Roswell Fanatics

Winner - Round 5







Author: Dee

Couple: M/L

Rating: Adult

Disclaimer: I do not own Roswell or any characters. Would I be writing fanfiction if I did? Duh.

Summary: This story is based on a challenge by Lillie. The plot is loosely taken from a movie called Regarding Henry. If you haven't seen it you should. Harrison Ford was absolutely brilliant in this role.



Prologue

Damned smug son of a bitch!

This is the thought that permeates my brain as I watch my husband of ten years lift his wine glass to his lips. The dinner table is silent, as usual, save for the gentle clink of our silverware against the china. He knows that I’m watching him, but he successfully ignores my iron stare, feigning absorption in the legal briefs spread out before him on the table. Bastard!, I mentally curse again in a flash of angry pain, but this time my indignation isn’t for myself.

I slide my gaze to Katie. Our daughter is slumped down low in her chair, pushing her carrots about her plate with the tip of her fork, her expression sullen. But her eyes, golden and deep, so incredibly intense like her father’s, are begging for recognition, begging for his attention. I glare down the length of the table once more, unable to hold my tongue any longer. “Max!” I say sharply, startling everyone at the table, even myself, “You haven’t spoken two words to Katie or me since you came home.”

He looks at me then and I’m pinned. Suddenly, it all comes flooding back to me in those breathless seconds. The very reason I fell in love with this smug son of a bitch in the first place. Those eyes of his are lethal. To look into them is to fall and fall hard. Even cold and annoyed as they are presently their stunning beauty manage to steal my breath. God, I love him still…

“Elizabeth,” Max begins and his tone alerts me to the fact that he is quite infuriated by my interruption, “I am closing tomorrow. My client is facing 20 years to life in prison. I think that takes precedence over small talk at the dinner table.” He lowers his eyes again and at that point we are dismissed. We no longer exist for him.

Katie slumps lower in her seat, only a few more scoots and she will be completely under the table. I have the urge to hide there myself. But I’ve made up my mind now and there can be no turning back this time. I’m not content to bear his indifference in silence any longer. I want to provoke him, antagonize him, probably because he’s done so to me for so long now and I have finally, finally had my fill. “You spend all day at the office, Max,” I accuse him softly, “When do you plan to make time for your family?”

At this point even Katie knows I’ve pushed him too far. She looks at me with round eyes as if to say, “Now you’ve really put your foot in it, Mom.” It’s that look that makes me want to cower more than anything. I’m actually shaking. I grip my silverware so tightly that my knuckles go white, but I can’t turn back now. I won’t.

This time Max doesn’t even bother to lift his head in response to my comment but I can hear the irritation vibrating in his voice when he grinds out, “If you insist on continuing these interruptions, Liz, I’ll just go back to the office.”

“Wasn’t that your plan all along?” I counter softly.

That’s when he loses his temper completely. Max slams his hand down against the table hard enough to rumble the plates and china. The sound reverberates through the dining room causing both Katie and I to jump. “Damn it, Liz, what the hell do you want from me?” he demands fiercely.

This is the opening I’ve been waiting for all night. I’ve got to seize my chance now before my cowardice overcomes me. I turn to Katie, who is fairly cringing by this point and stammer, “Baby, why don’t you take your dinner to your room, okay?” She’s more than happy to go. I can hear a relieved sigh leak from her chest as she passes me. But when she’s gone I regret her absence and battle the gutless need to call her back. It’s a few seconds before I can work up the courage to look at Max again and when I do it’s to find that he is glaring at me almost hatefully. I swallow several times before I whisper, “I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t swear in front of Katie, Max--,”

“Liz--,”

“She doesn’t understand when we fight,” I finish stubbornly.

Max kneads his temples in a gesture of weariness. I understand the feeling. It seems I have been carrying that same weariness inside me for the last seven years. I am tired now. Bone tired. And I’ve lost hope, in myself, in us, …and the frightening thing is…so has Max. We have been going through the motions for so long. He isn’t any happier than I am. “God, Liz, what the hell do you want from me?” he mutters again.

I don’t hold anything back at this point. I can’t. Not anymore. “A divorce,” I tell him, shaking a little at the tide of relief that washes through me.

Now it is finally over.

Chapter 1

The silence that follows my statement is stomach churning. I think I have actually shocked Max into speechlessness. He only sits there, blinking those expressive eyes at me like a lost little boy. For a moment I am struck by the sooty thickness of his lashes, almost as if seeing them for the first time. And then he frowns slightly, as if he can’t quite believe what I just said to him. Maybe he thought that he’d be the one asking for a divorce when the time came. Hah, hah, I crow mentally. “You’re asking me for a divorce?” he repeats blankly. His eyes are still blinking rapidly.

