47

Fifteen minutes later, I slipped into her room at Rhode Island Hospital and didn’t recognize the face on the pillow. Her right eye was covered with gauze. Her nose was blue-black and hooked to the left. Her lips were split and swollen. Her right hand, encased in a cast, lay still on the crisp white sheet. Dried blood matted her blond hair. She didn’t look like Sharon Stone anymore.

I reached for her left hand, then saw the IV line taped to the back of it, so I just laid my palm on her shoulder. Her left eye fluttered open, and she mumbled something that might have been my name.

I got up and removed her chart from its hook at the foot of her bed. “Severed tendon, right hand. Fractured right occipital bone. Three fractured ribs, right side. Multiple contusions to face, arms, chest, and back. Detached retina, right eye. Prognosis for regaining sight uncertain.”

I couldn’t remember which eye she used to look through the viewfinder.

*  *  *

That night Veronica cooked for me again, bringing her own wok and stir-frying a fragrant mix of shrimp, ginger, and something she called “vegetables.” The rising steam misted her skin.

“How is Gloria doing?” she asked.

“She’s hurting. She’s not talking much. It’s hard to look at her. You should go see her. I’m sure she’s tired of gazing up at my face.”

There was silence as Veronica turned off the burner beneath the wok. Finally she said, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

The Sox game was a safer subject. As we ate, I blathered about it, stopping about ten minutes after her eyes glazed over. Then she told me about her weekend dining out and shopping at Providence Place with her sister.

“Miss me?” she said.

“Oh, yeah. I sure did.”

When I got around to my encounter with the little thug, she dropped her fork and stared at me. “Jesus, Mulligan! Why didn’t you tell me this first?”

“ ’Cause the Sox are way more important.”

“What if he comes back?”

“I’m counting on it. Believe me, I can totally kick his ass, and I’m going to, first chance I get.”

She picked up her fork again and stabbed at a shrimp.

“You aren’t two boys on the playground, Mulligan. If this is our firebug, we already know that he kills people. What if he has a gun next time?”

“I’ll just take it away from him,” I said, suddenly feeling less cocksure than I sounded.

“What if he goes for this again?” she asked, her fingers brushing the front of my jeans. “With the luck you’ve been having lately, he might do some permanent damage next time.”

I didn’t like where the conversation was going, but I liked where her hand was wandering. I was a little tired, but the parts I planned on using weren’t. Once we flopped into bed, I was turned down flat. For the first time since we’d first done it, we weren’t doing it.

“You need to rest,” she whispered. “And you need to stop acting like such a cowboy.”

She pulled my head to her chest, and it felt good there. She touched her lips to my forehead, lingering on a spot I swear had never been kissed before. Suddenly, sleep became a distinct possibility. Her smell was a drug, pulling me under.

“G’night,” I managed to mutter.

“Love you, baby,” she said. Or maybe I dreamed it.