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Authors: James Grippando
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talked to me about it.”
“You’re right. That’s why I promise never to make you feel so far away from me again.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Absolutely. I’m back. You can count on me.”
“Good. But something tells me I’m still stuck with my mother for the next two days.”
“I said I’m back. I didn’t say I was perfect.”
That got a smile. He kissed her as he rose, then grabbed his coat and briefcase. “My plane doesn’t leave till two, so call me on my cell if you need me.”
“I will.”
He started out, but she stopped him.
“Love you,” she said.
He turned slowly, then said, “Me too.”
He put on his coat and headed down the hall. It was still dark in the living room, but he didn’t flip on the light. For a moment, he stood in the archway and stared, suddenly hit by the gravity of what had almost happened. Had Peyton spent just a few more minutes in the icy pond, these last four days they’d enjoyed each other’s company might have been spent alone, scrambling to make funeral arrangements. Someone—himself, he presumed—would have selected her burial outfit, her jewelry, the keepsakes that would have followed her to the grave. He wondered what words he would have uttered publicly, what lasting tribute he might have etched in the granite marker, what secrets he might have whispered to his sleeping wife after everyone else had left, when only she could hear, if she could hear.
I’m sorry, Peyton. I’m sorry beyond belief.
The old clock chimed on the mantel. Time to leave. He grabbed his keys and headed out. The front door closed behind him, and the wind slapped his face with a burst of chilly white powder. The sidewalks were still shin-deep in some spots, icy beaten paths in others. Above, a fuzzy sun was trying to break through gray winter clouds. He took one step and stopped. He noticed something at his feet.
A single, long-stemmed red rose.
He picked it up. His hand shook, and not from the cold. What the hell was this about? Someone wishing Peyton a speedyrecovery, perhaps. Maybe her parents, a friend, coworkers at the hospital. Flowers would make sense. A nice mixed arrangement. Maybe some fruit.
Not a single red rose.
He knelt to search for a card or note that might have fallen off. He brushed the snow away from the doorstep, gently at first, then more quickly, then feverishly as he checked the top step, the second step, the next one, all the way down from the porch onto the sidewalk. Nothing. He sat on the bottom step and faced the street, exhausted from the little flash of wasted energy. His breath steamed in bull-like bursts as he mulled over the possibilities. Of course there was no note. No card. No signature. There was no need to send any explanation with a single red rose. The message was unmistakable.
Had Peyton found someone else?
He didn’t feel any less shame for his own indiscretion. Now, however, he felt sickened by the whole situation, wondering if he was as blind as Sandra had been in her own disastrous marriage.
He snapped the stem in two, pitched the red rose into the street, and headed for the subway.
10
IT WASN’T EXACTLY A LIE. KEVIN WOULD HAVE THROWN A FIT IF HE’D known she was planning on going into work today. So she just didn’t tell.
“You’re back already?” asked a surprised NICU nurse.
Peyton smiled and kept going, no time to talk. She looked worse than she felt, walking on crutches, a shaved eyebrow full of stitches, her left eye surrounded by tiny but inflamed lacerations from the shattered glass and a bruise as big as a purple doughnut. The mild concussion had passed with no lingering nausea or headaches. Her main problem was the sutured gash in her lower leg, which would require periodic elevation to prevent bleeding.
Sensibly, she planned on staying only two hours today, long enough to make an appearance and attend the daily noon lecture for pediatric residents. She had missed only four days so far, not counting the weekend.
“You’re right. That’s why I promise never to make you feel so far away from me again.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Absolutely. I’m back. You can count on me.”
“Good. But something tells me I’m still stuck with my mother for the next two days.”
“I said I’m back. I didn’t say I was perfect.”
That got a smile. He kissed her as he rose, then grabbed his coat and briefcase. “My plane doesn’t leave till two, so call me on my cell if you need me.”
“I will.”
He started out, but she stopped him.
“Love you,” she said.
He turned slowly, then said, “Me too.”
He put on his coat and headed down the hall. It was still dark in the living room, but he didn’t flip on the light. For a moment, he stood in the archway and stared, suddenly hit by the gravity of what had almost happened. Had Peyton spent just a few more minutes in the icy pond, these last four days they’d enjoyed each other’s company might have been spent alone, scrambling to make funeral arrangements. Someone—himself, he presumed—would have selected her burial outfit, her jewelry, the keepsakes that would have followed her to the grave. He wondered what words he would have uttered publicly, what lasting tribute he might have etched in the granite marker, what secrets he might have whispered to his sleeping wife after everyone else had left, when only she could hear, if she could hear.
I’m sorry, Peyton. I’m sorry beyond belief.
The old clock chimed on the mantel. Time to leave. He grabbed his keys and headed out. The front door closed behind him, and the wind slapped his face with a burst of chilly white powder. The sidewalks were still shin-deep in some spots, icy beaten paths in others. Above, a fuzzy sun was trying to break through gray winter clouds. He took one step and stopped. He noticed something at his feet.
A single, long-stemmed red rose.
He picked it up. His hand shook, and not from the cold. What the hell was this about? Someone wishing Peyton a speedyrecovery, perhaps. Maybe her parents, a friend, coworkers at the hospital. Flowers would make sense. A nice mixed arrangement. Maybe some fruit.
Not a single red rose.
He knelt to search for a card or note that might have fallen off. He brushed the snow away from the doorstep, gently at first, then more quickly, then feverishly as he checked the top step, the second step, the next one, all the way down from the porch onto the sidewalk. Nothing. He sat on the bottom step and faced the street, exhausted from the little flash of wasted energy. His breath steamed in bull-like bursts as he mulled over the possibilities. Of course there was no note. No card. No signature. There was no need to send any explanation with a single red rose. The message was unmistakable.
Had Peyton found someone else?
He didn’t feel any less shame for his own indiscretion. Now, however, he felt sickened by the whole situation, wondering if he was as blind as Sandra had been in her own disastrous marriage.
He snapped the stem in two, pitched the red rose into the street, and headed for the subway.
10
IT WASN’T EXACTLY A LIE. KEVIN WOULD HAVE THROWN A FIT IF HE’D known she was planning on going into work today. So she just didn’t tell.
“You’re back already?” asked a surprised NICU nurse.
Peyton smiled and kept going, no time to talk. She looked worse than she felt, walking on crutches, a shaved eyebrow full of stitches, her left eye surrounded by tiny but inflamed lacerations from the shattered glass and a bruise as big as a purple doughnut. The mild concussion had passed with no lingering nausea or headaches. Her main problem was the sutured gash in her lower leg, which would require periodic elevation to prevent bleeding.
Sensibly, she planned on staying only two hours today, long enough to make an appearance and attend the daily noon lecture for pediatric residents. She had missed only four days so far, not counting the weekend.
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