A Shattered Moment Page 5

  Michael retaliated by flicking a spoonful of the brightly colored cereal my way. The small pieces flew in every direction except at me, which made me laugh again.

  “You flick like a bitch,” I mocked him, placing my bowl in the overflowing sink. “By the way, motherfuckers, tomorrow we’re cleaning up this place.”

  Chad flipped me off as he continued to play his game.

  “At least I know you heard me, asshole.”

  “You riding in with me?” I asked Michael as he finished the last of his dry cereal. He and I had met six months ago on the job. He was a cool guy and easy to work with, which was how he ended up moving in with Chad and me at the beginning of term.

  “Hell yes.”

  “Well, then, get your ass in gear. I’m not going to be late because you’re dicking around.”

  “Keep your panties on, Nancy. It’ll only take me a few minutes to change.”

  “You’ve got ten.”

  “Relax. You nag more than my mom.”

  “That’s what she told me last night.”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t understand what your mom was saying ’cause she was too busy swallowing,” he returned, grabbing his crotch.

  “Want me to show you the mark on the wall from your mom’s head banging against it?”

  “Is that the same mark where your mom—”

  “Shut up!” Chad yelled from the living room. “You fuckers are sick. Go to work already.”

  Thirteen-and-a-half minutes later, we headed out the door.

  We made it to work with ten minutes to spare, and I was immediately called out. Michael and I rarely went out on calls together since we were both EMTs and were usually paired with a paramedic.

  Living in Florida, we got the majority of our calls from retirement facilities. When I decided I wanted to be a paramedic, it was for one reason. I wanted to save lives. I was eight when Dad had clutched his chest one evening, complaining of pains. By the time the ambulance arrived at our house with lights flashing, he had stopped breathing. The entire time the paramedics worked over his body, I was convinced he was going to die. They administrated CPR and were able to get him breathing again before transporting him immediately to the hospital, where he underwent triple bypass surgery.

  Those rescuers became my heroes when he pulled through. I knew one day I would do the same thing. I wanted to save people, too, and be the difference in some kid’s life.

  What I had never considered were the instances where I would be unable to make a difference. Sometimes there were circumstances beyond our control—unexpected injuries or internal damage that was just too severe. In my naïve idea of the job, losing people was not something I had banked on. I guess I’d always assumed I’d be a superhero without the cool outfit.

  Our first call of the day was to an elderly couple’s house. The husband greeted us in the driveway, waving his frail hands.

  “It’s my wife,” he said as we climbed from the ambulance. “She lost her balance stepping down off the stepstool and broke her ankle. I tried to help carry her to the car, but I just couldn’t . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Steve, the paramedic on call with me, patted him on the back reassuringly. “Don’t worry, sir. That’s why we’re here. You wouldn’t want to put us out of a job, right?” he asked, guiding the elderly gentleman back into the house. “What’s your name?”

  “Edmund Mazur.”

  “Polish?” Steve asked conversationally as we made our way through the door.

  “Yes. My father and mother came to the United States when I was a wee tike. Young folks nowadays don’t put much stock into where they come from.”

  “Well, sir, my mother would have my head if I did that. Her surname was Wozniak.”

  “Ah, a strong Polish name,” Mr. Mazur said, sounding less distressed.

  Steve was good at his job. He knew having an upset spouse on our hands would only make the situation more difficult. Mr. Mazur’s body language and his statements when we arrived indicated he was upset that he was unable to help his wife. He was a proud man. We’d seen this time and time again—husbands who’d spent years taking care of their families until, eventually, age got the better of them and their bodies simply couldn’t do what their minds still believed possible, like in this case.

  We found Mrs. Mazur on the kitchen floor next to a stepstool that was lying on its side. Mr. Mazur had obviously tried to make his wife as comfortable as possible. She had a pillow tucked under her head and a blanket similar to what my grams would crochet draped over her. Judging by the look on her face, she was in pain.