I take a gulp of my wine then. It’s not to fortify my nerves, though. I want to be numb. It’s the only way I’ll make it through, the only way I’ll stick completely to my convictions. I have to be numb for this, after all, throwing away ten years isn’t easy even if a good portion of it was misery. But that’s not the only reason. His eyes are boring into me, seducing me, weaving their magical spell even at that second. Yes, I need to be numb for this. Otherwise, I’ll fall into his eyes again and it will be all over. “You’re not happy,” I state with quiet force, “neither am I.”

“You want a divorce,” he says again as if I’m speaking a foreign language.

I actually want to laugh. Surely, he’s not surprised! He had to be expecting this day would come. We have been walking about each other like strangers for months now, years really… Why prolong the agony any longer? Did he really want to? I grab the neck of the wine bottle and replenish my glass, hardly looking at him. “Why are you acting so stunned,” I scoff, “I know you want this. I don’t even know you anymore, Max.”

His staggered expression gradually fades from his features and is replaced with a thoughtful frown. God, even when he’s calculating he’s beautiful. He chews pensively at his lower lip, his honey eyes keen and penetrating as he stares at me. “You don’t think you’re being a little extreme?”

I take another gulp of wine. The alcohol has gone straight to my head with no food to slow its absorption into my bloodstream. Finally, I can feel the numbness. It is flooding its way into my chest, seeping through my limbs. I feel quite mellow, more in control as the minutes wear on. “You’re cheating on me, Max,” I declare almost triumphantly. I can’t help but be filled with satisfaction when his face freezes in shock once again. “Did you think I didn’t know?” I demand caustically, “I guess you’re not so good at keeping secrets as you thought you were, Max.” God, what a sick, twisted game I’m playing, but I need this…I need to gut him just as he’s gutted me.

I can see the fear cloud his eyes even from the distance that separates us. I can almost hear him mentally calculating the alimony and child support he will have to shell out, not to mention the very sizable settlement that will likely be decided in my favor. To see him cowering before me was heady and saturated me with an insane sense of glee. But with the glee comes shame, shame that I now derive just as much pleasure from hurting the man before me as I once had when making him happy. Look how far we’ve fallen…

“I don’t think you want this, Liz,” he says in an almost velvet tone, seductive even. He smiles slightly while patting his breast pocket for the packet of cigarettes he keeps there. For the last three months he’s been struggling to quit. I know he only smokes now when he’s agitated. He’s been agitated about his latest case and that agitation just increased by half I’m sure. He casually removes one cigarette and brings it to his lips, lighting it in one deft motion. After taking a single, leisurely drag he says to me, “I can end the affair if that’s what you want.”

“I want a divorce,” I state again. I can feel myself grow more powerful with each reiteration of the statement.

He shakes his head and takes another nervous puff off his cigarette. “No,” he denies, “You can’t want this, Liz, if for no other reason than Katie. It would destroy her.”

“You destroy her every day with your indifference, Max,” I reply calmly, “It ends now.”

He’s visibly trembling now and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing…and crying, too. It’s at that moment that it hits me that we have truly come to the end, that we are finally over. “You won’t get a fucking penny from me!” he swears, stabbing his finger at me furiously, “Not. One. Damned. Dime! Fuck!” I watch him fumble with his cigarette packet. He curses viciously when he finds it empty. I regard him serenely as he loses his composure. My smug silence doesn’t escape his attention. He glowers at me. “I need some more smokes,” he states as he rises from the table, “We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

“My answer won’t change.” I don’t even look at him as he shrugs into his overcoat.

As usual he ignores me. “When I get back, Elizabeth,” he enunciates again and then he’s gone. He doesn’t take his house keys. He never does.

For some reason that small detail does me in. I lose it. My chest is heaving so hard with the force of my sobs that I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. I can’t stop the palsied shaking of my body. Did I really just do that? Did I really just trash my marriage? I can’t believe how much this hurts. Pain is the last thing I expected. But then why would I expect it not to hurt…I am severing a portion of my heart.

Even hating him as I do now I can’t separate him from the man I fell in love with, young, ambitious, and ready to set the world on fire. I had loved his devil may care ways, his do or die spirit. He had swept me away… At the time I had believed we would hold on to that feeling forever, that we’d always be swept away, floating... That’s what I mourned for now…that swept away feeling is gone and my heart feels cold and barren without it.

“Mommy?”

