Where We Left Off (19 page)

He made his way back to the door without looking back, “Please Sydney…don’t bother saying anything else.”

The door slowly closed behind him.

Chapter 32

“A little early for the hard stuff, isn’t it,” the bartender insisted. 

“You’re open, aren’t you?” Mason asked, arrogantly slamming down his credit card.

He pointed to the top shelf and told the bartender to keep them coming.  Wiping the bar top down with a white linen cloth, the bartender slid a glass towards him on a coaster and filled it with his best vodka.  Mason drank it down faster than water, slamming the glass down for another.   Of all the places he could have gone when he left Sydney, he had ended up in a bar, one of the only ones in the city open that early.  Even in the day the décor inside was dark enough to resemble night.

Mason felt humiliated.  Remaining silent all of those years, he’d avoided the embarrassment, the skepticism, or the judgment of anyone.  To take a chance with someone and in return feel everything once was far more than he had expected.  Looks of concern, maybe, but not this, not the way Sydney responded.  Staring into the bottom of his glass watching his drink disappear and be refilled, Mason hated the feeling having to defend himself against what happened to him, as if he were the one at fault.  He was angry at just about everything Sydney said.  He was angry at himself for believing he could trust her enough to tell her.  ‘
Forgive him,’
he angrily remembered her saying.  The idea was no more a question in his mind than a mockery of her words. 

Time seemed to disappear behind the once-filled glass he could barely keep a grip on.  It wasn’t hard to notice that he had been there a lot longer than most.  His posture was slumped and his speech was slurred.  People had come and gone, each making no attempt to converse with the guy at the end of the bar who reeked of alcohol and sweat.

“Mr. Everett, would you like me to call someone?” the bartender asked.

He had a tab set up from the time he walked in, and was already well past a few hundred dollars.

“Jimmy… that is your name, right? Listen…there’s no one to call.”  Mason’s speech was slow and drowsy.

“Sir, I’m going to have to cut you off.  We can’t serve you anymore alcohol right now.”

Mason looked around and noticed some of the guests staring and whispering to each other.  “You …have V-I-P rooms, right?”

Frustrated and annoyed, the bartender responded, “Yes we do, sir.  The rates are fifteen hundred dollars and up with a thirty percent gratuity.”

Mason squinted as if to make sure he was talking to one person and not two.  “You know my name….put… it tab…on me.”

He could barely speak, let alone hold another drink, so he slid off the bench and picked up his suit jacket, which had fallen on the floor beside him.  Jimmy led him into one of their private VIP rooms and sat him down.   Before Jimmy could ask if there was anything else he needed, Mason was slouched over on one of the sofas sound asleep.  Jimmy shook his head and walked out of the room. 

No one bothered him for hours as he slept.  Even the bartenders, when they went to see if he needed anything, noticed Mason hadn’t moved an inch.  They honestly preferred that he sleep it off and drive home sober than attempt to do so now.  Not to mention, regardless of Mason ordering anything or not, he was still paying for the room. 

By the time Mason came to, he had wakened to a worse headache than he began with earlier that morning.  His cell phone had completely died, and he was paying a bill for almost seventeen hundred dollars.  Some of the drinks had worn off, but he was still far too intoxicated to drive home. It took him a while of searching and feeling for his keys to remember that he hadn’t driven there in the first place.  He laughed when one of the bartenders walked in asking if he was ready for them to call a cab.   

The daylight was almost blinding as Mason walked outside into the afternoon sun.  He gave the cab driver his address and sat in the back, shielding himself beneath his jacket.  The overshadowing sun was a throbbing reminder of the night he’d had, as it pierced through his jacket. 

When he got home, Mason kicked the front door closed behind him and threw his jacket across the table, making his way upstairs.  It wasn’t as bright inside as it was out, or as warm.  The few windows that were open let a comfortable spring breeze into the house, but he was still too drunk to appreciate it.  He sprawled himself across the bed and pondered in the silence that surrounded him well into the evening. 
How did it get this bad,
he asked himself, laughing to a joke that only he heard. 

He dozed in and out of sleep, waking to the same thoughts and drifting to the same conclusions each time.  He’d never really thought about what had happened between he and his stepfather beyond the fact that it had happened.  It seemed like that’s all he had done for the last few months, whether he liked it or not. If it wasn’t by his own doing, something or someone stirred up a memory that he would have rather forgotten. 
I just wish…I should just kill him,
Mason thought
.
Although drastic, that wasn’t the first time he’d considered it. 

