Better Left Buried Page 22

  The nurse had offered him to use the shower down the hall when he was ready. His father had brought him a change of clothes—track pants, a sweatshirt, socks and boxers—which were the only things clean about him. He’d freshened up the best he could in her tiny bathroom.

  “I’ll shower when you can.”

  “It’s going to be a while.” She lifted her casted arm only slightly.

  “Then I’ll wait. We’ll both stink together.”

  The show of solidarity made her smile. She had worked up the courage to look in the mirror once and had avoided anything reflective since. Bruises and scrapes peppered her freckled skin and a shiner was starting to come through near her right eye. Her auburn hair hung in makeshift dreadlocks that were stuck together with mud and cobwebs. She tried to get a brush through it, but lifting her arm made her ribs hurt too much. Jaxon spent the better part of an hour doing what he could to untangle the knots with a hospital-issued comb.

  She forced a smile. “What time is it?” Her cell was on the tray table too far away to read it.

  He looked at his. “A little after midnight.”

  She’d guessed as much from the silence. The hospital went to a graveyard shift after ten. Visitors were refused with few exceptions and most of the patients were asleep.

  “Any word on Adam?”

  “He’s awake, came around earlier today. His light was on when I went down to get ice a little while ago.”

  “Does he have a roommate?”

  “I’m not positive, but I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Because I think I’d like to go see him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Jaxon loaded Brea into the wheelchair, moving her IV bag without the nurse’s help.

  “You’re getting good at this,” she said.

  “I’m a quick study. Are you sure you’re up to talking to him?”

  “I am.” She needed to believe there was something she had missed that had nothing to do with her. Harmony texted Adam for a reason, and it was clear from her determined suicide attempt that it wasn’t for him to save her.

  Jaxon propped the door open with a doorstop and checked to see that the coast was clear before wheeling her into the hallway.

  Adam had been admitted to the room six doors down from hers, on the opposite side of the hall. Brea counted the floor tiles to keep her nerves at bay. She pulled her robe closed, careful not to snag the plastic tube running fluid into her good arm, and drew a deep breath as Jaxon knocked softly and wheeled her through the doorway.

  The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the urine filling the catheter bag. Adam sat up in bed, his face easily as bruised as hers, a broad white bandage wrapped around his head. Black tufts of hair stuck out around it, but there was skin, too, saying that he had been at least partially shaved.

  “Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

  Adam clutched Harmony’s camouflage jacket to his chest. “As okay as I can be.” He sniffled, tears filling up his already red and swollen eyes.

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  He shrugged. “I have all the time in the world.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Jaxon. “Do you mind if we talk alone?” She could see that he did, but wasn’t about to argue.

  “I’ll be back in ten. Call if you need me sooner.” Jaxon set Brea’s phone in her lap, pushed her to Adam’s bedside, and kissed the top of her head before leaving and closing the door behind him.

  “I don’t care what Harmony said about him, he seems like a nice guy.” Adam dabbed at his eyes with the one-ply hospital tissues she’d grown to hate.

  “She talked to you about Jaxon?”

  “More complained than talked, but ….”

  A genuine smile spread across Brea’s face. “Wasn’t that just like her?” She was uncomfortable talking about Harmony in the past tense. It reminded her that she was gone and she, too, started to cry.

  Adam held out a tissue.

  “No. No, thank you. I think those make it worse.” She dried her eyes on her sleeve.

  “You just missed Charity,” Adam said, explaining the phantom smoke she smelled coming into his room. “She brought me this.” He lifted Harmony’s jacket.

  “Did she tell you what happened? I mean before, like why she turned Harmony in to Bennett and Sylvie?”

  “Enough for me to know why she almost stabbed me with a screwdriver.”

  “What? When?” Brea felt her jaw go slack.

  “Harmony didn’t tell you about our fight?”

  It seemed a critical detail had gotten lost in the growing distance between them. “I mean, she said you had an argument, but—”

  “Do you know why I ran away from my family?” She shook her head, having no idea what his past had to do with Harmony’s fight. “There’s irony to be appreciated here.” He hit the red button for his morphine pump and his eyes glossed over. It wasn’t just physical pain he was numbing. “They had to drill a hole in my skull to relieve the pressure. It hurts like hell.”

  “I can imagine.” The pins in her wrist weren’t any fun, either. “So, you were saying something about leaving home.”

  “My father was an abusive alcoholic. There are men who abuse wives and those who abuse families. My father beat me and my mother more times than I can count, sending one or the other of us to the hospital. Charity says Harmony’s father hit only her, but there’s an effect just seeing that kind of thing. Harmony never told me anything about her father, but I’m guessing she didn’t know. At least not on the surface. She repressed things, Brea. She was cracked, on the verge of breaking. Anyway, my mom was convinced Dad could change. We went in and out of battered women’s shelters until I got too old to be there with her. There’s a difference between bringing a boy and a man to a place like that. I was fifteen the last time she checked herself in. They didn’t want me there with her, and my grandparents were both gone. She gave me enough money to stay in a motel that ended up being my home for almost three months. The cash ran out by the third night, but I made arrangements to do odd jobs, mostly painting, in exchange for a room. The owner was a good guy, late sixties and a heavy smoker. He had a garage out back and taught me a bit about cars.” His gaze drifted. “He died of a heart attack the day after my sixteenth birthday. His family closed down the motel. It was a really shitty place, don’t get me wrong, the by-the-hour kind, but when they locked all the doors I was done. I could’ve broken in, but they’d have found me. I didn’t want trouble. I didn’t want to go home, even if my mother went back for the umpteenth time. I didn’t want to become my father.”

