Last night, within minutes of my phone call to 911, three police cars had swarmed the street in front of my parents’ home. Sirens wailed to wake the dead, blue lights blazed, cops muscled their way through the front door. Phone calls had been exchanged with Atlanta, most of which I was not privy to, other than one short exchange with Beasley, during which, as usual, he made me walk him step-by-step through what I had seen.
The result of all this midnight conferencing had been that Mom and Dad, white with worry, drove me to Sibley Hospital’s emergency room. A police car—sirens mercifully silenced, but blue lights flashing in full glory—had led the way. We arrived before dawn. I was transferred from the car to a wheelchair and then to a gurney. A plastic bracelet was strung around my good wrist. More phone calls were made. My clothes were removed and replaced by a paper surgery gown. A somber, whiskery anesthesiologist appeared, introduced himself, explained his plans to make me comfortable. I forgot his name before he even left the room.
Drugs, I was thinking. Please just give me the drugs. Give me everything you’ve got. During the long, long night we had just endured, pain had seized my neck and my shoulders, pain so severe it had felt my body would break in two. This was not the sharp pulsing I had grown used to. This was more dense. Heavy. Like an apron of lead, the kind they swaddle you in before taking an X-ray.
Smiling nurses appeared. Guardrails on the sides of the gurney swung up and locked into place. The gurney began to roll. A mask came down over my face, Breathe deep, said the smiles. My mother was walking beside me, still holding my hand.
? ? ?
DARKNESS.
I came to in a postsurgery recovery room. Cold. I was so cold. I had never been so cold. My legs would have to be amputated, they would not survive, the frostbite was turning my skin to wax.
I sensed someone beside me. “Blanket,” I tried to tell them. It came out mush. “Bl-shhh-ont.”
The person leaned down. “Caroline?” Will’s voice. Soft, worried. He laid a hand on top of mine.
Noooo.
I wanted to turn my head away. It would not obey. “Blanket,” I said again.
He would not listen. “Caroline. It’s me. Everything went fine. You’re going to be fine.”
Something scratchy was wrapped around my neck, the only part of me that was warm. I willed myself to go under again, to sleep.
Thirty-four
* * *
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 27, 2013
They only kept me in the hospital for one night.
The surgery had gone beautifully. The bullet had popped—Dr. Gellert pursed his lips and made a loud pop as he recounted this to me—popped right out.
“Like squeezing a boiled tomato from its skin,” he added, clearly pleased with himself. “Big old thing. Half an inch long.” He held up his thumb and forefinger in approximation.
“Where is it?”
“I cleaned it up, sealed it in a sterile envelope. Handed it to the police myself.” His fingers were sliding up and down a Perspex clipboard, rising and then striking the edge as if it were the keys of a baby grand. “They rushed the bullet straight to the lab. It was an Atlanta cop who turned up to get it. Flew up here specifically for that purpose, warned me not to let DC police anywhere near it.” Gellert eyed me with curiosity, but did not ask.
I nodded. Tried to nod. The bandages made it impossible to move.
“At any rate, the headline is—we got it out. You did great. The incision on the back of your neck is less than two inches wide. You’ll have a scar, but it’ll fade, and your hair will cover it.”
“I don’t care about that. What about my—my spinal cord? Will I have full range of movement?” At the moment I felt no pain at all, but I was pumped so full of painkillers that it was hard to say whether that meant much.
“We’ll have to wait until the swelling subsides. And it will take time for everything internally to knit back together. But so far, so good. I’ll see you tomorrow, in my regular office, to check the stitches and make sure everything’s draining properly.”
At my parents’ house, they had made up a bed in the living room so I wouldn’t have to climb the stairs. All afternoon I dozed. Dad sat vigil in an armchair by the window, answering e-mails and cursing at the New York Times crossword puzzle. Hunt lay flopped across his feet. Mom wandered in and out, inventing ways to make herself useful. I was hungry. Starving. I had been forbidden from consuming anything except liquids until I either produced a bowel movement or passed gas. I achieved this milestone—the latter—as twilight fell. I felt undignified, to say the least. But I was rewarded with crackers and a cup of Mom’s homemade beef noodle soup.
Thirty-five
* * *
MONDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2013
My neck felt better. That’s the only way to describe it, just as simply as that. My parents’ living room had no curtains—the house was set well back from the street—and I woke early with the light.
I was stiff from the lumpy, makeshift bed. My bandages itched. But I had slept unexpectedly well.
I wiggled my toes. Clenched and unclenched my buttocks, shifted my hips. Then, cautiously, I tested my shoulders. They were sore but loose. Finally I shut my eyes, held my breath, and flexed my right wrist.
I had not taken Vicodin since dinner last night. Twelve hours ago.
I felt no pain.
? ? ?
WILL ZARTMAN HAD left five phone messages in the thirty hours since I’d left the hospital. I wish I could tell you that I found the willpower to delete them without listening, but I did not. Not that they said much. Call me, would you please call me? Each new message sounded less hopeful than the last.
When the phone buzzed again in the late afternoon, I screwed up my courage and answered.
“Hello, Will.”
“Caroline! I’ve left you half a dozen messages.”
“Five, actually.”
“Right. I gather you’re back to never answering your phone.” He sounded uncertain, trying to gauge how mad I was.
“That’s right. I guess two can play that game.” Pretty damn mad, you cowardly, lying turd.
He cleared his throat. “Marshall said the surgery went very well. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, just dandy.”
A moment passed.