  Steve and I made quick work of assessing her. While I was taking her vitals and asking questions to see how coherent she was, Steve checked her ankle and prepped her for transport. Before long, we had her loaded up on the stretcher and into the ambulance. After several handshakes and much appreciation from Mr. and Mrs. Mazur, we left them at the hospital in the hands of the capable ER staff. That was my favorite part of the job. We weren’t superheroes like in the comic books, but in Mr. Mazur’s eyes, we had saved the day. It was a heady experience and made me feel invincible. I loved my job.

  “I need some serious grub. You want to grab something to eat before we get called out again?” Steve asked as we both climbed into the ambulance. “I’m so hungry I could eat my own hand.”

  “As long as it’s not Mexican food. I thought I was going to die from gas asphyxiation last week after you ate at that one taco truck.”

  “No doubt. That shit tore me up. I’m steering clear of all beans for a while. It put a serious dent in my social agenda with the wife.”

  “I told you not to eat a double deluxe burrito when you had a date that night. That’s like rule number one in the marriage guidebook.” My sentiments were interrupted by an incoming call coming on the radio. “Looks like you’ll have to gnaw on your hand for a while,” I said as Steve hit the sirens. “Domestic abuse, too. Wonderful.”

  I hated going out on these calls, especially when there were children involved. We got sketchy details from the dispatcher that a Caucasian male in his mid-thirties had been using his wife as a punching bag and she was barely breathing. A neighbor hysterically called it in. Steve and I exchanged looks as he weaved in and out of traffic.

  The house was located in one of the older, less desirable parts of the city. The flashing lights from several police cars illuminated a yard that looked like a trash heap. A broken-down car and moldy couch pretty much took up the entire driveway. The small patch of grass that hadn’t been dug up by the large barking dog chained to a nearby tree was dead and littered with empty beer cans and various other items.

  Climbing from the ambulance, Steve and I both wrinkled our noses from the smell of dog shit. As we unloaded the gurney from the back of our rig, three officers escorted a man with a pockmarked face and wearing a wife-beater tank from the house. He was three sheets to the wind and even in handcuffs wasn’t making their job any easier as he fought against them, yelling slurred obscenities and spitting at anyone in his direction.

  “You have no fucking right to pull me from my house. A man has a right to treat his bitch any way he sees fit!” He hollered at everyone, trying to head-butt the officer who was shoving him into the backseat of the cruiser. “I’m going to fucking shit in the back of your car and smear it all over you,” he called out as the officer slammed the door in his face.

  “Go ahead, asshole. I’ll just hose it off.” The officer shot Steve and me a grim look as we wheeled the stretcher down the sidewalk. “It’s not pretty in there,” he warned us.

  His words couldn’t have been more of an understatement. Stepping into the house, Steve and I both swore at the sight in front of us. There wasn’t anything that didn’t look like it hadn’t been thrown and broken. Glass shards and broken pieces of wood covered every square inch of the floor. Furniture was overturned and tossed around. There were even a couple of chairs protruding from the walls of the small house like the dude had tried t
o bust through them or something.

  Ignoring the mess, Steve and I approached the area where a couple of officers were standing. It was obvious by the looks on their faces that we were too late. Despite that fact, we still had to check to make sure. It was all part of the job. The worst part, which shriveled up a small section of my soul every time we had to do it.

  The coroner had arrived as Steve and I were loading the empty stretcher back into the ambulance. Neighbors stood on their front lawns pointing and gossiping as news station vans cluttered the scene, setting up to report the incident. We slowly pulled away from the broken-down house, feeling grim. No matter how many times you face the no-win scenario, it never gets any easier. So much for feeling like a superhero.

  six

  Mac

  I walked into the library on Monday and spotted Bentley perched on the chair next to where I normally sat. Admittedly, I was surprised to see him again, despite the interest he’d shown in me last Thursday, which I’d basically chalked up to idle chitchat because he had recognized me. I debated turning around and finding a new place on campus to hide out, but frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up the library. After my minor triumph over the steps at the theater on Friday, I’d reached a new level of resolve, promising myself that I would make more of an effort to step out of my comfort zone. Of course, the euphoric high had since worn off, and facing Bentley now had me second-guessing my newly established determination.