Almost every day walking into his front door after school and walking out every morning, he’d thought of ways he could kill Kevin without getting caught.
Mason was now at the point where the only way to pretend his stepfather never existed was to make him actually cease to exist. 
I wouldn’t miss him,
he joked.  It was obvious, seeing how Sydney had reacted, that talking about it only made things worse, and at the end of the day nothing would change the fact that it had happened, or help him forget. 
But one more drink just might,
he said to himself, sliding out of bed and heading into the kitchen.  Unlike earlier, he was now able to walk without staggering and speak without slurring.  He couldn’t shake the throbbing in his head, but it started to not bother him. 

Mason pulled open the cabinet door where he kept a few bottles of Vodka and Hennessy.  To his surprise, every bottle was empty.  In fact, everywhere he looked in his kitchen the bottles were empty or gone altogether.
Maybe this is a sign,
he thought ruefully,
maybe God is telling me, ‘Hey, I didn’t keep your step father from raping you but…sober minds save lives;
He chuckled at his own tasteless sarcasm. 

The day was pretty ordinary, and even though he could have just sat in the house and sobered up he decided not to.   Mason figured he’d head down to the shopping center to restock his shelves, and get a few more bottles of what had
magically emptied themselves,
he said to himself. 

The sky was lined with an orange glow as the sun began to set and the breeze was somewhat more refreshing as the sky faded into the deep tones of a day passing.  It was far too nice an evening to take the truck, but it was perfect for a ride.  Despite his throbbing headache Mason reached for his helmet, hopped on his motorcycle, and roared off, leaving his still opened garage and his development behind.  The rolling roar of his loud pipes lingered long after he had gone as the neighbors watched him ride away. 

The shopping center was only about ten minutes east of his home, but a few minutes into the ride he decided not to stop but instead keep riding, taking in the breeze as it blew and cleared the thoughts that rattled his mind.  The sounds of his motorcycle drowned out every noise that surrounded him and for a moment it felt like nothing else in the world mattered.  He didn’t have to think about Sydney, or any part of what he had told her.  It was the first time that day, as he rode beneath overhead streetlights and whizzed past other cars, that he actually felt he was in control.  He pulled up to a stop light at an intersection that seemed to be far less busy than usual.  There were a few cars a block or two ahead of him; others were parked at the restaurant on the corner, but there wasn’t much traffic at all.  His face clenched curiously at a feeling that came over him.  He felt nauseated, and his stomach turned like spiraling silk.  He could almost feel it in is throat, like he was about to vomit. Given the amount of alcohol he had drank, he wasn’t surprised.  He’d had hangovers before, though, and this didn’t feel anything like that.  He blinked, trying to clear the blur that glazed over his eyes.  Looking up at the stoplight for some reason, it was hard to distinguish the red from the green or the green from the yellow.  He rubbed his eyes intensely now, feeling a little drizzle hit his face.  It was starting to rain and he knew that regardless of what he was feeling, he had to get home before it really started to come down.  After clearing his eyes he lifted his head and, just as the light changed from red to green, stepped down into gear and pulled off, picking up speed quickly.  The rain was leaving a few wet spots in the road that he knew he had to avoid as he pulled off.  There was a turn ahead, one no different from any other.  Still shaking the blur that had settled in his vision, he glanced to his left and then his right and leaned into the turn. 

The rain pricked his skin as cars passed beside him like the high-pitched sound of applause.  Mason was lost in a moment that felt endless and another that quickly felt like it was coming to an end. His chest tightened and everything around him froze at a glance, as if movement had stopped.  Then he saw it.  Headlights were speeding towards him before he had any time to react.  The screeching tires of the pickup truck trying to stop blended with the horn the driver was blowing, trying to get his attention, but it was too late.  His vision fluttered like a shuffled deck of cards, black then white, there was a loud crash, and then silence.  The last thing he saw was shards of glass flying across his face and then everything went black.

Mason saw flashes and glimpses in and out of consciousness as he tried to catch his breath.  The ringing in his ears was the only sound that remained the only sound, high pitched and piercing, that reminded him he was still alive past the feeling of his fading heartbeat as it weakly pulsed through him.  His eyes blinked slowly, staring up at the stars peeking through the dark clouds as rain fell through the cracked and shattered face shield of his helmet.  His body convulsed violently and his breaths grew shorter and shorter as blood filled his lungs.  Rain fell on his face but he couldn’t move his hands to wipe the drops away.  He wanted to get up and brush himself off, but he could move his feet to stand.  His eyes raced frantically to the left and right, hoping someone would see him, would run to him and help him back up onto his motorcycle so he could get home.  But there was no one, and he wasn’t getting up; he wasn’t going home.  He was dying, and fear gripped him as tight as the ground that held his body to the earth as his tears blended with the rain that fell down the sides of his face.  There was nothing he could do and nothing he could say.  There was no one he could call and no one that would hear him even if he was able to yell for help.  His life and his death flashed before his eyes, and in it he remembered something his father said to him one day in the hospital. 

