Sex Love Repeat
Page 13
It isn’t working. I push against her chest harder, the wet suit slick beneath my palms, my movement awkward on the thin board, a large wave knocking me off balance when I lift from her chest. I look to shore and lay down, as gently as I can, atop her body, and paddle as fast as my arms will go.
I have paddled hundreds of miles. Accelerated bursts of speed to catch up to a wave. Long sprints to race another surfer back to shore. But never has my stick moved this fast. I gasp for air, my heart squeezing in my chest as I move my arms, listening, straining my body for a hope of air, a movement in her limbs, a sigh. Something. I try to calculate time, to know how long it has been, but panic sets in, and I push those thoughts to the side. I notice the blood halfway to shore. Beads of liquid streaming down the board, coming from her head. Do the dead bleed? I scream, the shore approaching, and heads look up. Feet move along the sand towards us and I clear the final distance ‘til it is shallow enough to stand, and I sweep her cold body into my arms.
Her lips are blue. Her face is slack. I have failed her. I hold her tight to my chest and run out of the water.
HACK SHACK: (noun) Hospital
PAUL
I have only ever loved four women in my life. The first two are dead. I have lost communication with my sister. I am praying fervently for Madd. The paramedics surround her, their red polos bent over, voices crawling over each other and all I can see are her feet, sticking out, pointing to the sky, in a way I have never seen them. She curls into a ball when she sleeps, her feet tucked, her head often on my stomach or my arm, her mouth curved into a smile even when she is sound asleep. They push me aside, won’t let me close enough to see, but I can hear their words. There is a siren in the distance, and all I can do is thank God that we are in Venice. Where there is medical staff on the beach, ambulances around the corner. Not up in Lunada or out in Malibu where empty mansions would quietly watch her die.
There is a cough and my heart leaps. More coughs. Hard, hacking sounds that she has never made, the type of sound that must come from a grown man. Her foot moves, and I pray to God a medic didn’t bump it. An engine rumbles, and I am pushed aside once again as an ambulance pulls onto the sand. The last thing I see is her limp feet as she is placed on a stretcher. They wouldn’t load a dead person on a stretcher, wouldn’t send them in an ambulance.
Right?
I get the attention of an EMT, grabbing his arm when he shuts the ambulance doors. “I’m her boyfriend. Can I ride with you?”
The man turns, his thin face looking me briefly up and down. “They won’t let you in the hospital without a shirt and shoes. We’re taking her to Venice Regional. Why don’t you grab some clothes, for you and her? Just in case. Also, if she has any identification, numbers of friends and family... grab that type of thing and meet us there.” He moves around me and opens the passenger door. I turn, my feet slipping on the hot sand, and run. Past familiar faces, past a dread headed stranger who is examining my board, jumping over a handrail, my feet pounding a path that I have taken many times before. With Madd and without her. I round the corner to an alley and bump into a man’s chest, stumbling past him, ignoring his curse. Two blocks. One block. Then I am taking the stairs, knocking over the ceramic frog that Madd brought back from Tijuana, grabbing the key and turning it in the lock.
Home. It will never be home without her. Even now, with her scent in the air, the sheets twisted from an early morning fuck, it feels wrong. I shut the door, not wanting to let out any of her air, and move to the counter, grabbing her keys, phone, and wallet. I am torn between wanting to examine every item, to grab her sweater and inhale her scent, and the urgency that pushes me forward. She may be alive. She may die. I need to get to the hospital. I grab a trash bag from underneath the sink and stuff into it the first two stacks of folded clothes from the top of the dryer. Folded by her. I shove my feet into flip flops and run downstairs, pocketing the key, yanking the door shut behind me.
The hospital. I’ve broken at least nine laws to get here. I leave the truck under a blinking red sign that says ‘ER’ and grab her things, running into the lobby and approaching the desk.