  “Adam, you’re not your father. Not by a long shot. You took such good care of Harmony—”

  “I hit her, Brea.”

  “You what?” Brea scowled and her skin tugged where the fresh scabs had formed along her temple and jawline.

  “I lost my temper and I hit her. I never wanted to, not in a million years, but she’s the kind of person who can get under your skin. You know it as well as I do. She’s a button pusher. That thing with Lance—I—God, I’m so damn sorry but no matter what I said she wouldn’t forgive me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” She stifled her anger to keep from drawing unwanted attention.

  “Because you need to understand that what happened wasn’t any more your fault than it was mine. You needed a break from her, probably well-deserved after she nearly got you arrested, and I slapped her out of anger, but neither of us caused her death. It’s been a long time coming. She was determined. Charity intended to stab me the day I hit Harmony, and she might have gone so far as to kill me if Harmony hadn’t stepped in. She was remembering her past, Brea, and it was eating her like cancer. Just because her father didn’t hit her, doesn’t mean he didn’t leave a mark.” He tried to shift his position, but couldn’t do more than turn his head. There was sadness in his blue eyes, but there was also acceptance, which Brea had yet to reach. “Did Harmony ever ask you one of her weird hypotheticals? �
�If you could choose, how would you die?’ ‘Where do you think we go when we’re dead?’” Brea didn’t give him the satisfaction of nodding. “She was obsessed with the idea of dying. She romanticized an afterlife that erased all the shit she’d been through. She wanted a clean slate. You and I kept her together, but she longed for death the way her mother craved drugs.”

  Jaxon knocked softly and opened the door.

  Brea was sobbing, the pain in her ribs nearly unbearable.

  “Are you ready?” His eyes welled up, too.

  “Yes,” she whispered, a string of saliva connecting her upper and lower lips.

  He didn’t ask what had happened and she didn’t tell him. She needed time to process what she’d just heard.

  “Remember what I said, Brea. No matter what anyone did, Harmony wanted this.”

  It was most certainly true, but she’d had a push.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Brea dressed in her going home clothes, requiring more help from her mother than she would have liked. Sleeves were the hardest and her shoulder ached from the weight of maneuvering the unwieldy cast.

  “You okay?” Her mother’s red hair was tied back without a strand out of place and her flawless makeup looked painted on by an artist. She wore a pair of navy dress pants and a navy and white boat neck sweater. Her wedding ring sparkled.

  Brea swallowed the pain pills on her tray. “I’ll be fine.” She chewed at the irritating plastic hospital bracelet, needing the damn thing off.

  Her mother pulled her hand away from her mouth. “The discharge nurse will cut that in a couple of minutes.”

  The edge of the plastic had scraped her skin all night. That, coupled with the pain from the nurse who so harshly yanked her IV, put her good arm in contention for as painful as her bad one. She didn’t want to move either if she could help it.

  “Is Jaxon still here?”

  Joan nodded. “Dad, too.”

  A knock came at the door and a middle-aged woman with heavy gray streaking her dark hair asked if it was okay for her to come in. “Are you dressed?” Her brilliant smile stretched ear to ear. Not everyone knew the grave circumstances surrounding Brea’s injuries.

  “I’m all set.”

  The woman opened the door and pulled out a chair. “My name is Sandy and I’ll be your discharge nurse this morning. We’re going to go over some basic cast care, review your medications, and I’ll answer any questions you have before you leave.”

  “How long will that take?” Brea said. Her mother draped her coat around her and flashed a look that said ‘be nice’.

  “Just a few minutes. I’m sure you’re eager to get home.” Nurse Sandy launched into a checklist of do’s and don’ts that Brea only half-listened to.

  Her mother was taking enough notes for both of them.

  “Are you getting all this?” Joan smiled, trying to include Brea when she wanted to be anywhere but in that conversation.

  “Don’t get it wet,” Brea said.

  Simple enough.

  Jaxon and her father had hit it off and stood together, laughing and chatting, in the waiting area across the hall. There was something on the television that sounded like sports. Not to belittle Jaxon’s charm, but her dad could bond with anyone over football.

  Sandy scribbled out the dosing schedule for her medications—antibiotics and pain relievers—and handed her mother a list of what to watch for.

  “Can I take one last look?”

  Brea slid her coat, which was draped over her like a shawl, out of the way.

  Sandy maneuvered her arm out of the sling and examined the cast and pins. “You’ll need to follow up with your surgeon within the week.” She handed Brea’s mother a business card.

  “Free to go?” Brea said, slowly raising the better of her two arms.

  “If you don’t have any questions, free to go.” Sandy cut the plastic bracelet for her.