“Even in death God has a plan.  Whenever you feel like you are alone, or you just get scared or you feel like giving up…talk to him.  I promise you, he’ll listen.”

Mason felt his last breaths grazing his lips as his eyes searched for someone, anyone, to see him, but there was no one. His eyes fell, still staring into an endless sky in a break between the rain clouds and beyond the stars. 

His mouth barely able to form the words, he pleaded, “God…please…
help me
.”

Chapter 33

The hospital smelled like synthetic, clean death. The fluorescent lights glared against the wall art, providing little to no comfort, and were accompanied by repeats of the evening news on the televisions that always seemed to highlight someone dying or getting hurt.

Sydney paced from one side to the other with her phone glued to her ear. 
Please, please answer the phone,
she wished, calling Jackson for the third time.  She had been trying to reach him all night, but every time she called it went straight to voicemail.  She didn’t know what to do or who else to call.  There was no one else. 
Why isn’t anyone answering?
she wondered.
Do they already know that something happened
?
I
f they
do
, why is no one here?
  She grew frustrated.  Fingers shaking, she dialed the number to Jackson’s office, hoping he’d be there.  By the fourth ring she began to slowly move the phone from her ear, but her attention was grabbed by a rumbling in the receiver.

             
His voice was rushed as he answered, “J.D. Everett, this is Jackson.”

             
Sydney’s face filled with tears as if she were waiting to hear a familiar voice to warrant her emotions.  Deep gasps caught her every word as she tried to speak. 

“Hello?” Jackson said again, pressing the phone to his ear trying to make out a voice.

             
“Jackson, it’s Sydney…”

His throat grew knotted at the sound of her voice.  Everyone in the office had already gone for the day and he had just been preparing to leave himself.  His computer was off, his briefcase was closed on the edge of the desk, and the only light that remained on in his office was the small lamp that dimly lit his desk.  He was slow to sit, unprepared to hear why the tone of her voice was so low and sad. 

He leaned forward with his elbows pressed into the desk, holding the phone to his ear in one hand and his face in the other.  “Is everything okay?”  he asked, knowing it wasn’t.

“No,” she answered faintly, her voice consumed by her tears, “It’s Mason.”

She was at home when she received the call.  A police officer at the scene of the accident had found Mason’s phone on the ground a few feet from where his body was lying.  It had several missed calls from the same number, and an incoming call rang as he held it. It was against protocol, but for some reason he dialed the number back and Sydney answered.  Excited, she thought it was Mason and didn’t give him time to speak or to simply say hello.  She immediately started to apologize for their argument earlier.  She went on and on, until the silence and the commotion, along with what sounded to her like the chatter of a police radio, brought her conversation to a dead stop.

“Mason?” she had asked hesitantly.

The officer froze, more nervous than usual, wishing he hadn’t dialed the number back.  “Ma’am,” he cleared his throat.  “I’m sorry, this is Detective Messick with the Delaware State Police department.  Are you the spouse of Mr. Everett?” he asked. 

Why would he ask her that, and why did he have Mason’s phone?
She thought.  The detective’s question echoed in her head as she fell to the edge of her bed, feeling the pounding of her heart rush to her head.  She couldn’t say no.  She knew if she did he would be reluctant to tell her anything else.  Given the way he had posed the question, she knew something was wrong.  Something terrible had happened. 

Sydney cleared her throat, cutting him off from asking her again, “Yes.  Yes sir, I am.”

The officer moved away from the scene to a more quiet area. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but your husband was involved in an accident.”

“Oh my God!  Is he okay?”

There was no easy way for him to explain the accident, and although he tried to soften the shock of it, there weren’t too many ways to answer her question.

“Ma’am,” he said, “it doesn’t look good.  His motorcycle collided with an oncoming vehicle and he was thrown from it quite some distance.” 

He knew that was more information than he should have shared, but he didn’t want to give her a false sense of hope.  He’d seen many accidents like this before, all of them ending the same way.  From the looks of it, this would be no different.

Sydney’s face drew a blank, pale stare looking through her bedroom window watching the rain from afar.  It felt like someone had pulled the very breath out of her.

“Ma’am?” the officer tried to get her attention, “…Ma’am?”

He could hear her breathing into the phone so he knew she hadn’t hung up, and she could hear him as well but couldn’t form her mouth to say anything. 

A noise was added to the commotion in the background, one that pulled her slightly back into the conversation out of curiosity.

“Is that the medevac?” she heard the officer yell out.

