The Family Plot (39 page)

“Yep, that's me.”

Gabe introduced himself, and said politely, “I was just leaving. But Dahl, Uncle Chuck says he'll be here first thing in the morning with all your stuff, to drive you home.”

“Did he … is the house…?” She wasn't sure what to ask, not exactly.

Her cousin piloted himself in a little semicircle, trying to navigate back around the bed. “Dad and Uncle Chuck hired a couple of local guys, and between them and Brad, they got the copper roof squared away this morning. I'm not sure how much else they mean to take … but it was quiet in there.” He glanced over at the doctor. “That's what Dad said. You know what I mean.”

“Sure, it's quiet—now that I'm gone.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever. I'm glad they're getting it finished up.”

“Me too. So I'll see you tomorrow, all right? My butt is buzzing, so that's probably Dad texting to say he's here to get me. Nice to meet you, Dr. Jacks.”

“Likewise,” he replied.

With a good-bye wave, Gabe puttered out into the hallway, and was gone.

The doctor closed the door behind him, and pulled up a chair beside Dahlia's bed. He adjusted himself on the seat, and fiddled with a satchel full of paperwork, withdrawing a recorder, and setting it on the bedside tray. He pressed a button to turn it on. “So … you know what this is about.”

“Yeah, the surgeon warned me, when he came in to check his work.” She wiggled her arms. They were bandaged from her thumbs to her elbows. “He says it's not as bad as it could have been. I won't lose any sensation, not permanently. And my fingers are all still working, so none of the tendons got sliced too bad.”

He rested a clipboard on his leg, and pulled the cap off a pen. “You were lucky.”

“If you say so.”

“You wouldn't?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Lucky to be alive? Yes. Lucky to have face-planted through an old single-pane window? Not so much.”

“But you understand there's been some concern. Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked, his eyes all wide and friendly. He was young, but he'd perfected his therapist's air of “trust me, I'm here to help.” It was too polished. It made her trust him even less.

Even if the compassionate show wasn't bullshit, Dahlia didn't particularly want to talk to the guy. What could she say that wouldn't sound completely insane? She'd been thinking about it ever since yesterday, when the surgeon had mentioned this little visit. Standard procedure, she'd told Dahlia. Obligatory, for a case like this one.

She didn't take a deep breath. It would look too much like she was setting something up, or giving something away. Instead, she shrugged. “There's not much to tell.”

“Tell it anyway, if you're feeling well enough.”

“Gabe got hurt, and we were trying to keep him calm, and immobile. He wanted some painkillers, and I offered him a bourbon chaser—but I couldn't find the bottle. I know he's a minor, but man, you should've seen his ankles. I was trying to help.”

“Of course, I understand.”

“But the power was out, and it was dark in there, what with the storm and all.”

“Mm-hm.”

“While I was looking around, I heard a window break upstairs. I thought maybe a tree branch had come through it, or something like that—and we need those windows, and those old floors. Those kinds of things are the bread and butter of the family business. So I guess I thought maybe I could cover it up with plastic or something, if it wasn't too bad. That way, the rain wouldn't soak the floors.”

“But what about Gabe?”

“Brad was out there with him on the porch, and neither one of them was going anywhere. Bobby had gone to the trucks, to wait for the ambulance. There wasn't much I could do except turn up that bottle of bourbon … and cover up the broken window, if I could find it.” She paused, remembering the truth, and building her lie along its framework. “I picked up some plastic sheeting and duct tape, and went hunting for the problem. I found it in the master bedroom. Water was getting all inside the place, and since the ambulance still hadn't arrived, I tried taping up the holes. And you know how well that worked out.”

He scribbled something on the form that was attached to his clipboard. “But you've left out the most important part: How you actually cut yourself.”

She glared at him. “I
didn't
cut myself. I
got
cut, when I fell.”

“Poor phrasing on my part. I'm sorry. Please go on.”