I’m not surprised to see Katie standing there. She’s too inquisitive for her own good. Eight years old and completely precocious. Sometimes she’s more young woman than little girl. It hurts to look at her now because it’s her father’s face I see staring back at me. Only the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks lends any facial similarity between us. But then her personality…that’s completely me. My Katherine Elizabeth wears her heart on her sleeve as Grandma Claudia always used to say. Yes, she is most definitely my daughter.

I motion her closer and she creeps from the shadows like a wounded animal. “Is Daddy gone?” she whispers, climbing into my lap. She’s much too big for this now, but I can’t deny her this small pleasure, not when she’s hurting so much.

I stroke the shining length of her long, dark hair, nuzzling against her temple. She smells sweet, like strawberries. “He’ll be back soon,” I tell her and she goes absolutely rigid in my arms, “But you can stay with me until then.”

“I think I hate him,” she murmurs, so low I can barely hear her, but I do and it’s impossible to miss the confusion in her small voice.

Her words break my heart, not because her feelings are so unfair but because they’re so justified. Still I admonish, “Shh, don’t say that.”

She turns her face into my chest and whimpers. “Why doesn’t he love us, Mommy?”

What’s left of my heart crumbles into dust. How many times have I asked myself the very same question? He loved us once. Once we had been the center of his world. I can still remember mornings waking up to his laughter and tender kisses, his electric heat and how he would whirl Katie in circles until she squealed with laughter. And then he had made partner at his firm and it had all changed. His promotion was supposed to be our big break, but it was what eventually broke apart our family. Max worked more and more and we saw him less and less until we didn’t see him at all, until we didn’t know him at all.

But even as I’m immersed in my swamping confusion, my self-doubt, my aching loneliness, I struggle to reassure my daughter. “Daddy loves us, Katie-kins,” I whisper past my tears, “He does…”

I don’t think I convince her. Despite whispered assurances she cries herself to sleep in my arms anyway. I understand her pain perfectly. I’m crying as well even though I’m the one who’s set this whole situation in motion. I carry my sleeping daughter back to her bedroom and lay her beneath her covers. She hardly stirs. I smile to myself as she snuggles deeper into the blankets before falling still once more.

For a moment, I stand there and watch her silently. She’s so achingly beautiful I feel fresh tears begin in my eyes. She is the only real joy I have in my life now. I can finally admit to myself that what I shared with her father is dead. It has been for a long time. I’ve let go enough to grieve now. Finally, I bend to brush a kiss across her cheek and I wipe away the remnants of my tears before trudging off for the dining room.

The debris from our dinner is spread out across the table, cold and forgotten. Knowing the direction my conversation with Max would take I had given Rosa, our housekeeper, the night off. Looking at the uneaten food before me I regret that decision greatly now. But I decide to look at the matter positively. At least if I’m cleaning I won’t have time to think. I roll up my sleeves and dig into the housework with newfound eagerness.

By the time I am finally done putting away all the food, washing and drying the dishes, and straightening the dining room I am thoroughly exhausted. It’s the most housework I’ve done in six years, still I feel oddly refreshed and pleased with myself. Only when I flop down onto the sofa does it strike me to look at the clock. Nearly two hours have gone by. Max still isn’t home. I snort to myself. Big surprise, I think caustically, he’s probably taken up with his whore. So much for talking.

That’s when I realize what I have been subconsciously doing. I’ve been waiting up for him. Despite my conviction that he would not change my mind I’ve been waiting up in the hopes that he would come back and try. I curse myself, realizing how ridiculously weak I am when it comes to him.

Heaving myself from the sofa I lope off for the dining room once more. As I reach out to click off the lights the doorbell suddenly sounds. Immediately, my heart begins a wild tap dance in my chest. I whirl for the door, flooded with relief at the prospect that Max had come home after all. “How many times have I asked you to remember your keys?” I ask in annoyance as I pull open the door.

But it isn’t Max who is waiting for me on the other side.

Chapter 2

Two uniformed officers stand on my porch. Immediately, a curious trill of fear trickles down my spine at the sight of them. My annoyance is quickly replaced by another nameless emotion, one that makes me feel as if my heart has plunged into my stomach.

One look at their faces tells me they didn’t come bearing good news. I can’t help it. In that second I completely zone out, focusing beyond their shoulders to the large tree in the middle of my yard. I am thirteen years old again and standing behind my mother as she is told by uniformed officers that her husband has just been involved in a fatal car crash. So, yes, I know what this means. I’ve seen the expressions before…the night they came and told us that my father was dead.

