In the Cards(29)

An alluring image of Lindsey wearing shorts and Converse sneakers emerges. I shake my head in surprise. Disturbed, I thank the coeds for the beer, then push off to go home.

The thick fog dampens the air—gray air to match my mood. Sweeping my hair away from my eyes, I fasten my helmet and start the ignition. I love this big red bike, so powerful. The day I bought it was a fine day. Shifting into gear, I begin rolling through the parking lot. The horny coeds spill outside and wave to me while they walk to their car.

I’m humming to myself and pulling onto the PCH when a shadowy figure startles me. Snapping my head left, I see an oncoming vehicle materialize from thin air. In motion slowed to the microsecond, the front end of a speeding van with broken headlights hurtles toward me.

My thoughts scatter in a million directions. My heart pounds with the rhythm of conga drums, but my body’s frozen and uncooperative while my ears throb with the roar of white noise. I gun my bike, but I’m not gonna make a clean getaway. Holy Christ, I’m about to die.



When I wake up, flashing red lights swirl around me. I vomit, and the stench makes me want to vomit again. Searing pain overwhelms me. I’m afraid to look at my body, certain it’s scraped to shit and has bones poking out of my skin. I’ve no sense of time while a blur of activity, lights, and noises whirls around me. My head feels as foggy as the night air. Paramedics fit me in a brace and carefully load me onto a gurney. From inside the ambulance, I witness an officer talking to the girls from the bar.

I overhear another cop question a paramedic about my blood alcohol content. Great, are they hoping to pin this on me? Is the damn driver injured, or worse? Will I end up in jail? I didn’t have more than three beers counting the ones I drank at home. Jesus, I’m still nauseous and every twitch feels like a blade slicing up my spine. Unable to focus, I start to close my eyes, then everything turns dark.

I come to again under the bright lights of a hospital emergency room. People bombard me with questions, seeking information. I’m so damn confused, I can barely answer. A doctor tells me I suffered trauma to my spine and they need to operate—something about spinal fusion. Bile rises in my throat again. Am I paralyzed? My blood freezes. Instinctively, I flex my feet. Hot relief floods my veins when my toes move. Damn, I think I’m crying.

I try to concentrate on the details of the proposed surgery, consent, and next of kin, but everything’s fuzzy and jumbled. The lights are too damn bright. Unintentionally, I slip back to sleep.

I awaken again before the nurse preps me for surgery. Trembling with uneasiness, I scan the sterile environment, which seems devoid of any smell. I’ve never had an operation before, and this one might leave me in a wheelchair. Everyone tells me to relax, talking to me as if we’re friends, but I don’t know these people. What if something goes wrong? What if I end up paralyzed? What if I die? Will anyone care?

I’m exactly like Pop—alone, unclaimed, and loved by no one. Almost thirty-one years old and this is all I am, all I have. Although I acknowledge it’s not much, I don’t want to die.

I stare at the ceiling and take deep breaths. Despite my solitary lifestyle, I’ve never felt so completely isolated. The doctor instructs me to count back from ten, so I begin.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .”



Lindsey

It’s taking me a while to fall asleep. Levi’s a porcupine, prickly and defensive. What made him so suspicious? He’s an enigma, too, with his expensive beach house but apparent lack of education or career.

His living room housed hundreds of books on its shelves, and he’s not the type to display them for show. Does anyone even visit the guy? From what I can tell, he’s a loner. I remember he kept to himself in Florida, taking his breaks alone while reading or smoking. At least he appears to have quit his cigarette habit.

For his many faults, he sure cooks well. Potting his herbs . . . What guy does that? Yet despite his many flaws, something about the air of sorrow around him tugs at my heart. He’d deny it or blame it on his father’s death, but I think it goes deeper. Something in his life caused him to be so quick to distrust and so content to be alone. Regardless, I’m sure I’ll never learn his secrets.

Unlike Levi, most of the people in my life are conventional and homogeneous. My parents sequestered me in posh schools and clubs to ensure my life would remain whitewashed, and I dutifully followed their plans. The results were rewarding at the time. Now I’m not so sure.

After college, I met Rob at happy hour through a friend of mine who worked for him at Goldman. During our conversation, we discovered our mutual love of tennis, both of us having played competitively in high school. I recognized in Rob everything I’d been coached to prize. Ambition, intelligence, good looks. He’d fit neatly into my schooled vision of the future, so when he’d asked me to join him the next day for tennis and lunch, I agreed without much consideration.