She wondered what they would need a helicopter for.  Medical evacuations were only needed in case of severe emergencies, in case of chance.  In case of–

“Wait… sir…hello….is he–” she began to ask.

“Alive? Yes ma’am, but critical. They are taking him to the hospital now,” he added, speaking over the noise of the propeller.

She jumped from her bed, pushing the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Where are they taking him?”

“Christiana Memorial Hospital,” he answered, and then the call ended.

She didn’t remember hanging up the phone, walking out of her house, or getting in the car.  As she walked into the hospital, though, each step she took was one she was sure she would never forget.  The deathly chill that fell on her as she watched nurses move about from room to room was unnerving.  She wondered if one of them would notice her discomfort, maybe say something to her or comfort her. Instead they walked aimlessly, seeming to be without a care in the world from the lack of expression on their faces.  People were coming in, some barely able to walk, others with cuts and bruises wrapped in homemade bandages. The nurses, who sat devoid of emotion or immediate concern, seemed as if it was normal to them no different than any other day.  That’s how they may have felt, but not Sydney.  She had never been so afraid or so uncertain about anything before. 

She walked towards the registration counter where three nurses sat, hoping one of them would tell her they had it all wrong, that it was all a big mistake and Mason hadn’t been in an accident.  She squeezed her eyes and clenched her hands into fists as tight as she could, praying that when she opened them she would wake from a bad dream. 

“Miss?” she heard one of the ladies call out to her.  “Miss, can I help you?” 

“Um yes –I’m looking for-” 

“Patient’s name?” the nurse cut in, typing into the computer.

“His name is Mason,” she stuttered. “Mason Everett–” 

Sydney was startled by the sound of a slamming door to the right of her. She turned to see what it was, but was nowhere near prepared for what she saw.  The few nurses that were behind the counter rushed towards the elevator doors as they slowly opened.  Sydney’s eyes, fixed on their every movement, followed them as they ran in what felt like slow motion to her.  Her heartbeat blocked out the sound of clipboards falling to the ground, doors banging against the wall, and the urgency of the paramedic calling for a crash cart. 
It was Mason
.
 

They were rushing him into the trauma unit, his body lying lifeless and unresponsive on the stretcher.  She had never seen so much blood in her entire life.  His torn clothes draped his body, stained as if they had been dipped into the dye of roses.

Maybe it’s not him,
she tried to convince herself, glancing through the movements of the doctors and nurses that surrounded him.  She told herself over and over that it wasn’t him, finding a false sense of comfort in hope.  She recognized his shoes but, like everything else, she convinced herself that it was mere coincidence; just because they were the same kind of shoes he would wear didn’t mean it was him.  Within a single blink, her hope dwindled.  She could no longer pray that the officer she had spoken to on the phone had gotten it wrong, and she could no longer convince herself that it wasn’t Mason.  In between the flowing white coats of the doctors around him, she saw him - not all of him, but a part.  Enough of him. His eyes were closed behind the shattered face shield on the helmet that hadn’t yet been removed from his head.  She gasped in what felt like her last breath. 
Open your eyes, Mason, please open your eyes,
she pleaded, watching his body jolt from the paddles they placed on his chest.

She wanted to run to him, grab him, and tell him to wake up, to just get up, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t have moved her legs even if she wanted to.  Within those few minutes, that section of the emergency room had filled with a multitude of people.  Nurses were holding side conversations, some in regard to the accident, and others were discussing the odds of whether he would live or die.  They had seen this far too many times to show an ounce of optimism.  Their faces were full of anticipated death, but Sydney couldn’t, she wouldn’t accept that.   She stood, antsy and frantic in her every movement.  She didn’t know what to do.  She watched nervously as they removed the paddles again and handed them to the doctor standing over Mason. “Clear!” he yelled, sending an endless chill through her entire body.  Her eyes closed as a tear fell down her cheek.  The piercing sound of life slipping away flooded every conversation, ringing phone, and noise that surrounded her.  The once prolonged monotonous beep was content, silencing life itself.  She was watching him die right in front of her, watching whatever life he had left slip through the monotone of that beep. 

She found herself gasping on tears that she couldn’t control. “Please… No… God please, don’t let him go,” she prayed.

The area around Mason was silent in the hope of what would have been nothing less than a miracle.  The doctor pressed into his chest immediately after the shock jolted his body, trying to get the rhythm of his heartbeat to start again.  Sydney hadn’t opened her eyes or stopped praying.  She didn’t know if he would make it, and neither did anyone that stood around him, but she wouldn’t stop praying. 

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep ….beep …beep …beep.

A miracle was exactly what it seemed like - a small window of hope, a chance, and at the very least, time.  His straight line began to peak.  Although his eyes hadn’t opened he was still here, fighting to hold on.