Insult to Injury Read online

  I drop my hands onto my lap and raise my head. That’s it. This is what I need to focus on. Nothing in my life, absolutely nothing, has been more important to me than Gail’s well-being. So, what if I need to stay in this near ruin of a house? If I step through the trees in the back, I’ll be able to see the lights from her windows. When I walk into East Quay every day, I’ll pass her house. Perhaps she’ll be outside, and we can say hello. And she knows some of the people I know. I need to cling to these thoughts.

  I gaze around me. I have to remain hopeful despite everything, or I’ll go crazy. I snort. Perhaps too late for that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gail

  I ache all over and curse that I promised Neill and Laurence I’d find a local physiotherapist. Now I’ve had my third session at the clinic Manon Belmont recommended, and I’ve already exchanged the tenacious PT’s real name for an unprintable word in my mind. The fact that she seems incredibly capable and doesn’t intimidate easily makes me reluctantly impressed and annoyed. She hasn’t given me any outlandish promises that I may be able to resume my career in however long, but she’s fully convinced that I’ll regain normal use of my arm—and that the pain situation will get better. Right now, I doubt it, as my entire arm throbs and aches to a degree that I had to hit the bathroom to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

  “Gail?”

  I stop and pivot as a familiar voice says my name softly from behind me. Romi. Now, it’s not my arm that’s the problem, but my stomach that clenches so tight, the sensation is close to pain. I haven’t seen Romi in ten days. Not since the guys and I drove her to that shopping center. She hasn’t taken the shortcut through my yard on her way home, or at least not as far as I’ve seen.

  “Romi. Heading to your house?” I cradle the sling around my orthosis awkwardly, but she doesn’t even look at my arm. Instead her huge, hazel eyes gaze firmly into mine.

  “Yes. I’ve been at the Belmont Center. With the kids.” She tugs at a fabric messenger bag. “We’re practicing for a local competition.” Romi shifts and turns her focus onto her feet.

  Thinking fast, I try to figure out a way to keep her around a little longer. “I’m due for some grocery shopping. Can I persuade you to tag along? I mean, if you don’t have anywhere else you need to be?”

  Gazing up again, Romi gives a faint smile. “I’m free for today. I don’t mind coming with you.” She looks at the building I just exited and frowns. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just PT.” I want to shrug, but that’s always painful, no matter which shoulder, really. “I’m parked over there.” I point at the parking lot to the left of the building.

  In the car, Romi extends her hand toward my seat belt without my having to ask. At some point, on a particularly grumpy day, I would have thought she was being presumptuous, but today I’m merely grateful. It’s as if she simply gets it and makes absolutely no fuss about my handicap.

  I drive toward the Whole Foods Market not far from the shopping center, where we dropped her off that Sunday. “What music is the choir planning to perform?” I ask when the silence starts to get to me.

  “It appears that the kids really liked the song they heard me sing and wanted to perform another one from the same musical, ‘This Is Me.’ At first, Carrie, their leader, thought it was too hard for the girls, but they insisted. As it turned out, they’re really good.” Romi raises her thumb to her lips and nibbles at it for a moment but then yanks it away. “I’m worried, though. Next week, Carrie’s going to have surgery, and I’m sort of going to be it. I’ve only been the assistant three times. I may screw everything up.” She sighs. “Sorry.”

  Glancing furtively at her, I can tell she’s pushed her shoulders up. “For what?”

  “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.” Romi presses her palms together and hides her hands between her thighs in a, by now, familiar gesture.

  “You did nothing of the sort.” I infuse some of my work voice, wanting, well, not to intimidate her, of course, but for her to know that I don’t mind hearing anything she’d feel comfortable sharing. Not being the smoothest communicator in the world, I fully expect to be misunderstood. “And I think those girls are lucky to have you, especially since their original leader isn’t well. This way they don’t have to miss any rehearsals.”

  “Thanks.” Romi’s shoulders sink slowly, and she exhales.

  “Here we are.” I pull into the grocery-store parking lot.

