“Look, I know I owe you an apology. Make that several apologies. I heard about the break-in. At your house. I feel awful. I shouldn’t have left you. I’m so sor—”
“I drove by your house, Will.”
“My house? When?” There was no mistaking the terror in his voice.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t ring the doorbell.” Pause. “So. How many children do you have?”
Long pause. “Two.”
We didn’t have much to say to each other after that.
Thirty-six
* * *
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2013
By Tuesday I was up and walking around.
For the first time in days I got dressed. My jeans hung loose on my hips. My belly was taut and flat. Major surgery and an all-liquid diet were apparently good for five pounds. At breakfast I peeled three kiwis and ate them with a soft-boiled egg.
As I chewed, I practiced turning my head to the right, to look out the kitchen window, onto the magnolia tree that dominates the front yard. Then left, in the direction of the stove and sink. Right and left, back and forth. Dr. Gellert had removed the bulkiest bandages yesterday. All that remained was a thin gauze pad, held in place with flesh--colored first-aid tape. The tape pulled at the hairs on the back of my neck. Otherwise I felt no discomfort.
I checked my e-mail. A message from Georgetown University police alerted students and faculty to a reported theft on the ground floor of Lauinger, the undergraduate library. We were reminded not to leave laptops or other personal items unattended on campus. I wondered whether Al had been on duty. Lauinger sat on the main quad, not a hundred yards from his stone police hut. It occurred to me that I needed to return his jackets.
There was also a brief message from Beasley. The bullet had arrived safely back in Atlanta over the weekend. Lab technicians were working on it. He would keep me posted.
As I cleared my dishes, I caught sight of my reflection in the glass door of the microwave oven. I looked nothing like myself. My face was thin, my skin was pale, and my hair had seen better days. When had I last washed it? Friday? I was not supposed to get the stitches wet, not yet, but I was allowed to wash from the chest down. It would be better than nothing.
In the bathroom, I dropped my clothes on the floor and peeled back the gauze pad. Gingerly I raised my hand to touch the back of my neck. The stitches were raised, lumpy knots beneath my fingertips. They would dissolve on their own as the incision healed. The skin on my neck, meanwhile, was numb. I could not feel my fingers pressing down. Dr. Gellert had told me the area might stay numb for weeks, or it might stay numb forever.
I wondered about the arteries in my neck. The muscles. Whether they were shifting by fractions of an inch, filling in the space where the bullet had been. After a minute I sat down on the edge of the bathtub, loosened the straps holding on my wrist brace, and took it off. My right forearm was visibly thinner than my left. The muscles—never impressive to begin with—had shrunk over months of disuse. I picked up the brace, refastened the straps, folded it in half lengthways, and tucked it in the cabinet beneath the sink. I had the feeling I would not be needing it again.
Thirty-seven
* * *
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2013
My house on Q Street smelled heavenly.
I moved back to my own home four days after the operation. By then it was obvious to everyone, even my mother, that I was perfectly capable of caring for myself. In my absence, Martin’s wife, Laura, had let herself in and scoured the place with Windex and Pledge. The table in my kitchen gleamed. She had vacuumed the carpets, scrubbed the windows, even laundered the sheets and made up my bed. The heavenly scent floated up from vases of flowers that she had arranged in every room. Peonies. The dark pink ones, my favorites. Where on earth had Laura found them in October? I resolved to be nicer to my sister-in-law; I would owe her some serious babysitting time for this.
Dad had also been busy. He had hired a locksmith to install new dead bolts on all the doors, and a glazier to fix the basement window. My bedroom door he had replaced himself, adding a sturdy lock that could be opened only from the inside. He presented me with a new ring of keys and two spare sets, adding that he would be back in the morning, both to look in on me and to meet the electrician.
“The electrician?”
“Thought it might be wise to put in floodlights. At your front door, and around the back of the house. I ordered the motion--sensitive kind. Anybody steps within a few feet of the house, it’ll trigger them.”
He looked so worried that I put my arms around his waist and kissed him. “Dad. I’ll be fine now.”
“Call before you go to bed tonight, let us know you’re all right?”
“Promise.”
“And set your burglar alarm.”
I gave a sharp, rueful laugh. “Don’t worry.”
After he left, I made another tour of my house, checking every lock, turning on every light. All was in order. There was no trace of last week’s nightmarish events.
The doorbell rang as I was climbing up to my bedroom to unpack. I froze. Crept back down the stairs and tiptoed to the front door. Through the peephole I could see only the bald top of a man’s head. He was holding something large and shimmery; I couldn’t make out what it was.
Ding dong ding dong.
“Who is it?” I called, my voice squeaking with fear, not sure if I could be heard through the locked door.
“FTD. Delivery.”
“Just leave it on the step.”
“Need your signature, ma’am.”