She is alive. It is the first thing I ask and is answered without hesitation, followed instantly by two words that make my heart drop and chest ache. “For now.” I can’t take this roller coaster. The high that I hear at the announcement of her breath, intense joy flooding my veins. Despair at the possibility that I might still lose her. They won’t let me back there. Not yet. Not until some future point that is not explained by the haggard receptionists. Then the door opens and a woman in white steps out, her eyes finding me and stepping forward.
“Are you the boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
She smiles, the motion not reaching her eyes. “She is breathing, but it is assisted. She’s had pretty severe head trauma. That, combined with the six or seven minutes she was without air... we have induced a coma until we can get her stabilized.”
“Induced a coma? So she can be brought out of it?”
She looks into my eyes. “If she still has brain function. She may not make it to a point where it is feasible to pull her out of it. You should call her family. Any close friends, and have them come here. She may not survive the night.”
I ignore the sentence, even as it stands in the center of my mind and shouts, overpowering any thought process I struggle to have. “Can I see her?”
She glances at her watch. “They’re working on her now. I’ll have someone come out and bring you in in about thirty minutes.” She smiles grimly and turns, her coat flaring out, and she is gone, the white doors swinging shut behind her.
They’re working on her now.
You should call any family or friends.
I step forward dumbly, until I am before a chair and I turn, sinking into it, my hand loosening around her wallet and phone, the items sliding into my lap. Call family or friends.
Friends. Madd doesn’t really have a lot of friends. We have a big group that we hang out with—several of the guys professionally surf, and all of the girls hang out together. But they are the type you call when you are five blocks away and have a flat tire. Not when you are on life support and might not last the night. Madd and I could disappear from this stretch of beach and it’d be weeks before anyone noticed.
Family. Madd’s entire family consists of one drunk individual. A mother who I vaguely remember being in Tuscany. But I’ll call her cell, just to make sure. I open her phone and scroll down the numbers, looking for ‘M’. Just one contact line up from it, my breath stops.
Lover.
Him. If I love half of her heart with my whole one, this man has claim to the other half. The other half of that heart that is struggling to beat. I have seen his name displayed on her phone before. But never have I had the desire to call. I have no need to disrupt the perfection that is our life, no need to rock that boat. I know nothing about this man. He may be married. Older. Younger. Black. White. He is wealthy, I know that, her wrist and ears often glittering with presents, the new convertible in our garage proof of that. I know that he wanted her to have a steady man, is regretful of his time spent away from her. That is either because he doesn’t care, because she is a piece of ass who he uses when he can—or because he loves her and wants what’s best for her. And knows she would not put up with being put in the corner. Played with when he has time and otherwise ignored. There is so much I don’t know about this man. So much I never wanted to find out. But here I am, her phone in my hand, his name staring at me.
I am torn. She never wants us to meet. Wants our lives to play out separately. And I am torn between respecting those wishes and knowing what I, if I were him, would want. To hold her warm hand in mine in case it went cold forever. To hear her soft breath before it stopped eternally. If she wakes, she may hate me for it. But if she doesn’t, I might not forgive myself for taking this moment from him.
PAUL
I press the CALL button, working through words in my head, steeling myself for an unknown outcome. How will I react to hearing his voice? Will he be friendly? Cold? Will I leave a message if the machine comes on? The female voice surprises me, chirping through the receiver with friendly efficiency. “Hey Madison.”
I look at the phone, at the words ‘Lover’ clearly displayed on the front. I have dialed the right number.
“Madison?”
I clear my throat. “I was trying to reach...” I feel sluggish, like my brain can’t formulate a single articulate sentence.
“Stewart? You were calling for Stewart?” the perky voice asks helpfully.
Stewart. That is his name. A name that inappropriately brings to mind visions of my brother’s face. A brother I haven’t thought of in some time. I swallow, returning to the uncomfortable task at hand. “Yes. Is he available?”