  “Oh, God.”

  “What? What’s wrong?” I park the car and turn to Romi, who looks oddly dismayed.

  “N-nothing. Nothing at all.” Romi presses the release to my belt and eases it carefully up across my chest until I can catch it with my good arm. “I’ll go grab a cart, okay?”

  “Okay.” Mystified, I make my way out of the car. Every time I think I have a grip on my situation with Romi, she says or does something that makes me feel utterly confused. Not in an unpleasant way, not at all, really, but in a way that makes me think I’ve been missing out on social interaction one-on-one since I was a toddler. Or perhaps I’ve simply happened upon a young woman who challenges me into truly wanting to interpret her feelings and motives. Understand her.

  And if this isn’t enough, her physical closeness totally bewilders me. She’s not my type. She’s too young. She’s wrong in so many ways. Still, ever since that evening after the dinner at Vivian and Mike’s, something about Romi has been…if not right, exactly, then, not entirely incorrect.

  Exasperated at myself, I watch Romi return with a shopping cart. She tilts her head questioningly at me, but I motion for her to keep pushing it. This gesture makes her light up, for some reason, and she walks next to me with what I feel is a new bounce in her step. Last time I saw her, she was definitely under a thundercloud, and I barely felt connected, but now, as ghostly thin as she seems, Romi seems happier.

  We walk up and down the aisles, and I pick out the fruit and vegetables I want, my favorite coffee, cocoa, and tea. Yes, I like to spoil myself, or should I say, I used to like it. Ever since the accident, I’ve gone through the motions, bought my usual stuff, but not really cared. Now, in Romi’s presence, I feel a certain satisfaction in choosing what I really enjoy, and before I realize where my brain is heading, I envision us having hot chocolate by the fireplace. The thought makes me come to a dead stop and stare at Romi’s back as she pushes the cart along the aisle without noticing I’m not beside her—but for only three steps.

  “Gail?” She looks over her shoulder and then returns to me. This part of her, this protective side, should drive me up the wall like it does with anyone else that I fear might pity me. Romi doesn’t pity me, she just seems to—care.

  “I’m fine. Just trying to remember what else to get.” I lie to save my sanity, but she takes my words at face value, or seems to, as she looks up and down the aisle. “More coffee?”

  “Um. No. Actually, I need a coffee grinder. I like freshly ground beans.” I manage a flippant tone.

  Romi crinkles her nose. “Thank God. I was afraid you were going to say you chew them whole, or something.”

  I laugh, and it’s such an alien feeling, I have to fight a burning sensation along my lower eyelids. When did I burst into laughter last? I can’t remember, but an educated guess would be before the accident, though I’ve never been the giggly type. I’m sure my peers think I’m pretty humorless.

  “Heaven forbid—that’s not for me.” I start walking and we round the shelf.

  Now it’s Romi’s turn to stop. “Whoa. Look at these cereals. Never seen them packaged like that. And the mixes!” Her eyes are even bigger than usual when she turns to me.

  “Why don’t you get some now that you have a ride?”

  Leaning closer to the shelf, reading the price tags, Romi shakes her head. “Not in my price range. Too bad. Perhaps another time.” She shrugs and seems completely unaffected. “I don’t mind a regular box of corn flakes.”

  I’m half a second away from off
ering to buy her some of the pricey cereals when I realize what a horrible mistake—and how condescending—such a suggestion might seem to Romi. I merely keep walking, and once we’ve been through all the aisles, I’ve even found my coffee grinder. It seems easy to use with one hand, which is a relief.

  After we check out, and Romi and the young man carrying out my groceries have stowed everything in the back of my car, I motion at the passenger seat. “Now that you’ve pushed my cart and packed up everything, please let me make you dinner. And before you say it’s not necessary, I have ulterior motives. I need someone to chop some vegetables.” I know I’ve played dirty, as I could tell Romi had an excuse ready to go.

