Clean Slate by Harley Crowley
Chapter 34
He knew he was in an ambulance. A paramedic hovered over him, holding a bag of clear liquid up high, attaching it to a rack. A tube from the bag snaked down to his arm. Then he was on a gurney, with white curtains pulled around it and what seemed to be a crowd of busy people attending him, and then he was in a room with bright lights shining on him and a masked nurse put a cone over his nose and mouth.
And then he was dreaming. The clear plastic cone was over his father's drawn face, feeding him oxygen. Brian stood over the bed and held his father's hand, and watched his bright and anxious eyes above the mask, heard his shuddering breathing, squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back weakly.
Then he was outdoors, bouncing a basketball over and over, shooting baskets into the hoop above the garage door of the house where he and Carrie lived now. And then he was warm, in a sleeping bag next to a fire pit with embers glowing and sparks snapping. He looked up at the stars bright and thick overhead, framed by the tops of a ring of huge cedars that surrounded the campsite. Carrie was in his arms, her back snuggled up against him, and he fell asleep in deep contentment.
It was dark outside when he woke up next. Fluorescent lights flickered behind soffits, softly lighting the hospital room. The bars of his bed were raised. Groggily he looked around. There was a white curtain between him and someone in another bed whose soft snoring was punctuated every few breaths with quick snorts. He could hear quiet voices in the hallway, and the rustling of someone coming through the door. Carrie came around the end of the curtain, with a Styrofoam cup in her hands.
"Oh. You're awake. I wanted to be here when you woke up. I just left for a minute." She set the cup on his bedside table and leaned over to kiss him. He tried to rise towards her but flinched at the pain in his shoulder and fell back against the pillow.
"S'okay. You're back now." His mouth was dry, his head foggy. Then the sight of Katherine pointing the gun at Carrie, Carrie with her hands protecting the baby, was back in his head. and he felt a flash of fear. "Are you all right?" "The baby? Is the baby all right?" He tried to rise up again, panicky, and she shushed him.
"Brian. Brian. We're fine. We're both fine. It's you we were worried about. You lost a lot of blood. They wouldn't let me give you any, because of her." She put a hand to her belly. He reached out his hand and put it on top of hers. And fell asleep again.
The next time he woke up it was already light. Someone bustled around his roommate on the other side of the curtain, asking him to turn over, and getting a grumbling response. He lay there remembering yesterday, the shock of seeing Katherine in her car following Carrie, the race across the campus, the fury on Katherine's face when he confronted her, and the gun, pointing at Carrie and then at him.
He could see it clearly: Carrie's deliberate, efficient maneuvers as she took Katherine to the ground, and disabled her when she tried to get the gun back, and then delivered a final kick to the ribs. That last blow wasn't actually necessary. That was Carrie's personal statement. That was revenge.
And it wasn't what they taught her in the self-defense class either. He remembered watching her demonstrating the exercises at the graduation. He'd been both impressed and amused at her fierceness, the way she attacked the instructor in his padded protective gear. Flipping him to the ground, kicking at his groin with a hoarse shout of "No!"
It took him a minute of puzzling to understand that the self-defense class was when they were in college, and that he also remembered sitting at the bar in Smiley's, drinking a celebratory beer with Carrie after the graduation. He probed further, testing for gaps, as a flood of memories poured in. Tonsillectomy at seven. Milking a cow at Grandma Edwards' in Ohio when he was ten. His cute and bubbly date with braces, from the prom picture in the album, whose name was Sandy. His wedding.
Now he remembered sitting late in the night by the bed, listening to his father's tortured, gasping breathing, wondering how long it could go on; then dozing off for a while and awakening to silence.
As if it were a movie, he saw himself angrily snatching up his clothes from the dresser in their room and taking them to the guest room, while Carrie sat on their bed watching him, pain so evident in her eyes. That anger, and the desire to hurt her, was now drained away.
And Katherine, after that first boozy night together, standing behind him at his desk with trumped-up paperwork for him to review, sliding her fingers possessively through the hair at the back of his head where no one could see from the outer office. Her perseverance and his depressed passivity, which brought them together several more times. He should have known better. She should never have imagined that there was something there.
Dr. Richardson appeared from behind the curtain and stopped at the foot of the bed to read his chart. She looked like she just woke up.
"Well. Gunshot victim. I don't get many of those in my practice."
"I try not to be boring."
"How are you feeling?" She took his pulse and checked his IV.
"Sort of stupid in the head. And my shoulder hurts."