“Mr. Brand is in a meeting right now. Does Madison need me to interrupt him?” her tone is distractingly cheerful, so much so that my brain takes a moment to catch up, to focus on the insanity that just left her lips.
“Mr. Brand?” my words come out unintentionally harsh. “Stewart Brand?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
My head comes up with a jerk and my eyes open wide, moving wildly, trying to sort out the disaster unfolding before me. I hear her voice, in my ear, the words twisting around into unintelligible forms. I close the phone, spots appearing before my eyes and I try to breathe, try to focus on what is before me and what is important. Madd. Lying a few walls away. Dying.
But my brain won’t release itself, won’t step away from the bomb that was just dropped in my lap. Stewart. My older brother. Fucking Madd. Touching her skin, holding her body, kissing her mouth. My brother. He is the one who has the other half of her heart. He is the one that I share her with. He is the one who dictated a second boyfriend; he is the one too busy to fully occupy her bed, her time.
Stewart.
My brother.
The one who beat up Noah Richardson when I was eleven because Noah wouldn’t stop bullying me. The one who coached me through asking Nicki Farrahs out when I was too chicken. The one who explained sex and going down on a girl and who bought me my first box of condoms. The one who punched me in the face and blames me for causing our little sister’s death. The one who told me never to step within a mile of him ever again. The one who wouldn’t return my calls for five years, until I finally gave up and stepped away from the tattered remains of our family.
Stewart is Him. Stewart is Lover.
The phone rings in my hand and I see his moniker pop up on the screen. Before I can second-guess the action, I walk over and hand it to the ER receptionist. “Please explain to them about Madison Decater,” I request softly.
The woman shoots me a questioning look and then glances at the phone and flips it open. “Venice Regional ER,” she says into the phone.
I walk back to the chair and watch her face, watch her lips as they mouth words I can only guess at. Wonder who is on the other end. If it is Stewart or the cheerful female. And wonder what I will do when he walks through these doors. And if she will still be alive when he does.
STEWART
We are in the middle of a deposition when there is a knock on the door and Ashley steps in. I look up with a warning look, one that softens instantly when I see her face. I hold up a finger, pausing our attorney, the transcriber looking up in surprise when the room falls silent.
She moves quickly to my side and leans forward, her lips close to my ear. “It’s Madison. There’s been an accident.”
I close my eyes, unprepared for the words. Not again. Not after Jennifer. I slide back my chair, standing, and meet the attorney’s eyes. “I have personal business to attend to. We will need to reschedule.”
“Personal business?” the man stammers. “Stewart, it took a month to coordinate this.”
I ignore him, following Ashley out of the room, my hand on her back, pulling her into my office and shutting the door. “Tell me. Everything.”
She shakes before me, her voice trembling, all traces of cheer and professionalism drained from her body. “A man called, from her phone. He wanted you, but hung up when I told him you were busy. It seemed odd... so I called back to get his name, a message, something. A woman answered, someone from the hospital. She said that Madison was in a surfing accident and is on life support. That she might not make it through the night. That any close family and friends should come now.” Tears well in her eyes and she steps forward, touching my arm. “I’m so sorry, Stewart.”
I brush off her touch. “Where is my phone?”
She thrusts it out, and I grab it, trying to walk through a logical thought process, my mind heavy with thoughts. “Have a driver meet me out front.”
“Done. I called them before I stepped in. They have the hospital address, and I have given the hospital your information.”
I nod. “Also give them my card information. Any medical expenses charged to me. I don’t want any treatment or options unexplored due to cost. Make sure they understand that.”
She nods quickly, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. She knows Madison well, has lunched with her countless times, chats with her in the reception area when my meetings run over. Picked out her birthday, anniversary, and Valentine’s Day gifts for the last two and a half years. I nod to her and open the door.
We make the half-hour drive in fifteen minutes, my frustration at not having my car disappearing as soon as the driver made the first hairpin turn at forty-five miles per hour. He understands my urgency and has a better handle on his emotions. I cradle my head in my hands, visions of Madison assaulting me from all directions.