I can’t hear it now, not about Max. Because, God, he was just here. He was real. Even now I can smell his damned cologne. The unique spicy scent mingled faintly with the smell of tobacco. He couldn’t be dead, not when hours earlier he was so vibrantly alive. He had filled this house with his presence, crackled the atmosphere with it. Surely magnetic personalities like that didn’t just burn out. All this plays out in my mind as they stand there, searching desperately for a way to begin while I pretend they don’t exist at all. I simply can’t accept their presence right now.

It’s begun to snow, I realize, not heavily, but a light drizzle of large, delicate flakes.
I am hardly aware of the bitter cold biting into my cheeks and hands. The fierce winter wind whistles through the eyelets of my thick blue sweater but I am impervious. I can only stand there and grip the doorknob like some pathetic lifeline, waiting for them to say aloud the conclusion I have already formed in my head. And the last thing I said to him was that I wanted a divorce…

Finally, the silence is broken and I actually jump. I’ve been doing a stellar job of make believing that they are invisible. The officers press on bravely despite my blank reaction to their presence. “Are you Mrs. Maxwell Evans?” one of them asks gravely.

For a moment I consider lying. They can’t tell me the truth if they don’t know who I am, can they? Crazy thoughts, I know, but I am feeling quite crazy right now. However, there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable. What isn’t said aloud I still know for certainty in my heart. Something has happened to Max, something bad… And I sent him to it.

The guilt threatens to crush my chest as I nod jerkily, absolutely positive that the next words out of his mouth will confirm that I’m a widow. The officer’s gaze skitters away, probably because my eyes are silently begging him not to tell me what he has come here to say. He clears his throat. “Mrs. Evans, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Is there someone at home with you right now?”

“There’s my daughter--,” I manage hoarsely. My mouth has gone completely arid. I can hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears. Weakly, I grip the doorknob, my lifeline, but I can feel the room begin to spin. I don’t know how long I will be able to remain upright.

“Is there an adult here with you?” the officer persists. He peers around me into the house.

“My husband’s dead, isn’t he?” I state almost mechanically. I just want them to say it, just do it already. Rip my heart out with the truth. The agony, the anticipation for the news is gradually driving me to the edge. I know it isn’t like Max to stay out all evening, not even if he’s furious. And these police officers wouldn’t be at my door if he were with his girlfriend, would they? I swallow several times, forcing the words from my throat. “Was it a car accident,” I rasp, “Are the roads icy…is that--,”

“Your husband’s not dead, Mrs. Evans,” the officer informs me with a slight sigh of relief. It coincides with mine. Only then do I realize that I have been holding my breath. I actually wilt against the doorframe. Later, I will probably puzzle over my extreme gratitude that God has spared the man that I, not two hours earlier, claimed to hate. But something else requires my immediate attention at the moment. Surely these officers haven’t decided to pay a social call to my door. My body tenses once again. I know the news is still bad and the officer confirms it with his next words, “There was a robbery at a convenience store a few blocks from here,” he continues gravely, “A scuffle ensued with the gunman and shots were fired. Your husband was shot in the chest and head at point blank range. I’m sorry.”

Gunman. Shot. Chest and head. Point blank range. The words revolve around in my head with ominous implication. My body is numb once more, but my mind is working at a fevered pitch. I can only form one coherent thought in my head, one irrefutable fact. Max is hurt and he needs me. My response is as it has always been when it comes to him. There is no hesitation, no deliberation. My automatic desire is to be near him. “Where is he now,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the whipping wind.

“He’s been taken to Mt. Moriah Medical Center,” the officer tells me, “We can take you there in the squad car.”

“I can’t,” I protest, feeling dizzy once more, “my daughter…” I sway against the door and the officer who has yet to speak reaches out to steady me.

“Is there someone we can call?” he asks in concern.

I shake my head. I’m in a fog. Nothing seems real. It’s like I’m walking in a dream. I’m still glancing down the snow covered walk expecting Max to come striding in from the darkness. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

I realize then the implication of what the officers have told me. Max has been shot, wounded in the chest and head. Heart and brain. Fatal injuries. Fatal. I wonder if Max will die after all. Die with his last thoughts being that I didn’t want him anymore. Oh god. I lift eyes that reflect the hollowness within my heart to the officer holding me. “Is my husband going to die?”

“I don’t know, maam,” he replies and I have to appreciate his honesty. No guarantees. The thought causes me to choke out a sob. The officer’s eyes darken with concern as he steadies me on my feet and then releases me. “Are you sure there’s no one we can call for you?”

