way here. “Not here. Will you sit with me for a bit?”

  Nodding, I turn and walk slowly to the seating area, my heart pounding out a warning. Why is he pulling me into this? Because he truly doesn’t have anyone else to call on this coast. And it’s my fault he’s in this state to begin with. My inner guilt is having a field day.

  Marcus sits in a chair in front of me, his back to the hospital door that’s just out of sight.

  “Is he okay?” It seems we’re in some sort of intensive care unit. Doctors are buzzing around, and nurses with grim faces and tired eyes carry charts and push carts loaded with technical equipment. “He’s okay, right?”

  Marcus breaks down, his head in his hands. Shaking his head, he cries, “Even if he lives it’s not good. He messed up. He was drinking,” he admits, raising his head to meet my confused gaze. In the past Marcus has been very forthcoming with information and storytelling. I nod for him to continue, or at least give me a little more to put the pieces together for myself. “He was drunk.”

  “This early in the morning?” I wrinkle my brow. All the years I’ve known Darren, a drinking problem wasn’t something ever mentioned. Sure, I’ve seen him drink on one occasion or two, but not more than any other single man his age.

  “He didn’t come home last night. That’s nothing new. He’s been drinking a lot since he got here. I’ve been taking care of him. His life went to shit when his girlfriend in Boston broke up with him. That’s why he’s been here for so long. His firm laid him off at the same time. He has nothing to go back to.” Marcus clasps his hands together in fists and looks down at them. “He drank all night and was on his way home early this morning when he got into an accident. He’s in a coma.”

  This is when my mind starts working. “What did he hit?”

  Marcus squeezes his hands harder and then releases to grab his cell phone from his pocket. “I drove past the accident on my way here this morning and snapped a couple photos. It’s so bad,” he says. “He was going sixty in a thirty-five. The person in the other car died on impact.”

  He hands me the phone. The same phone, in the same navy blue case he’s had for the past two years. I take it from him and the first photo is from far away, so it’s hard to make out what I’m looking at. A bad accident, for sure. I recognize the horrible intersection, and I see shards of the silver truck that belonged to Darren. The other vehicle has been demolished, fully and completely. Tears spring to my eyes. “This is so awful. What was he thinking?” It’s rhetorical, because I know that Marcus doesn’t know—wouldn’t know what he was thinking or why he chose to get behind the wheel of a car while inebriated.

  I swipe right to look at the other photo. It’s a closer view and it is obvious Marcus took these from his car, while approaching the accident from behind. Police cars and ambulances are swarming in this one and I have to close my eyes for a second when I realize someone lost their life. I’m looking at someone’s death moment and it picks at my fragile emptiness. I turn the screen face down in my lap.

  “Harper. I don’t know what to do. They’re going to arrest him and take him to jail as soon as he wakes up. I don’t know what to tell my parents or if I call his ex-girlfriend. It’s all on me and I don’t know what to do with this.”

  Taking a deep breath, I tell him I need a few moments to process everything. I stand and walk to the little window that overlooks the bleak parking lot. Life moves on around us, as if it’s a normal day. I shudder when I sense Marcus standing behind me.

  “Please. Tell me what to do. He’s a murderer. He’s guilty. Nothing is going to change that.”

  “Even murderers get attorneys, I think. I don’t know why you thought I’d be able to help you in any way. I think Martina’s sister practices law, but I’m not sure what kind. What was that one friend we had at Harvard? He was pre-law, right?” I shake my hands to the sides. “This isn’t my business,” I say, shaking my head. “This isn’t my mess. How could you bring me into something so…awful?”

  “I didn’t know who else to call. You were the only person in my life for years, Harper. You have to understand that fact. It was you and me and school and then there was nothing. Darren didn’t help me recover from losing you. He was basically using me for a place to stay while he got drunk and hooked up with bimbos impressed by his Ivy League degree and Ferragamo loafers. You were the person I wanted next to me, that’s all. I lost all privileges to you, I know. I had to ask. Don’t fault me for that.”

  I turn to face him. A doctor running down the hallway steals my focus for a second. “This isn’t your mess. He’s your brother, but it’s not your mess. Go to work. Live your life and he can deal with the consequences when and if he wakes up. Call your parents and tell them. That’s what I’d do. Don’t complicate this any more than it already is. I really need to get going. I’m really sorry. I am. I feel for you, but I don’t want to see you again.”

  I lift the phone when I realize it’s his, to hand it back, but the image pops back up on the screen. Once more, I look at it. Closer this time. Someone’s death moment should be painful for me to view. It’s hard to decipher where one vehicle starts and ends because of the destruction. I trace the edges of the windows and imagine what their last moment felt like.

  As I envision what I’d think about during my last moment, I see the white sticker through the smoke. It makes it less visible, but now that I’m looking at it and know exactly what it is, I know what kind of SUV it is, what it looked like in perfect condition, and who drives it.

  I cover my mouth with my free hand as the tears come in full force. “Do you know who was in the other vehicle, Marcus?” I ask, my tone low.