  “Thank you. I don’t have a chance to eat much home-cooked food.” Romi gets into the car and I join her. As has started to become a habit, she extends her hand for my safety belt once I pull it toward my right. She attaches it, ever mindful of my right arm.

  “It’s not a gourmet meal,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot. “Just a casserole with mainly vegetables and some chicken.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Sounds like gourmet food to me.” Smiling easily now, sitting slightly turned toward me, Romi is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen her. Oddly, this makes her look more mature, even a little self-assured. Is this the real Romi who hides behind the young woman with haunted eyes and tense body language?

  I drive through the bright autumn afternoon and reach the house just as the sun begins to set. It’s getting darker earlier and earlier, and I used to love this time of the year. I was never much for summer, with all its outdoor activities I felt I should adore. Sitting on my couch in my condo, reading, listening to music, or even occasionally watching TV, with some candles burning and a fire going, is much more my thing. That said, being a professional musician, I needed physical stamina to deliver the performances in the manner that I expected of myself. I preferred my local gym rather than running in Central Park, like some of my peers did. Treadmills, ellipticals, rowing machines were my equipment of choice. Much less risk of tripping and injuring my—well, as it turned out, all I had to do was get behind the wheel of my car and have someone else run a red light in Midtown.

  “You’re frowning again? Still hurting from the PT?” Romi asks, interrupting my darkening thoughts.

  “Yes.” It’s not a lie, but not the entire truth, of course. “I suppose it’s that type of situation when it has to get worse before it gets better.”

  “Wish those pesky worse parts would let up a bit more often—for all of us.” Romi shrugs. “And I hate to see you in pain.”

  “You do?” I groan inwardly about speaking before I engaged my brain. Of course, she would hate to see anyone in pain, hardly just me.

  “Yes. It’s not just the physical part, but how the pain seems to affect…um…more of you.” Romi’s cheekbones turn pink, or perhaps it’s the glow of the setting sun. “That sounds damn presumptuous. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I appreciate the insight.” I drum the fingers of my left hand against the wheel. “To be honest, I normally loathe any type of so-called insight, or any attempt at ‘reaching me.’ Especially after…this.” I lift my arm a fraction of an inch. “It’s amazing how much unsolicited advice people who barely know you can offer in one sitting.”

  Romi seems to consider this remark for a moment. “People mean well.” Her tone is noncommittal, and I guess she’s been on the receiving end of that sentence more than once. “Even when they walk right over your soul and try to yank you off the ground at the same time, whether you want to or not, they still only mean well. When you try to protect yourself by keeping them at a distance, they sure can make you feel guilty. Perhaps we really need help, need to be yanked up, but just because we’ve fallen doesn’t mean we don’t have our own will, our own hopes and dreams. Our own way of wanting to do things. That’s when they go from meaning well to letting us know that beggars can’t be choosers.” She looks at me with worried eyes.

  “I hear you,” I say softly. And I do. These aren’t just words. She’s talking about her reality, which clearly differs from mine, but the sentiment is the same. “I really do.”

  “Okay. Cool.” Romi turns forward again, but I can see a faint smile come and go on her lips.

  We drive back to the house in silence, and this time it’s comfortable. As we come up the driveway, Romi unbuckles her belt and turns toward me again, ready to assist with my belt as if it’s no big deal—just something she does. A fire ignites in my chest at this thought, warming with its soft glow rather than scorching me. Oh, I don’t doubt she could burn me to a crisp if I ever let her that close, but in this instant and for the first time in ages, Romi makes me feel safe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Romi

  The chicken casserole is among the best I’ve ever tasted. Looking up at Gail, I confess that her presence is the main reason for the way everything tastes. She sits there, still looking like her stern self, probably second nature to her, but unless my imagination is going nuts, she’s smiled at me three times since we sat down. That has to be a record.