Again I shake my head, this time stepping back from the door and closing it with a soft click. I feel frozen and not from the arctic weather, but from my own guilt. It’s stampeding through my body now, threatening to immobilize me. I am uncertain as to what my next move should be. I stand staring at the door dumbly, as if I expect for it to spout forth some age-old wisdom. How long do I stand there, drowning in fear, in sorrow, in guilt? Finally something jars me, maybe the urgency of the situation, but my faculties suddenly kick back into motion and I rouse from my staggered state.

I need to get to the hospital. Immediately. But I can’t leave Katie alone. I definitely can’t take her to the hospital with me…not when the chance is likely that Max won’t live out the night. God, don’t think like that, I snap to myself, don’t think like that.

I’m on the phone dialing a number even before I’ve fully made up my mind about what I want to do. Maria picks up on the fifth ring. Thank God! “’Lo,” she says with a tinkling giggle. In the background I can hear the unmistakable sound of a baritone voice. Maria has company, but this isn’t new.

I clutch the phone tightly. It’s the only way I can maintain control on my brimming emotions. My world is beginning to spin. I steady myself against the solid oak end table and croak, “Maria?”

“Liz, babe, I thought you would have called way before now,” Maria trills into my ear and then I hear her say to her company, “Paul, baby, be a sweetie and go get me something to drink.” There is a long pause and I imagine she is waiting for him to leave the room. In the commencing seconds I feel as if I might scream. And then Maria says, “So did you tell your lying no good prick of a husband off already?”

“Maria, there’s been an accident,” I whisper hoarsely. My shaking has increased by now, not just my body, but also my entire world. I can barely hold the phone against my ear.

“God, Lizzie, are you alright?”

“I need you to come watch Katie for me,” I continue and I’m beginning to sob now. Yes, it has finally hit me. “Please, come Maria. I need you.”

Chapter 3

It doesn’t take Maria long to arrive. She uses the key I’ve given her to let herself inside. I am sitting in the middle of the living room on the floor, numb, blown away. She stoops down before me and brushes my disheveled hair back from my tear stained face. I stare at her blankly. “Lizzie, tell me what’s happened,” she whispers urgently and the naked concern on her face unravels me. I just dissolve into tears against her shoulder.

She’s quiet, only strokes my hair in silence as I cry it out. It’s strange. I’ve never appreciated having Maria as a sister before. She’s always been wild, irresponsible, totally reckless. My polar opposite. I have never leaned on her for anything ever. Until now. I’ve spent my entire life bailing her out of one jam after another. How ironic that she’s the first person I turn to when my life is falling to pieces.

Finally, when my sobs quiet down she pulls back from me slightly. “Did that bastard hit you or something,” she grinds out fiercely, “because I swear to God I’ll--,”

“Max is in the hospital,” I croak, silencing her tirade before it can begin, “He was shot tonight.” I explain to her in dull tones the night’s events and I can tell from the look on her face that she already knows that I blame myself.

“Lizzie, don’t--,”

“If I hadn’t blindsided him tonight he would have never left, ‘Ria,” I sniff as I struggle to my feet. She tries to help me but I shrug her away. “I did this.” She opens her mouth to come to my defense but I can’t hear that right now. I need to get to Max. He is all I can think about. “I called the hospital,” I tell her, grabbing my coat from the hall closet, “He’s in surgery now. I need to go to him. Will you drive me?”

Thankfully, Katie sleeps through the entire drive. I’m not one for conversation and the entire ride to the hospital is made in eerie silence. Knowing Maria she wants to ask me a million questions right now, but knowing me she realizes I won’t answer a single one. It’s not my intention to be taciturn. I can’t possibly form a sentence right now. The furious pounding of my heart drowns out my thoughts.

My palms sweat. I rub them against the thighs of my black slacks. So much for control. I’ve lost it all now. I guess God’s the one who’s laughing now. Though I massage my aching temples nothing eases the headache that is slowly building between my eyes.

The moment the hospital comes into view I sit up straight in my seat. Maria doesn’t even stop the car completely before the entrance before I throw myself from the seat and run straight for the sliding doors. I can hear Maria calling behind me but I don’t stop and I don’t look back.

Inside the hospital I grab for the first hapless nurse that crosses my path. Within minutes I am in the elevator on my way up to the fourth floor. I am led to a small waiting room by one of the staff nurses and told to wait there. There’s a line of chairs against the wall but I don’t sit. I can’t. Instead I prowl the room from end to end like a caged tiger.

Hours, days, months seem to go by before I finally hear, “Mrs. Evans?” I jerk up my head but I don’t say anything. A middle aged man has called my name, a middle aged man dressed in green scrubs. Is this Max’s doctor, I wonder, have I just pulled him out of surgery?