  He clears his throat. “No. A woman. They won’t give us a name until next of kin is notified.”No one has to tell me. I slide down the wall until I’m seated on the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” Marcus asks.

  Shaking my head, I hand him back his phone. I cry, burying my head between my knees. It’s soft sobbing at first, but as the ramifications of this hit home, my cry turns into a soul flaying wail.

  In between bargaining with God and trying to convince myself I’m wrong, I hear Marcus asking repeatedly what’s wrong.

  I look him in the eye. “It’s Norah.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ben

  When we land back in San Diego the next morning, my phone is blowing up. I make it a point to keep it off while I’m working so it doesn’t distract me. I slept the entire flight and I’m still exhausted. All I can think about is a dark room and my bed. My energy level after missions is completely depleted. I have to be on constantly. There’s no breathing room. Perfection twenty-four seven. It’s not as if I can make a mistake either. That could cost an innocent life, or two. I like to call it the mental mush. Voicemails ping by the half dozen. Text messages from so many people I’m not sure where to start.

  “Ah, I need sleep first,” I whisper, trying to keep my eyes open. “Harper,” I whisper, seeing a voicemail from her phone number flash across my screen as I walk toward my truck. It was from yesterday morning.

  That’s obviously the first one I click. “Benny
. You need to call me as soon as you can. It’s important. I’m not just saying that to get you to call me back. I’m saying that because nothing has ever been more important.” She’s sobbing hard, her words hard to make out. My brain that is finished for the week, starts firing up again. “Please call.” The message finishes and I’m left with a jagged hole in my stomach that’s telling me something is incredibly wrong. I head to my truck, ready to be away from here and back on neutral ground—ready to be home.

  I go to call her back, but I get a phone call from a number not programmed into my phone. I can tell it’s a number from work, the place I’m trying to leave right now. Swallowing down my irritation, I answer. “Hello?”

  “Ben?” a male voice rasps.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “It’s Cage. I’m sorry I’m just now getting ahold of you. I couldn’t track you down after you touched down. You already on your way home?”

  “About to be,” I say.

  “We have some tragic news. Can you come back into the office for a second?” my boss says.

  I sit up straight, realizing just how much elasticity my energy level has. No longer am I tired. I’m ready to fight—kill. I feel warm and cool at the same time as I open and close my truck door. I start the engine and turn on the air to full blast.

  “Did you hear me?” Cage asks, waiting for my response. What if I don’t want to hear anything right now?

  “I heard you, yes. Go on.”

  “Can you come to the high bay?”

  I glance to the right, to the high bay, where I just walked from.

  “Just fucking tell me,” I bark. Adrenaline hits me like a hot shot of whiskey.

  Cage sighs. “Norah has been in an accident.”

  “Fuck! Is she at the hospital? Is the baby okay? Which hospital is she at? I’m in my truck now. I can be there in fifteen minutes. What happened?” I ask, my brain in a frenzy trying to process all of the information. He called it tragic news. “She’s okay, right?”

  He clears his throat on the other side of the line. “Norah was hit by a drunk driver yesterday morning. She was killed on impact. As was the baby. I’m so sorry, Ben.”

  “What?”

  He repeats himself a few times. “Ben, do you have someone to drive you home? Please don’t drive right now.”

  I don’t respond. Norah is gone. Robin is gone.

  “Ben?”

  They say when you die your whole life flashes before your eyes. Right now the whole life I was supposed to have blazes behind my closed eyelids. Every moment that was stolen from Norah. Holding Robin for the first time. Watching as she takes her first steps, kissing baby toes, watching a kindergarten play, first dates, learning to drive, and graduations. Robin. She never got to see the woman who loved her more than anything else in the entire world. It’s so painful to think about that I might be sick.

  “Who hit her? Who was driving the other car?” I ask, needing to know every last detail before I fall apart completely.

  “The driver of the other vehicle is in a life-threatening coma at the hospital. His blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. I assure you justice will be served. There’s no way he’s getting off, Ben. He will pay for this.”

  What if payment isn’t enough? What happens then?

  “I’m sorry,” Cage whispers, his voice taking on the tone of a friend instead of a boss delivering the most horrible news of my lifetime. He rattles off several more details that I hear, but don’t quite process. Norah’s father identified the body by sight. The intersection by her practice. The time it happened. The logistics of the accident. The speed of the other car. Cage tells me the things he knows I’ll want to know, need to know, but he tries his best to detail them like a brief. Factual. Without emotion. Matter-of-fact. I appreciate his effort. Then he says Norah’s name and mentions the baby.

  Numbness takes over. I don’t even feel the steering wheel in my palms. The edges of my vision goes black. “Thank you,” I say and hit the red button the end the call. I see Tahoe walking to his truck parked next to mine, so I get out and stop him. I’m on auto pilot, my wise intuition forcing my feet and words.