The rest is a little blurry. It happened real fast, and then I lost a shit-ton of blood, as you may note from my records,” she said, sounding huffier than she meant to. “There was a window seat, you see—and I stood up on it, to reach the window. But I was doing all that in the dark, and I lost my balance. I started going backwards, and tried to catch myself forwards, out of reflex. My hands went through the glass, tearing them all to hell. I dragged myself back downstairs, and that's where Brad and the medics found me. The end.”

Dr. Jacks performed another brief round of scribbling. “But there was a phone call. You called your ex-husband moments before the accident occurred,” he said carefully.

“You've never butt-dialed anyone before? Never in your life?”

“Is that what happened?”

She nodded. “Yes, that's what happened. I was falling down a flight of stairs with my phone in my pocket. Believe me, I felt stupid about it when I found out.”

Dr. Jacks sat forward, and fiddled with his pen. “All right, that's … possible. But you spoke to Carrie, and asked about Andy.”

“I have no recollection of that, whatsoever. Look…” Dahlia sighed heavily, and adjusted herself on the pillows. She wanted to push the button for more meds, but she restrained herself—even though her arms ached like mad. “I've seen my arms—I was watching, when the surgeon took off the wraps to get a look at them. I know it looks like I took a razor to them, up and down. But if I were going to slit my own wrists, why would I carve up my fingers, too?”

“Working with a piece of wet glass, in the dark … the cuts on your fingers could've been accidental.”

“If I really wanted to die upstairs, why would I try so hard to get downstairs, and to get Brad's attention?”

“Second thoughts? It happens all the time.”

“Honey, if I wanted to die, I'd use one of my guns, and do it quick—without any fanfare. And without all this goddamn pain,” she added through her teeth, when a sharp flare of agony shot up and down her right hand. “I sure as hell wouldn't do it when Gabe was in desperate need of help, and there was an ambulance on the way.”

“But suicide attempts are rarely logical or well planned. You'd been under a lot of stress at work—”

“No more than usual.”

“You were the boss on this operation, far from home—”

“It's Nashville, not Nevada.”

“You'd recently signed off on a divorce.”

“You've got me there.”

“And, I am led to believe,” he said, gently but firmly, “that you lost a house in this divorce. An old one, like the one you were working on in Saint Elmo.”

She snorted. “Ha! It wasn't a third the size of the Withrow place, and it needed almost as much work. It was a beautiful house, and I loved it, and I hated to lose it. But you know what I do for a living? I fart around in nice old houses, taking pieces of them with me. For fuck's sake.” She leaned back and winced. “It wasn't the end of the world.”

He was quiet for a moment. “No, I suppose it wasn't.”

“So would you please sign off on me, or whatever it is you have to do? I just want to go home.”

“Even though you're going home alone, to an empty apartment?”

“Even so, yes. I've got a good GP in Nashville who can look after me from here on out, and … and … what do I have to promise you? That I'll seek therapy if I find myself depressed, or having dire thoughts? I can do that. Do you want me to promise I'll talk to someone before I do anything drastic? That's fine. For that matter, if you want me to leave my guns with Daddy, so he can keep them locked out of reach—that's fine too. Just tell me what you want from me. What do I have to say to convince you that this wasn't my own doing?”

“It's not a matter of making promises,” he said in his most soothing voice. It made him sound like a liar. “This is a formality. We can't really keep you here against your will, unless there is demonstrable proof that you are a danger to yourself or others. You can leave in the morning,” he said with another click of his pen. “No one will stop you. The hospital has to cover its bases from a legal standpoint, you understand. I'm only doing my job.”

She was relieved enough to melt right into her pillow fort, but she couldn't allow herself that cautious joy quite yet. Not until she was actually free and clear, and on the road back to Music City Salvage.

But when Dr. Jacks left, she relaxed enough to nap. The hospital wasn't so bad. The food was shit, but what could you do? The drugs were good, and that more than made up for it.

She had her own TV remote, and her cell phone. Even with the cracked screen, she could entertain herself for one more night.