"Has anyone filled you in on your condition?"
"No, this is the first time I've really been awake. Carrie was here, last night I think, but I guess I fell asleep on her."
"Well, no vital organs were hit, and the surgeon removed the bullet. You did lose a lot of blood, because it nicked an artery. But it was more of a leaker than a gusher. You were lucky. They gave you a few pints of blood to plump you back up again. You're going to be pretty sore for a while, but essentially you're just fine."
"Guess what," he said.
"What?"
"It's back. My memory. I realized it just now, when I was waking up."
"That's great." She perched on the chair next to the bed. "I'm not surprised. This trauma probably nudged things back into the groove." She smiled. "That's the technical scientific explanation. Do you want it in laymen's terms?"
He grinned. "What time is it?" He was eager to see Carrie.
She looked at her watch. "It's 6:45. Your breakfast should be on the way any minute. Anything else I can do for you?" He shook his head and she stood. She waved goodbye as she disappeared behind the curtain again.
He watched that curtain impatiently. Around it came his food, and he played with it a bit with his unaccustomed right hand, and then shoved it aside. He drank the coffee. A nurse came to take his blood pressure and temperature. An early morning volunteer came in with a book cart.
And finally, the footsteps coming through the door were Carrie's, the sound of her boots. First her face appeared as she peeked around the curtain and saw he was awake, and she came into the room. Her cheeks and nose were red from the crisp morning. She pulled off her knit hat and her dark hair tumbled loose. When she leaned over to kiss him good morning it tickled his nose.
"Guess what," he said.
###
About the author
Harley Crowley is a native of Southern California and has lived most of her life within 100 miles of the Pacific Ocean. Most recently she lived in Bellingham, Washington, where she encountered a roving band of writers who encouraged her to get on with it. Now she has come back home to the climate she was imprinted with, and lives in Escondido, where she is editing and consolidating her stories. Her husband is an artist, and paints while she writes. Or she writes while he paints. Or something. Anyway, it works out.
Gratitude to the faithful friends and family who read this manuscript and made brilliant suggestions: Lenora, Mike, Rae Ellen, Jim, and Kathy; and to the Y Writing Group in Escondido who listened week after week as the story unfolded, contributing ideas and reactions that helped so much in the final editing.
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He knew he was in an ambulance. A paramedic hovered over him, holding a bag of clear liquid up high, attaching it to a rack. A tube from the bag snaked down to his arm. Then he was on a gurney, with white curtains pulled around it and what seemed to be a crowd of busy people attending him, and then he was in a room with bright lights shining on him and a masked nurse put a cone over his nose and mouth.
And then he was dreaming. The clear plastic cone was over his father's drawn face, feeding him oxygen. Brian stood over the bed and held his father's hand, and watched his bright and anxious eyes above the mask, heard his shuddering breathing, squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back weakly.
Then he was outdoors, bouncing a basketball over and over, shooting baskets into the hoop above the garage door of the house where he and Carrie lived now. And then he was warm, in a sleeping bag next to a fire pit with embers glowing and sparks snapping. He looked up at the stars bright and thick overhead, framed by the tops of a ring of huge cedars that surrounded the campsite. Carrie was in his arms, her back snuggled up against him, and he fell asleep in deep contentment.
It was dark outside when he woke up next. Fluorescent lights flickered behind soffits, softly lighting the hospital room. The bars of his bed were raised. Groggily he looked around. There was a white curtain between him and someone in another bed whose soft snoring was punctuated every few breaths with quick snorts. He could hear quiet voices in the hallway, and the rustling of someone coming through the door. Carrie came around the end of the curtain, with a Styrofoam cup in her hands.
"Oh. You're awake. I wanted to be here when you woke up. I just left for a minute." She set the cup on his bedside table and leaned over to kiss him. He tried to rise towards her but flinched at the pain in his shoulder and fell back against the pillow.
"S'okay. You're back now." His mouth was dry, his head foggy. Then the sight of Katherine pointing the gun at Carrie, Carrie with her hands protecting the baby, was back in his head. and he felt a flash of fear. "Are you all right?" "The baby? Is the baby all right?" He tried to rise up again, panicky, and she shushed him.
"Brian. Brian. We're fine. We're both fine. It's you we were worried about. You lost a lot of blood. They wouldn't let me give you any, because of her." She put a hand to her belly. He reached out his hand and put it on top of hers. And fell asleep again.