Her head on my pillow, a drugged smile on her lips when I kiss her goodbye in the morning.
I have paddled hundreds of miles. Accelerated bursts of speed to catch up to a wave. Long sprints to race another surfer back to shore. But never has my stick moved this fast. I gasp for air, my heart squeezing in my chest as I move my arms, listening, straining my body for a hope of air, a movement in her limbs, a sigh. Something. I try to calculate time, to know how long it has been, but panic sets in, and I push those thoughts to the side. I notice the blood halfway to shore. Beads of liquid streaming down the board, coming from her head. Do the dead bleed? I scream, the shore approaching, and heads look up. Feet move along the sand towards us and I clear the final distance ‘til it is shallow enough to stand, and I sweep her cold body into my arms.
Her lips are blue. Her face is slack. I have failed her. I hold her tight to my chest and run out of the water.
HACK SHACK: (noun) Hospital
PAUL
I have only ever loved four women in my life. The first two are dead. I have lost communication with my sister. I am praying fervently for Madd. The paramedics surround her, their red polos bent over, voices crawling over each other and all I can see are her feet, sticking out, pointing to the sky, in a way I have never seen them. She curls into a ball when she sleeps, her feet tucked, her head often on my stomach or my arm, her mouth curved into a smile even when she is sound asleep. They push me aside, won’t let me close enough to see, but I can hear their words. There is a siren in the distance, and all I can do is thank God that we are in Venice. Where there is medical staff on the beach, ambulances around the corner. Not up in Lunada or out in Malibu where empty mansions would quietly watch her die.
There is a cough and my heart leaps. More coughs. Hard, hacking sounds that she has never made, the type of sound that must come from a grown man. Her foot moves, and I pray to God a medic didn’t bump it. An engine rumbles, and I am pushed aside once again as an ambulance pulls onto the sand. The last thing I see is her limp feet as she is placed on a stretcher. They wouldn’t load a dead person on a stretcher, wouldn’t send them in an ambulance.
Right?
I get the attention of an EMT, grabbing his arm when he shuts the ambulance doors. “I’m her boyfriend. Can I ride with you?”
The man turns, his thin face looking me briefly up and down. “They won’t let you in the hospital without a shirt and shoes. We’re taking her to Venice Regional. Why don’t you grab some clothes, for you and her? Just in case. Also, if she has any identification, numbers of friends and family... grab that type of thing and meet us there.” He moves around me and opens the passenger door. I turn, my feet slipping on the hot sand, and run. Past familiar faces, past a dread headed stranger who is examining my board, jumping over a handrail, my feet pounding a path that I have taken many times before. With Madd and without her. I round the corner to an alley and bump into a man’s chest, stumbling past him, ignoring his curse. Two blocks. One block. Then I am taking the stairs, knocking over the ceramic frog that Madd brought back from Tijuana, grabbing the key and turning it in the lock.
Home. It will never be home without her. Even now, with her scent in the air, the sheets twisted from an early morning fuck, it feels wrong. I shut the door, not wanting to let out any of her air, and move to the counter, grabbing her keys, phone, and wallet. I am torn between wanting to examine every item, to grab her sweater and inhale her scent, and the urgency that pushes me forward. She may be alive. She may die. I need to get to the hospital. I grab a trash bag from underneath the sink and stuff into it the first two stacks of folded clothes from the top of the dryer. Folded by her. I shove my feet into flip flops and run downstairs, pocketing the key, yanking the door shut behind me.
The hospital. I’ve broken at least nine laws to get here. I leave the truck under a blinking red sign that says ‘ER’ and grab her things, running into the lobby and approaching the desk.
She is alive. It is the first thing I ask and is answered without hesitation, followed instantly by two words that make my heart drop and chest ache. “For now.” I can’t take this roller coaster. The high that I hear at the announcement of her breath, intense joy flooding my veins. Despair at the possibility that I might still lose her. They won’t let me back there. Not yet. Not until some future point that is not explained by the haggard receptionists. Then the door opens and a woman in white steps out, her eyes finding me and stepping forward.