  He takes one look at me and asks what’s wrong. “Someone killed Norah and the baby,” I say. Tears are falling off my cheeks, wet, warm, and heavy. Fucking traitorous salty drops that make what Cage said real even though it seems like a cruel lie told to destroy a human. A lie I’d eat and let wrap me for a lifetime if it meant it was false.

  One eyebrow shoots up. “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “I need you to drive me home,” I get out. “I can’t drive right now.” I don’t want to hit and kill someone in the name of grief. “I’ll tell you what Cage told me on the way home.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he nods slowly. “Okay, bro. Let’s go.” No questions asked. A brotherhood. What would have been better is if he asked who we need to kill. “Anything in your truck you want right now?” he asks, voice wary.

  I don’t respond. I climb into his truck and shut the door. When he gets in and starts the engine I tell him in a flood of words tinged with fury, word for word, what was just said to me. Tahoe doesn’t speak. He doesn’t feed me bullshit lines about how everything’s going to be okay. Because it’s not going to be okay. Nothing can possibly be the same after this.

  The attacks stole the nation’s freedoms in almost every way. I made it my life’s work to restore what small pieces could be salvaged. A drunk driver stole my entire life. The whole thing. There’s no bright side or silver lining. There’s a hole where my family should be, a regret and guilt for the time I spent trying to embrace them, a pounding in my chest that makes me feel like an infidel. Everything around me is a fog. I never pause when a life is taken in the name of terror. Evil people deserve death. How can I possibly rationalize Norah’s and Robin’s deaths without feeling like a criminal?

  Tahoe parks his truck in my drive and jumps up to hang on my roof with one hand while he searches for my hide-a-key with his free hand. He opens the door and looks back at me with a wary look. “We’ll make a list. You have a lot to do.” The funeral. “I’ll help you, bro. We’ll get it all handled. Why don’t you get some sleep?” He nods to the sofa. A smart man.

  “I’ll clean up around here while you nap,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. I pull him into a full hug. “It sucks. Let it suck, man,” Tahoe whispers. “Then when it sucks a little less, we move on. A little cracked, a little tormented, stronger than ever before.”

  I want to tell him that’s what happens when brothers die. Somehow this feels differently. The same except the sting bites across my entire existence. My daughter. My future.

  I fall back into the sofa. Tahoe tosses me a blanket from the chair on the other side of the living room. A throw blanket Norah purchased last week because it had stars on it. Heaving a breath, I lean back and close my eyes, knowing there’s no way I’ll be able to fall asleep.

  Except I didn’t realize the pillow smelled like Harper. It might as well be an Ambien laced with sedatives. The blackness pulls me under quickly. I’m covered in Norah and surrounded by Harper. My entire existence is in shambles.

  ++++

  It was a dreamless sleep. Void of anything. Black. My exhaustion won out, and I probably have that to thank for the short reprieve from my reality. When I wake fourteen hours later, Tahoe is sitting in the chair across the room, his head tilted back, mouth open, sleeping like the dead. Running my hands through my hair, I sit up as every muscle in my body protests. I’m still in my goddamn dirty uniform. Mud caked camo pants and white shirt stained yellow from sweat.

  “You’re awake,” Harper says, strolling from the hallway. “How are you feeling?” Her eyes are wide, apprehensive, terrified by what she’s going to find. “I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind. I still had a key from…before.”

  Seeing Harper tears a wound open I didn’t know existed. I close my eyes because the pain is back, but now it’s multiplied by
a thousand. “I need a shower,” I reply. Tahoe snores, completely out for the count. I approach him slowly and shake his shoulder.

  “What, what? I’m up,” Tahoe says, eyes flickering open and meeting my gaze.

  “Hit the couch,” I say, hiking my thumb over my shoulder. He goes without saying another word, collapsing in a heap. He’s back asleep before his head hits the pillow. Turning back to Harper, I swallow hard. “Shower,” I repeat to her. “I’m fine. You don’t have to hang around. Tahoe is here.” My traitorous gaze flicks down to her bare legs and short ripped jean shorts with lace peeking out the bottom. A sliver of her stomach peeks out from her loose T-shirt. She crosses one leg over the other, self-conscious of my obvious appraisal.

  “Benny,” she says when my gaze finally finds hers. “Talk to me.”

  I shake my head and let out a small laugh. “I can’t talk to you, Harper.”

  “Why not?” she asks quietly, peeking over my shoulder at Tahoe.

  “He can’t hear us. He’s out for another half a day. We’ve been up for more than a day.”

  Harper wants to reach out for me. I see it in the way her hands flex by her sides. That’s enough torture for now. I flick my gaze forward and pass by her without saying another word. I enter my bedroom and find it has been cleaned up, just as Tahoe promised. Norah’s stuff isn’t in sight. I see several boxes in the corner and my chest aches.

  Because my friend knows me better than I thought, and because it’s all that’s left of my future. I have nothing tangible except things. I don’t want things. I don’t need things. No one does, really. That’s not what we as humans crave. The door clicks closed.

  “I’m so sorry. Ben, I’m sorry. I feel so awful. I’m not even sure how to process something like this.”