He must recognize the haunted expression in my eyes because he introduces himself. “My name is Dr. Kadaffey. I’m the operating surgeon on your husband’s case.”

That’s it. Max is a case now. Something broken that is in need of fixing. It’s funny and disconcerting the thoughts that ramble through your mind when your world is exploding. “How is he?” I ask. I’m surprised by how unused my voice sounds and feels. My question comes out as more of a croak. I clear my throat.

“We’re doing all that we can to repair the damage done by the bullets,” he begins and quickly launches into a visual and verbal description of what damage has been done. I listen to him dully, my ears ringing while I absorb the implication of what he is saying. Ironically, it’s not the bullet in Max’s brain that has done the most damage. That actually hit in a portion of Max’s brain that he could stand to lose, if you could stand to lose a part of your brain. No, it is the bullet near Max’s heart that is causing the trouble. It has punctured an artery and collapsed his lung. Oxygen is not flowing freely to his brain.

When the doctor finishes I am pale, freezing with shock. He must realize he has overloaded me because he asks, “Is there someone here with you, Mrs. Evans?” I shake my head numbly. “Can I have one of the nurses call someone for you?” Why does everyone keep asking me that? I want to scream at the world that I can stand on my own two feet! Dammit!

“No, I’m fine,” I lie and it’s such an obvious lie as well.

“Well, I’ve got to get back into surgery,” Dr. Kadaffey explains, “I’ll keep you updated as to what’s going on.”

When he is gone I finally sink into a chair. I don’t think my legs can bear me up anymore. So now I have the truth. Not only is Max still in critical condition but he might very well suffer some brain damage as well. God, and look how hatefully I’d reacted to him during our last conversation. Look how hateful he’d been to me. Would he die with that between us? I pull my knees up into the chair and hug them against my chest. And then I just cry. Cry for the love that was lost between us, cry for myself and for my Katie, who might very well never know her father the way I once knew him.

I don’t know how long I sit there crying before I feel a hand touch my shoulder. I look up. “Mom?”

“I brought you some clothes,” she says, hoisting an overnight bag into the empty seat next to me, “I assumed you’d be staying all night.”

She sits down next to me while I stare at her in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Maria called me.”

I have to quirk my lips at that one before pausing to rummage through the bag. Mom’s thought of everything, right down to my toothbrush and a book to read. I offer her a weak smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper sincerely.

“I might have been here sooner if that girl had--,”

“Mom, don’t start,” I moan before she can launch into her latest “Maria” tirade.

My mother and Maria never speak to each other. Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme but not too far off the mark. There is definitely no love loss between the two. My mother has always been too busy resenting Maria for being the by-product of an affair my father had early in their marriage. And Maria has always resented my mother for being the woman Daddy chose to stay with. Ridiculous, I think, because the only one to have complete control over the situation had been Daddy and neither of them would blame him for anything.

God knew I had loved my father, but he’d been no saint. Maybe that was why I found it so easy to love Max, despite his flawed personality. I could see past all the bullshit, see deep down to the man I knew he wanted to be. I guess that’s why it’s so hard for me to let go of him now. I could still see that man…and I still loved him. “Did Maria tell you everything?” I ask softly, lowering my eyes.

“Only bits and pieces,” my mother answers. She reaches forward and tucks my hair back around my ears like she did when I was a little girl. I can’t help but smile and be comforted by the simple gesture. “I could barely get a straight answer out of that girl,” my mother continues. Her tone is cross now. “She was all over the place. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was doing drugs just like her mother.”

I have to roll my eyes at this. “Maria isn’t doing drugs, Mom.”

“Well, she’s working down at that dive…” Mom argues, “Heaven knows what happens out there.”

Maria, my little sister, is a stripper. Correction, she’s an exotic dancer. Maria has drilled that into my head enough times to get it right. I’ve been down to her club once or twice, The Gentleman’s Paradise it’s called, to see her dance. She’s actually quite good. Of course, I’ve never told my mother this or Max for that matter. They both would raise holy cane if they knew. “Mom, I really can’t take it if you start badmouthing Maria right now,” I say firmly, but tiredly. I’m not up for being put in the middle of their dysfunctional relationship.

“Fine, fine,” my mother mutters, but I can see from her expression that she wants to say more.

Despite my mother’s outward coldness towards Maria I know that she cares. She doesn’t want to. Maria is like a living, breathing reminder to my mom that her marriage to Dad was far from perfect, no matter how she tries to make it out as such. Still, she likes to pretend. She paints Dad as some tragic hero fallen into the clutches of a villainous woman and taken advantage of. What she can’t admit is that my dad got drunk one night at his best friend’s bachelor party and then proceeded to screw the hired stripper’s brains out.