“Are you the boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
She smiles, the motion not reaching her eyes. “She is breathing, but it is assisted. She’s had pretty severe head trauma. That, combined with the six or seven minutes she was without air... we have induced a coma until we can get her stabilized.”
“Induced a coma? So she can be brought out of it?”
She looks into my eyes. “If she still has brain function. She may not make it to a point where it is feasible to pull her out of it. You should call her family. Any close friends, and have them come here. She may not survive the night.”
I ignore the sentence, even as it stands in the center of my mind and shouts, overpowering any thought process I struggle to have. “Can I see her?”
She glances at her watch. “They’re working on her now. I’ll have someone come out and bring you in in about thirty minutes.” She smiles grimly and turns, her coat flaring out, and she is gone, the white doors swinging shut behind her.
They’re working on her now.
You should call any family or friends.
I step forward dumbly, until I am before a chair and I turn, sinking into it, my hand loosening around her wallet and phone, the items sliding into my lap. Call family or friends.
Friends. Madd doesn’t really have a lot of friends. We have a big group that we hang out with—several of the guys professionally surf, and all of the girls hang out together. But they are the type you call when you are five blocks away and have a flat tire. Not when you are on life support and might not last the night. Madd and I could disappear from this stretch of beach and it’d be weeks before anyone noticed.
Family. Madd’s entire family consists of one drunk individual. A mother who I vaguely remember being in Tuscany. But I’ll call her cell, just to make sure. I open her phone and scroll down the numbers, looking for ‘M’. Just one contact line up from it, my breath stops.
Lover.
Him. If I love half of her heart with my whole one, this man has claim to the other half. The other half of that heart that is struggling to beat. I have seen his name displayed on her phone before. But never have I had the desire to call. I have no need to disrupt the perfection that is our life, no need to rock that boat. I know nothing about this man. He may be married. Older. Younger. Black. White. He is wealthy, I know that, her wrist and ears often glittering with presents, the new convertible in our garage proof of that. I know that he wanted her to have a steady man, is regretful of his time spent away from her. That is either because he doesn’t care, because she is a piece of ass who he uses when he can—or because he loves her and wants what’s best for her. And knows she would not put up with being put in the corner. Played with when he has time and otherwise ignored. There is so much I don’t know about this man. So much I never wanted to find out. But here I am, her phone in my hand, his name staring at me.
I am torn. She never wants us to meet. Wants our lives to play out separately. And I am torn between respecting those wishes and knowing what I, if I were him, would want. To hold her warm hand in mine in case it went cold forever. To hear her soft breath before it stopped eternally. If she wakes, she may hate me for it. But if she doesn’t, I might not forgive myself for taking this moment from him.
PAUL
I press the CALL button, working through words in my head, steeling myself for an unknown outcome. How will I react to hearing his voice? Will he be friendly? Cold? Will I leave a message if the machine comes on? The female voice surprises me, chirping through the receiver with friendly efficiency. “Hey Madison.”
I look at the phone, at the words ‘Lover’ clearly displayed on the front. I have dialed the right number.
“Madison?”
I clear my throat. “I was trying to reach...” I feel sluggish, like my brain can’t formulate a single articulate sentence.
“Stewart? You were calling for Stewart?” the perky voice asks helpfully.
Stewart. That is his name. A name that inappropriately brings to mind visions of my brother’s face. A brother I haven’t thought of in some time. I swallow, returning to the uncomfortable task at hand. “Yes. Is he available?”
“Mr. Brand is in a meeting right now. Does Madison need me to interrupt him?” her tone is distractingly cheerful, so much so that my brain takes a moment to catch up, to focus on the insanity that just left her lips.