It was really rather peaceful, except for the beeping machines and the intercom, and the weird guy down the hall who kept waking up yelling for someone named Brenda.

But it wasn't a poltergeist-plagued work site.

Her father called from a hotel, and gave her the rundown on the day's work. They'd gotten the last of the windows and floors, and the chestnut barn had been taken down to splinters. In another few days, the whole shebang would be razed to the ground, and then it'd be over. Did she still want some of the furniture that'd been left behind? She could have it, if she did.

She told him “no thanks,” and that she'd buy her own later. Take it for the shop. Maybe one of the guys could upcycle it into something cool … for someone else.

That was all right with Chuck. He understood. Anyway, he'd see her in the morning, bright and early, with bells on. All right. Good-bye.

Dahlia napped some more. There wasn't much else to do, and even surfing the Net on her phone was more than her ragged fingers felt like doing for very long. Drugs and sleep were a better way to pass the time. When she woke up again, she found some flowers and a card. According to one of the nurses, Bobby had brought them by, but he didn't want to wake her.

She was touched, until she read the card. The flowers were from Andy, so now she didn't want them. She didn't need his stupid, guilty gesture because he'd heard through the grapevine that maybe Dahl had tried to kill herself in a grand old house … and you know what? Fuck him.

“Give them to somebody else,” she told the nurse. “Someone who will appreciate them better than I do. They're pretty enough, but I don't want them. Find an old person, or a little kid, or something.”

She didn't know where they ended up, and didn't care.

It was twenty minutes until visiting hours were over, and that was a good thing. Once the visitors quit coming and going, the hospital got quieter. There were fewer kids tramping down the halls, and fewer people asking doctors too many questions, and giving nurses too many demands.

But there was still a quarter hour left on the clock when a quietly cleared throat announced that Augusta Withrow had arrived. Dahlia smelled the older woman before she opened her eyes—that fancy perfume that suited her perfectly, with an afternote of tobacco and expensive hand lotion.

“Hello there.”

“Ms. Dutton, I hear they're sending you home in the morning.”

She wriggled herself back to a mostly seated position. “Yes ma'am, that is correct.”

Augusta let herself inside the room, and took the chair that Dr. Jacks had left beside the bed. “That's good to hear. I heard what happened, and…” She hesitated. “And I'm sorry,” she concluded.

“Everyone got out alive; that's the important thing.”

“Yes, yes it is,” she nodded. “But I suppose you feel that I wasn't honest with you, or your father.”

“What good would honesty have done?” Dahlia asked.

“I could've warned you about … her. I could've told you about Aunt Hazel's room, at least. I might've sounded like a madwoman for it, but it would've given you some measure of sanctuary.”

“I figured it out.” She corrected herself. “Well, Hazel told me.”

Augusta raised one thin eyebrow. “You saw her?”

“She seemed like a nice lady. Where will she go, when the house is gone?”

“I'm sure she'll come up with something. Always an innovator, that one.” She squeezed her hands around a small purse, then opened it with a pinch of the clasp. “I brought you something.”

“That wasn't necessary…”

She withdrew something small and rectangular, and fiddled with it. “I went back to the house, while your father and his men were working on the carriage house roof. You left this behind—or someone did, I'm not sure who.”

“What is it?”

“A camera,” she said as she handed it over. “It was running … I don't know how long … before the battery went out. I wasn't sure if I should give it to you or not, but I thought … there might be something on there, something you could share with your father, if you needed to. The place is empty now; I felt it myself—not a hint of anyone, even Aunt Hazel. He might not believe you.”

“He doesn't need to believe me. He can believe Bobby, or Brad, or Gabe. They all saw things; they all had stuff happen that they couldn't explain.”

“They didn't receive the worst of it, though.” Augusta gazed thoughtfully at Dahlia's hands.

“Gabe might argue.”

“Gabe didn't almost die. You were the one she wanted. Maybe because you're a woman—it might be that simple. Or maybe because you were alone and angry.” She used those words like she'd heard them before.