Amy DeLuca. God, what a bane that woman had been. I know my father was sorry for the transgression. Not because I saw firsthand. I was only a baby when it happened. No, I watched my father spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to my mother. He never touched alcohol after that. I remember asking him one day why he didn’t drink. He had sat me down on his knee and given me the exact truth. By that time Maria wasn’t a secret to me. She practically lived with us with her mother in and out of rehab so much.

And then Dad had been killed suddenly in a traffic accident. A drunk driver had crossed over the freeway median and hit my dad’s car head on. They had both died on impact. The authorities said that my father never felt a thing. Even today the bitter thought, “How the hell would they know?” resides in my heart. They don’t. They don’t know what my father’s last thoughts were at that moment. Was he thinking about Mom and me and Maria in those fleeting seconds or was he regretting a lifetime full of mistakes? I wish I knew.

I don’t want Max to die that way. I don’t want him regretting our life together. I don’t want my last memories of him to be intertwined with bitter feelings. The tears start again in my eyes, but I brush them away mutinously. My mother pulls me awkwardly into her arms and croons into my hair. “Have you called his family yet?” I pull back in stunned surprise. The thought hasn’t even entered my mind. “Here take my calling card,” my mother says, rummaging around in her purse, “and go call them.” She hands me the plastic card. “I’ll come and get you if the doctor comes.”

God, I love my mother. She’s my rock, my anchor. I wouldn’t be able to function without her. I accept her calling card with a weak, grateful smile and shuffle out into the hospital corridor. I walk around blindly until I finally find a payphone. Like earlier that evening I slip into another stuporous state. I stand there staring at it as if I expect for it to begin speaking. It’s a few minutes before I work up the nerve to call Max’s parents.

They aren’t home which I don’t find surprising. I get their machine but I decide not to leave a message. Somehow, it doesn’t seem appropriate to leave such life altering information as a message. I’ll call back later, though I doubt I’ll have much success then either.

Max’s parents have been absentee from his life pretty much all his life. He has always been very bitter about it. I’ve even seen him cry because of it. That is the very reason his indifferent attitude towards Katie infuriates me so. He knew exactly how it felt to be ignored and abandoned by a parent and yet he inflicted that same pain on Katie despite that firsthand knowledge.

Stop it! Stop it, I order myself firmly! This isn’t the time to be angry. Max is who he is. I knew that when I married him. His baggage had been plain to see, but I had accepted him into my life with open arms despite that. It had touched me when he cried, that he shared with me the vulnerable portion of his heart that he had never let anyone else see. Only me. God, there are a million reasons why I still love him. What is sad is that there are just as many reasons why I hate him, too.

Clearing my head of those morose thoughts, I dial up his sister. Isabel is on California time so I know she isn’t in bed yet. She picks up on the second ring.

“Isabel,” I say and my voice is shaky. I hate that. I don’t want to alarm her needlessly.

“Liz?” she squeals and I can hear the excitement in her voice because I have called. It’s been a while since we last spoke with each other, nearly three months. Too long. “How are you? How are my niece and my idiot brother?”

She sounds so happy I almost want to lie to her. “I-I called your parents--,” I stammer. I’m stalling, I know, but I just can’t plunge in. Not with Isabel, his sister, his twin, the one person in the world who means as much to him as Katie and me.

Isabel snorts a laugh. “Daddy’s officially on a business trip in Italy, but everyone really knows he’s dallying with his latest mistress,” she laughs, “and Mother…well, she’s decided to treat herself to a European shopping spree as consolation.” She scoffs bitterly. “You know how they are. Why are you looking for them anyway?”

I grip the phone tighter, closing my eyes against what I have to say. Just do it, quick and painless, like ripping off a band-aid. “Isabel, Max has been hurt,” I rush out, “He’s been shot.”

“Shot?” Isabel repeats blankly, “Liz, you’re not making sense.”

She’s not processing what I’m telling her. It’s obvious in her tone. I try again. “There was a robbery at a convenience store not far from our house,” I explain hoarsely, “Somehow Max got in the middle and he was shot.”

Her next words fire at me, taut with fear. “Is it bad?”

I swallow deeply before I answer. “I think you should come out here.” I rattle off the hospital where we are and the directions.

I hear her sharp intake of breath and I know she’s on the verge of tears. “I’ll catch the next flight out,” she says and then the phone goes dead.

I replace the earpiece back in its cradle and walk away only to dissolve into fresh tears right in the middle of the corridor.

Chapter 4

“What will you tell Katie?”