  I hope the damn soap I’ve used ever since I moved out isn’t too obvious. Of all things to worry about, and God knows I have a few, this is ridiculous. At least I know how to get to work clean. The gas station located in the outskirts of East Quay is conveniently on my way as I walk into town. Their restrooms are well kept and provide all the free soap I need. That said, I plan to make my way to one of the cheaper stores in East Quay and buy a better soap. My hair is blissfully short and easy to wash in the sink, but I hate how it feels when washed with cheap hand soap. Then again, at least I’m clean.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying the chicken.” Gail puts her fork down and dabs her lips with a paper napkin. “Up for dessert? I have ice cream.”

  Of course, true to my habit, I’ve wolfed down the food, despite my best intentions. I’m so full now, I’m ready to burst, no matter how delicious some ice cream would be. “Sorry, but I have to pass. The casserole was so good, I overate.”

  “We can always wait a bit. Unless you’re in a hurry to go home?” Gail gets up and places her plate in the dishwasher. The machine is brand-new, which makes sense since Aunt Clara didn’t believe in redundant appliances. I washed a lot of dishes by hand, which was one of my chores I didn’t mind. Perhaps it sounds nuts, but I found the warm water against my hands soothing. Compared to the drying nature of the soil in the flower and vegetable beds, it was almost pleasurable. I know how pathetic this sounds, even to myself, and force my brain to change gears.

  “Romi?” Gail rests her hip against the counter and regards me with a deepening frown. I realize she’s still waiting for an answer and scramble my scattering thoughts to try to remember what she asked just now. Ah. Yes.

  “No, I’m not in a hurry. I don’t have to be at work until after lunch tomorrow.” I pick up my plate and place it and my glass in the dishwasher. “Thanks again. Dinner was good.”

  Gail nods. “Why don’t you go into the living room? I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “All right.” I walk into the room where Aunt Clara spent every evening by the fire—mending, knitting, or listening to the radio. I sometimes felt as if I lived in the forties, before the television era. I got to watch TV at a friend’s house once in a while, and when I raised the subject of getting one, Aunt Clara would huff and shake her finger at me, assuring me that such a redundant device would never cross her threshold. Honestly, I think Aunt Clara used the word “redundant” every day.

  I hear Gail walk back to the downstairs bathroom and close the door. Scanning the living room, I immediately see the huge flat-screen. Aunt Clara must be spinning in her grave, poor woman. She was so adamant, but now, with a new owner living among her things, no doubt exchanging them little by little, everything is different.

  I sit on the couch across from the TV and can’t stop myself. Gail will probably think me too forward and rather presumptuous, but I grab the remote and t
urn it on. The TV is set to a cooking channel, which is sort of surprising, but after having Gail’s home-cooked chicken casserole, it shouldn’t be.

  “I see you found my latest purchase. They delivered it two days ago.” Gail comes into the living room and sits down next to me on the couch.

  I nearly choke, as I haven’t been this close to her outside the car. No, that’s not right. She was really close to me when I fell in the basement. But this is still different. She had the choice of the armchair or the old rocker when she came in, but she chose to sit right next to me. Not even at the opposite end of the couch but up close and personal. Jesus. I clutch the remote while trying to think of something to say. “It’s impressive,” I manage to say, my voice too low and trembly. “Don’t think I’ve ever watched anything on such a big set.” Who am I kidding? I haven’t watched TV outside of electronic stores the last six years. I’ve been at libraries, using computers and reading papers and magazines, but never watched real television.

  “Sixty inches. I figured I might as well get a proper size since there’s little else to do at night here in the sticks. I mean, I read a lot nowadays, sure, but it can get a little…quiet.” Gail turns to me, raising her bent left arm up on the backrest, resting her head in her hand. “I don’t mind if we have the TV on, not at all, but can we turn the sound down, so we can talk? With you here, it seems a waste—” She stops, her cheeks going pink.

  “I agree.” Pressing the mute button on the remote, I mimic her and turn slightly toward her on the couch. There’s something so very rare about being under the unwavering scrutiny of Gail Owen. Her eyes, so bright, so damn blue, can go from ice to a warm, almost turquoise hue in seconds. Right now, they’re definitely the latter, and they pull me in.