Consumed

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“So wasn’t helpful.” He frowned. “So what was? Seriously, Anne, how did you pull yourself back up to normal?”

His expression was so intense, she knew he was dead serious, and that earnest searching was a surprise that opened her up.

“It wasn’t the therapist at the hospital. Not that she wasn’t well intended . . . we just didn’t connect, I guess.” She focused on her prosthesis as it sat on her thigh, a sculpture of what had been lost. “They can be helpful, though.”

“You’re saying that because you don’t want me not to keep going.”

“Yup.”

“So again, what was it for you?”

Anne turned the prosthesis over and looked at her “palm.” Then she pulled up the sleeve of her windbreaker and followed the carbon fiber length that plugged into what was left of her lower arm.

“I got an infection,” she heard herself say. “It was about a week after I got out of the hospital. I’ll never forget waking up in my bed and feeling this terrible fatigue, like I was coming down with the flu. The end of my stump didn’t hurt—well, that’s not true. I had phantom pain, and I assumed that any discomfort was all part of the damaged-nerve thing. So I just kept going, but then I popped a fever, and when they did a wound check, they found the beginnings of the infection. My skin was so red, it was like it was made of blood. Things went downhill fast. They took samples to target the antibiotic, put me on broad spectrums at first, then they ratcheted it up. It was a race and we did not win for a while. I developed these bright red lymphangitis streaks, and shortly after that, I went septic. I just crashed. That was when I was readmitted.”

She was aware she was giving him factual particulars instead of other things that were much more personal. It was like she was reporting the stats of a patient, and that distance was the only reason she could get through the story.

She’d never talked about it before.

Anne glanced out the front windshield. “It’s green.”

“What?”

“The light is green. We can go.”

Danny seemed to shake himself. “Oh. Yeah.”

As he hit the gas, she wanted to stop talking—and told herself she didn’t because she wanted to help him. Inspire him. This was about proving to Danny there was another way.

It was not connecting with him on a personal level. Or sharing her story because it was something she probably needed to get off her chest.

“You must have been scared.”

“It was touch and go.” She told herself not to go too deep. “But your brain gets fuzzy so you can’t think clearly.”

“I didn’t know it got that bad.”

“I was very lucky. It wasn’t MRSA. The clindamycin IV saved me.” Her heart tripped and then pounded, as if the memories were an intruder trying to get back into her body. “Anyway, you wanted to know what turned me around.”

She fell silent as she tried to find the right words. Somehow, this felt more intimate than the sex they’d had. “So the night of the fire and the first day after, I was all ‘I’m going to beat this’ and ‘nothing is going to stop me.’ And I kept that up until I was released and I went home. Something about being around my things, my house, my routine made it real in a way that it hadn’t in the hospital. That was when . . .”

“When it hit you.”

“Yeah.” She refused to speak of the sleepless nights, the toxic depression, the distortion of her anger and fear. “I got into a tailspin—‘life is over,’ that kind of thing. But then I was back in the hospital and it was not at all apparent that I was going to make it.”

Anne glanced over at him. “When you were little, did you ever picture your funeral?”

“No. God, never.”

“Well, I did. Like out of A Christmas Story when Ralphie was blind? I’d pretend I was in my coffin and people were coming to pay last respects and weeping over the loss of me. It was usually in response to a punishment I thought was unfair.” She shrugged. “So there I was, an adult, on the verge of dying . . . and it actually happened. I stared up out of the death spiral I was in and saw all these faces looking down at me. Everyone so upset . . .”

An image of her mother, that hair all done, the makeup perfect, stung. Even when that woman’s daughter had been close to dying, she’d had to be sure to look presentable.

“Tom came.” She frowned. “He sat in a chair in the corner of my room almost the entire time. I figured he was waiting for me to rally so he could tell me how irresponsible I’d been.”

“Like the infection was your fault? Come on.”

“Tom can find deficits in any situation. Trust me.” She shook her head. “So at the worst point, I had a dream that my father appeared from out of nowhere. He stood at the side of the bed and he told me that it wasn’t my time. That I had to fight because I was his daughter and that’s what men in the family did.”

Danny’s head swung around. “Holy shit, he came to you.”

“No, I don’t believe in ghosts. My subconscious coughed that up out of the fever and the drugs I was on because I’d spent my whole life trying to make up for the fact that I was born a girl. It’s inherent in my personality inventory. But it worked—so clearly my brain pulled the right lever for motivation. I just decided that I had to fight and I couldn’t let anything stop me. Not the loss of my hand or my job or . . . yeah, anything.”

Up ahead, Timeout’s sign glowed red and gold, a beacon on the down-market street.

She couldn’t remember when she’d been in there last. But she knew which pool table tilted left, and how the stall in the middle of the ladies’ room had the toilet that ran, and what to order: Fries, yes. Burger, yes. Never the fish, because even though they were on the ocean, the place only served frozen cod.

So many nights she’d gone there with the crew, one of the few women in the boys’ club and proud of that fact.

It was a lifetime ago. And she missed it. But then she deliberately thought of Soot’s dear face.

“I think people just get to an aha moment, a crossroads,” she said quietly. “The fogs lifts and you have to realize there are things worth living for. Even if they’re different than what motivated you before.”

• • •

As Danny parallel-parked in front of the bar, he knew who he wanted to live for. Too bad Anne wasn’t looking for a pedestal to stand on for the rest of their lives.

He glanced over as he killed the engine. “I had no idea that things got so rough for you. I mean, beyond the . . . you know.”

“You had your own things to worry about.” She turned to get out of the truck. “So when did Emilio and Josefina start seeing each other?”

He reached out and put his hand on her arm. When he felt something hard and cylindrical, he pulled his palm back.

“It won’t bite.” She put her prosthesis up. “I promise you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Anne shook her head sharply, the conversational equivalent of shutting a door. “Come on, let’s find Josefina.”

She left him with no choice but to hurry his ass and catch up to her, and as they entered, they shook the rain off like a pair of Labradors. Timeout was not all that crowded, and Josefina was an easy spot across the field of tables. She was taking orders from a six-top of police officers, and as they nodded in Danny’s direction, she glanced over her shoulder.

And froze. As her face paled, she said something to the cops and came over.

“What is it?”

They always knew, Danny thought. The loved ones always knew when there was bad news.

“Emilio’s in the hospital,” Danny said in a low voice. “He was taken in about a half hour ago.”

“How bad is he hurt?” The woman put a hand to her mouth. “Is he . . .”

“He asked us to come find you. He’s going to pull through.”

Josefina spoke some quick Spanish and made the sign of the cross over the front of her black-and-white pseudo-referee uniform. “Thank the Lord. I tell him to be careful on that job—too many hurt. Too many!”