  I glanced back over my shoulder at the door. It was mere steps away. I could escape unnoticed—no harm, no foul. My body turned halfway around when the stubborn inner voice that had challenged me at the theater reemerged. Is this really how I want to continue existing in my life? Some guy talks to me and I run away with my tail between my legs and never come back?

  My mind seemed to make the decision for me because I found myself heading toward my chair without giving it another thought. I kept my eyes locked on my destination so the chair was the only thing I could see. My hope was that I could sit down without Bentley noticing. Of course, that was assuming he would even care. He really could be here to study, and all of this nonsense in my head was for nothing.

  Making it to my seat, I made an effort to look busy by pulling out my iPad and a notebook from my backpack.

  “Hey, Mac,” Bentley said over my shoulder.

  I looked up to meet his warm brown eyes, which were as inviting as the smile on his face. Despite my qualms over him invading my space, I nodded and returned my version of a smile. It felt brittle and forced, but it was there nonetheless. I didn’t speak, though. I could get used to him being here, and could even tolerate an occasional smile, but I didn’t want to encourage more conversation if I could help it. He continued studying me intently like he was deep in thought. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was trying to read my mind. That or he was expecting me to say something. If that was the case, he would be in for a long wait. Although part of me was curious as to what he saw looking at me. There had to be some reason for his apparent fascination. It felt different than the normal stares of pity I received. Finally, he looked back to his laptop, breaking our momentary connection. I was free to look away as well, but my eyes remained on him for a few seconds longer before dropping blindly to my iPad. I felt as shaky as I had after I climbed all twenty-nine steps at the movie theater.

  The afternoon bled into early evening without another word being said between us. The seats around us emptied and refilled the entire time, and every so often Bentley would engage in conversation with whoever sat next to us, but never made an effort to include me. I pretended to be hard at work, but found myself unable to truly focus while he talked. His voice wasn’t as painful to hear as it had been on Thursday when the initial shock of seeing him stirred up the demons I wasn’t prepared to face. This time he was intriguing and easy to listen to. He had a bit of a Southern drawl, typical for Florida good old boys. Sometimes the accent became more prevalent, depending on how animated he got. He was easygoing and had a wicked sense of humor, which every so often made my lips quirk before I could stop them.

  Eventually the chairs emptied for good, leaving the two of us alone, and I found myself missing the sound of his voice. I could have looked up, even asked a question that would have started a conversation, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Mackenzie may have never had problems talking with people she just met, but I wasn’t that girl anymore.

  As usual, at seven on the nose, I loaded up my stuff and used my cane to get to my feet. Bentley also stood, like it was the signal he’d been waiting for. My pulse quickened as he followed me out of the library without saying a word. The tentative camaraderie I’d felt earlier turned into creepiness, putting me on edge. I gripped my cane tightly, feeling apprehensive as I pushed through the door and stepped outside. Feeling his hand reach for my elbow, I nearly lost my balance as I whirled around with my cane up, ready to crack him in the head.

  He looked unfazed, smiling as warmly as he had earlier. “Night, Mac,” he said before turning and walking off in the opposite direction of my dorm before I could fully process what had just transpired.

  An unexpected giggle bubbled up my throat. Not only do I not talk to him when he says anything, but now he’s Jack the Ripper because he leaves when I do? It wasn’t exactly the step forward my therapist Tanya was looking for. Not that I would tell her. That bit of paranoia would be better kept to myself. She’d want to put me on anti-anxiety meds again. That was some powerful shit that got me through for a while, but they doped me up too much. I couldn’t handle the loss of control.

  Bentley was long gone by the time I turned toward the direction of the dorms, but thoughts of him clouded my walk the entire time. Judging by the conversations I’d shamelessly eavesdropped on throughout the afternoon, it was pretty clear he was a likable guy. He had the same quick-witted humor that Dan has—had. It was had now. Dan would have liked him. For that matter, my whole crew would have liked him.