“Mr. Brand?” my words come out unintentionally harsh. “Stewart Brand?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
My head comes up with a jerk and my eyes open wide, moving wildly, trying to sort out the disaster unfolding before me. I hear her voice, in my ear, the words twisting around into unintelligible forms. I close the phone, spots appearing before my eyes and I try to breathe, try to focus on what is before me and what is important. Madd. Lying a few walls away. Dying.
But my brain won’t release itself, won’t step away from the bomb that was just dropped in my lap. Stewart. My older brother. Fucking Madd. Touching her skin, holding her body, kissing her mouth. My brother. He is the one who has the other half of her heart. He is the one that I share her with. He is the one who dictated a second boyfriend; he is the one too busy to fully occupy her bed, her time.
Stewart.
My brother.
The one who beat up Noah Richardson when I was eleven because Noah wouldn’t stop bullying me. The one who coached me through asking Nicki Farrahs out when I was too chicken. The one who explained sex and going down on a girl and who bought me my first box of condoms. The one who punched me in the face and blames me for causing our little sister’s death. The one who told me never to step within a mile of him ever again. The one who wouldn’t return my calls for five years, until I finally gave up and stepped away from the tattered remains of our family.
Stewart is Him. Stewart is Lover.
The phone rings in my hand and I see his moniker pop up on the screen. Before I can second-guess the action, I walk over and hand it to the ER receptionist. “Please explain to them about Madison Decater,” I request softly.
The woman shoots me a questioning look and then glances at the phone and flips it open. “Venice Regional ER,” she says into the phone.
I walk back to the chair and watch her face, watch her lips as they mouth words I can only guess at. Wonder who is on the other end. If it is Stewart or the cheerful female. And wonder what I will do when he walks through these doors. And if she will still be alive when he does.
STEWART
We are in the middle of a deposition when there is a knock on the door and Ashley steps in. I look up with a warning look, one that softens instantly when I see her face. I hold up a finger, pausing our attorney, the transcriber looking up in surprise when the room falls silent.
She moves quickly to my side and leans forward, her lips close to my ear. “It’s Madison. There’s been an accident.”
I close my eyes, unprepared for the words. Not again. Not after Jennifer. I slide back my chair, standing, and meet the attorney’s eyes. “I have personal business to attend to. We will need to reschedule.”
“Personal business?” the man stammers. “Stewart, it took a month to coordinate this.”
I ignore him, following Ashley out of the room, my hand on her back, pulling her into my office and shutting the door. “Tell me. Everything.”
She shakes before me, her voice trembling, all traces of cheer and professionalism drained from her body. “A man called, from her phone. He wanted you, but hung up when I told him you were busy. It seemed odd... so I called back to get his name, a message, something. A woman answered, someone from the hospital. She said that Madison was in a surfing accident and is on life support. That she might not make it through the night. That any close family and friends should come now.” Tears well in her eyes and she steps forward, touching my arm. “I’m so sorry, Stewart.”
I brush off her touch. “Where is my phone?”
She thrusts it out, and I grab it, trying to walk through a logical thought process, my mind heavy with thoughts. “Have a driver meet me out front.”
“Done. I called them before I stepped in. They have the hospital address, and I have given the hospital your information.”
I nod. “Also give them my card information. Any medical expenses charged to me. I don’t want any treatment or options unexplored due to cost. Make sure they understand that.”
She nods quickly, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. She knows Madison well, has lunched with her countless times, chats with her in the reception area when my meetings run over. Picked out her birthday, anniversary, and Valentine’s Day gifts for the last two and a half years. I nod to her and open the door.
We make the half-hour drive in fifteen minutes, my frustration at not having my car disappearing as soon as the driver made the first hairpin turn at forty-five miles per hour. He understands my urgency and has a better handle on his emotions. I cradle my head in my hands, visions of Madison assaulting me from all directions.
Her head on my pillow, a drugged smile on her lips when I kiss her goodbye in the morning.