The next time he woke up it was already light. Someone bustled around his roommate on the other side of the curtain, asking him to turn over, and getting a grumbling response. He lay there remembering yesterday, the shock of seeing Katherine in her car following Carrie, the race across the campus, the fury on Katherine's face when he confronted her, and the gun, pointing at Carrie and then at him.
He could see it clearly: Carrie's deliberate, efficient maneuvers as she took Katherine to the ground, and disabled her when she tried to get the gun back, and then delivered a final kick to the ribs. That last blow wasn't actually necessary. That was Carrie's personal statement. That was revenge.
And it wasn't what they taught her in the self-defense class either. He remembered watching her demonstrating the exercises at the graduation. He'd been both impressed and amused at her fierceness, the way she attacked the instructor in his padded protective gear. Flipping him to the ground, kicking at his groin with a hoarse shout of "No!"
It took him a minute of puzzling to understand that the self-defense class was when they were in college, and that he also remembered sitting at the bar in Smiley's, drinking a celebratory beer with Carrie after the graduation. He probed further, testing for gaps, as a flood of memories poured in. Tonsillectomy at seven. Milking a cow at Grandma Edwards' in Ohio when he was ten. His cute and bubbly date with braces, from the prom picture in the album, whose name was Sandy. His wedding.
Now he remembered sitting late in the night by the bed, listening to his father's tortured, gasping breathing, wondering how long it could go on; then dozing off for a while and awakening to silence.
As if it were a movie, he saw himself angrily snatching up his clothes from the dresser in their room and taking them to the guest room, while Carrie sat on their bed watching him, pain so evident in her eyes. That anger, and the desire to hurt her, was now drained away.
And Katherine, after that first boozy night together, standing behind him at his desk with trumped-up paperwork for him to review, sliding her fingers possessively through the hair at the back of his head where no one could see from the outer office. Her perseverance and his depressed passivity, which brought them together several more times. He should have known better. She should never have imagined that there was something there.
Dr. Richardson appeared from behind the curtain and stopped at the foot of the bed to read his chart. She looked like she just woke up.
"Well. Gunshot victim. I don't get many of those in my practice."
"I try not to be boring."
"How are you feeling?" She took his pulse and checked his IV.
"Sort of stupid in the head. And my shoulder hurts."
"Has anyone filled you in on your condition?"
"No, this is the first time I've really been awake. Carrie was here, last night I think, but I guess I fell asleep on her."
"Well, no vital organs were hit, and the surgeon removed the bullet. You did lose a lot of blood, because it nicked an artery. But it was more of a leaker than a gusher. You were lucky. They gave you a few pints of blood to plump you back up again. You're going to be pretty sore for a while, but essentially you're just fine."
"Guess what," he said.
"What?"
"It's back. My memory. I realized it just now, when I was waking up."
"That's great." She perched on the chair next to the bed. "I'm not surprised. This trauma probably nudged things back into the groove." She smiled. "That's the technical scientific explanation. Do you want it in laymen's terms?"
He grinned. "What time is it?" He was eager to see Carrie.
She looked at her watch. "It's 6:45. Your breakfast should be on the way any minute. Anything else I can do for you?" He shook his head and she stood. She waved goodbye as she disappeared behind the curtain again.
He watched that curtain impatiently. Around it came his food, and he played with it a bit with his unaccustomed right hand, and then shoved it aside. He drank the coffee. A nurse came to take his blood pressure and temperature. An early morning volunteer came in with a book cart.
And finally, the footsteps coming through the door were Carrie's, the sound of her boots. First her face appeared as she peeked around the curtain and saw he was awake, and she came into the room. Her cheeks and nose were red from the crisp morning. She pulled off her knit hat and her dark hair tumbled loose. When she leaned over to kiss him good morning it tickled his nose.
"Guess what," he said.
###
About the author
Harley Crowley is a native of Southern California and has lived most of her life within 100 miles of the Pacific Ocean. Most recently she lived in Bellingham, Washington, where she encountered a roving band of writers who encouraged her to get on with it. Now she has come back home to the climate she was imprinted with, and lives in Escondido, where she is editing and consolidating her stories. Her husband is an artist, and paints while she writes. Or she writes while he paints. Or something. Anyway, it works out.
Gratitude to the faithful friends and family who read this manuscript and made brilliant suggestions: Lenora, Mike, Rae Ellen, Jim, and Kathy; and to the Y Writing Group in Escondido who listened week after week as the story unfolded, contributing ideas and reactions that helped so much in the final editing.