  I picked up my pace as much as my leg would allow, finding my dorm building buzzing with activity like always, although it didn’t feel as jarring as other days. Keeping my eyes on the tile floor in front of me, I made my way past the worst part of our building—the common area. The acoustics of the closed-in space only accentuated the laughter and boisterous activity. No one spoke to me as I made my way toward the hallway that led to my room.

  I’d been given a ground floor room for obvious reasons. The only problem was I had to walk through the common living space to get there, which psychologically had become my own long walk of shame. In the beginning, I was worried someone would try to talk to me. Now I wondered what they said about me once I was out of earshot.

  Just a few more steps once I reached my hallway and I would be home free and able to recoup from my overload of interaction. Pushing my door open, I was surprised to find Trina inside our room. I stood awkwardly in the doorway. It had been a few weeks since I’d last seen her, and the tension between us rippled in the air like heat on a summer day.

  “Oh, hey.”

  She looked at me incredulously, surprised that I had spoken to her. I felt bad. It wasn’t like Trina was a hard person to live with. It was me who was the issue. Unfortunately, the right words to tell her where I was coming from failed to surface. My silence led to our initial discomfort then moved to near hostility the more distant I became.

  “Hey,” she finally answered, zipping up the duffel bag she had stuffed with clothes. I moved to the side as she headed toward the door. The words to tell her she didn’t need to keep sleeping somewhere else were on the tip of my tongue, refusing to cooperate. I stood by as she swept past me with one last look of uncertainty. The door closed softly behind her, leaving me standing in the center of my room alone.

  Ordinarily I thrived on solitude. The privacy and the lack of staring from others gave me the only opportunity I had to feel free to be me. Tonight the silence felt heavy. I would fill the void the way I always did with either music
or a show on my iPad, but tonight that seemed like a poor substitution for human interaction. It was as if listening to Bentley all afternoon had opened a small window into my soul. The interaction may not have been directed at me, but it felt nice to listen to conversations that had nothing to do with the accident. I realized I wanted more of that. If I was honest with myself, what I really wanted was more Bentley.

  Shrugging it off, I changed into my robe and grabbed my caddy before heading to the showers. Communal showers in the dorm weren’t the ideal situation for me, but I had no other choice. I tried to go at obscure times when they would be less crowded, but there always seemed to be at least one or two people there. I did what I had to do and got out of there as quickly as possible.

  Fifteen minutes later I sat on my bed with damp hair balancing a plastic bowl of Easy Mac on my leg while I searched my iPad for something to watch.

  There were plenty of places to dine on and off campus, but going to any of them was always out of the question. Mom and Dad would probably freak when they found out I was pretty much living on ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese rather than the meal plan ticket they bought me when I enrolled. The card was still sitting in my wallet brand spanking new. I figured eventually the shit would hit the fan, but I’d already made it two full months without them catching on.

  After several minutes of scrolling listlessly through the selection of available shows, I clicked out of the Netflix app and tossed my iPad to the side. I stared pensively at nothing as I finished the last of my dinner. The loneliness I’d been fighting crept in like a stalker. I wanted to talk to someone. I debated calling Mom, but inevitably that conversation wouldn’t go the way I wanted it to.

  I picked up my iPad again and glared apprehensively at the e-mail icon, unsure of what I wanted to do as I gnawed at the corner of my thumbnail. Clicking it would most likely lead to disappointment. If I was smart, I would just put it away. As if I ever did anything smart anymore, I proceeded to scroll through a short list of e-mails searching for one particular response that I knew wouldn’t be there. Only two legit e-mails remained after I dumped the spam. The first was from UCF about registration for spring semester, and the second from the lawyer handling the accident case, informing me that a court day had finally been scheduled. I was surprised Mom hadn’t called me on that one, but then I remembered my phone was still on silent from when I was at the library.