  “Jaxon. Hey, Jaxon!” She turned to her mother once she caught his attention. “You don’t mind if he brings me home, do you?” He’d been such a constant presence the past few days that she was going to miss him come infomercial hour.

  “No, that’s fine. Dad and I are going to go have a cup of coffee.”

  Sandy grinned as she presented the last of the forms for her mother to sign. “Isn’t that sweet?” She glanced at Joan’s ring finger before she said it, having no way of knowing her parents weren’t still married.

  Brea rolled her eyes and swung her legs slowly over the side of the bed. Her body ached and the change in position brought new pains in her back and hips to the surface.

  Jaxon pushed the wheelchair over to meet her. He had caved, despite his initial solidarity, showering and shaving that morning and making her feel that much dirtier by comparison.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “I’m more than ready.” She stood, her legs weak beneath her, and eased into the burgundy wheelchair. “Do I really have to go out in this thing?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s hospital policy.”

  Brea’s father joined her mother in collecting the flowers and balloons sent mostly by people her mother worked with.

  Nurse Sandy left the room with the chart tucked under her arm.

  Brea waited until she was out of earshot to ask the question.

  “Any news on the arrangements?”

  “Tomorrow morning. 9:00,” Joan said.

  Brea was thankful to get none of the expected pushback. “And Adam? Will he be out in time?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t think so.”

  Brea knew the deadlines and limitations, but felt bad that the one person who maybe knew Harmony best wouldn’t be there. “Isn’t there any way to hold off a few days?”

  Joan shook her head. “Uncle Jim’s been lenient, but things have to move forward.”

  Jaxon gently set his hand on Brea’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk to Adam before we leave?”

  Tears stung her eyes as she remembered the previous night’s conversation. There was nothing she could do to alleviate his guilt or her own. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  Each of them had blame to shoulder, even if neither of them was at fault.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  The parking lot of O’Connor’s Funeral Home sat mostly empty, magnifying the presence of the police cruiser Brea was sure belonged to her Uncle Jim. Her parents parked next to him and Jaxon parked next to them.

  “You want to wait and see if the rain lets up?” Jaxon wore a slim fit navy blue suit and a green-gray tie that brought out the jade in his hazel eyes.

  She shook her head. “We could wait here all day. Let’s just go.”

  Her mother had helped her bathe, and dried and straightened her hair. She wore a strapless dress to keep from contending with the cast and a black sweater around her shoulders. She opened the door and her mother held an umbrella over her head, reminding Brea for the hundredth time not to get her cast wet.

  “Mom, I’m fine. We have this.”

  “Leave the kids alone, Joan.” Her father held out his hand for her mother to join him.

  No matter how old Brea was, he would always refer to her as a “kid”.

  “Ready?” Jaxon opened his umbrella and closed Brea’s door. He was nervous, casting shifting glances and chewing his lower lip.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I just—I don’t do well with funerals.”

  “Who does?”

  The damp morning air smelled of worms and decaying leaves. The dark sky mirrored her even darker mood. The reality of Harmony’s death had found its place in her sadness, looming in the residual emptiness and waiting to be healed.

  Brea watched her parents walk ahead, extending their condolences to Charity as though she were a stranger.

  In a way, she probably was.

  Charity sat on the sprawling Victorian’s front steps, handcuffed and smoking a cigarette, letting her ashes fall to the collection of soggy butts t
hat said she’d been there a while. Her hair was pulled back in a stringy ponytail and she was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and the hospital bracelet they’d put on her in rehab. The overhang kept everything but her feet dry. The blue dye of her canvas sneakers bled into her gray-white socks.

  She lit a fresh cigarette off the remains of the last, smoked nearly to the filter, and looked up with the delay of someone pharmaceutically numb.

  “I’m sorry, Charity. I’m really, really sorry.” Already Brea was crying. Jaxon wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close enough that they were both fully under the umbrella.

  Charity crushed out her cigarette, looked Brea straight in the eye, and said, “You should be.”

  Jaxon was about to speak up on Brea’s behalf when she held up her hand to stop him. Whatever guilt she and Adam felt, Charity’s must have been a hundred times worse.

  “I hope everything works out for you.” Brea climbed the stairs and paused at the white wicker chair where her uncle sat, keeping watch.

  “How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

  “Could be better.” Brea looked through the glass door at the empty foyer she knew from her grandfather’s funeral led to the viewing room. “Could be worse.”

  Jaxon held the door for her and set the umbrella on its side to dry out.

  Her parents sat in the back row of the viewing room, whispering back and forth. Her mother stood to meet her.

  Jaxon turned into a statue.

  “I can do this alone,” Brea said, in an attempt at convincing herself.

  The air smelled of furniture oil, flowers, and a hint of something chemical she knew to be embalming fluid. She stared ahead at Harmony, laid out in the silvery coffin that glimmered in the harsh white light.

  The spacious room felt like it was closing in on her. Jack O’Connor, the undertaker’s eldest son, took notice and offered her his arm.

  Jaxon sat with her parents, holding his head in his hands. He wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t do well with death. His breathing became heavy and he looked like he might pass out.