I stare down at my mother from my perch in the windowsill then quickly avert my gaze. She is sitting in a chair just beyond Max’s hospital bed and to look at her is to look at him and I can’t bear to do that right now. If I look at him again I will cry and if I cry again this time I will never, never stop. But despite my determination my eyes are drawn to him regardless, almost compelled and as I look at him the full shock rolls over me once more.

There are endless tubes weaving out of his body, tubes for blood, for medication, for breathing. His vital signs are being monitored closely as well, his heartbeat and brain activity especially. He had arrested twice on the operating table. His doctor had asked me point blank if I wanted him resuscitated in the event it happened again. I had wanted to strangle him in that moment. It was clear that Dr. Kadaffey didn’t expect Max to live out the night.

Looking at him now I can understand the reasoning. Max’s complexion is waxy, almost gray. His body is completely still, his chest rising and falling in a jerky pattern helped along by his respirator. He can’t breath on his own now, with his one collapse lung. But he has brain activity and that’s a good thing, I tell myself firmly. That’s a good thing.

But as my eyes travel up to his face I don’t know if I can fool myself to the reality. It looks as if death has settled over him already, hovering there and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I know I won’t sleep a moment tonight. I’m too afraid that Max will slip away while I’m not watching.

I am so caught up in my thoughts that I almost miss my mother’s tentative question completely. The instant it registers I am struck with an intense feeling of shame. Katie hasn’t been more than a passing thought for me in hours. I stare down at the toes of my shoes. “I can’t tell her what’s going on,” I whisper hoarsely, “Not yet…” Not ever, my mind silently screams.

“She’s going to wonder where you are, Liz.”

Leave it to my mother to always state the obvious. I sigh and level her with a frosty glare. She can’t possibly be as clueless as she pretends. “I have to stay with Max, Mother,” I intone coldly, “Katie is with Maria…she’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think Maria’s the best influence--,” Mom argues.

“Then you go!” I suddenly snap. I throw myself from the sill and stomp over to Max’s bedside. As I stare down at his pale, bruised face some of my anger fades. I stroke the spiky tendrils of hair that peek out from the bandage swathing his head. God, he always did have the softest hair…

“Liz, I don’t like seeing you this way.” My mother’s voice is closer now. I realize that she’s come to stand behind me. She places her hand against my shoulder but I shrug her off. “This is not your fault, Elizabeth,” she continues stubbornly.

“I’m the reason he’s here,” I state in a voice made tremulous with tears, “I’m not leaving him alone.”

“He has nurses--,”

“I’m not leaving him alone!” I shout and we both jump from the force of my words. I hang my head, my tears flowing freely once more. “Please…please, Mom, don’t give me a hard time…please don’t…”

But my mother is as tenacious as a bulldog. No way she’s letting this go, not when she thinks she’s about to drop some major wisdom down on my head. She grasps my shoulders firmly and leans her chin against the juncture of my neck. “Nothing has changed for you, Liz,” she whispers to me, “You can still have the divorce.”

“I never wanted the divorce, Mom.” My reply is incredibly weary, but I don’t realize it’s the truth until I say the words aloud. No, I don’t want a divorce. Tonight’s performance had been all about the shock value. My goal had been to jar Max, to wake him up. The metaphorical splash of cold water…then he would see that he was destroying our marriage, destroying our daughter. I had expected his cold fury, but I had also expected a fight. God, I was so hoping he would fight for us. But instead he left to buy cigarettes. He left to buy cigarettes and our world is changing again. “I can’t believe you’re talking to me about getting a divorce when Max might not even make it through the night,” I hiss, this time not just shrugging her off, but pushing her away as well.

“Someone needs to keep you grounded,” Mom argues, “I’m not going to stand here while you try and paint that man,” she points to Max’s hapless form lying in bed, “as some plaster saint! Now that you’ve finally worked up the courage to leave him he goes and does something stupid like this!” My mother throws up her hands in disgust at the last of that.

I can’t believe how truly impossible my mother is. I swear if I didn’t love the woman so much I might just seriously consider strangling her. In her own twisted way I know that she’s trying to help still I burst out incredulously, “Are you blaming Max for getting shot, Mother?”

Yup, that is exactly what she is doing. God, she doesn’t even have the grace to deny it. “What idiot goes out at nearly 12 in the morning to buy cigarettes?” my mother reasons, “It was like he was asking to be sh--,”

“Mother, if you finish that sentence I swear I will toss you out of this room with my bare hands,” I warn ominously. I am perfectly serious.

She gradually backs down from her defensive stance but the confrontation has left me feeling weak and dizzy. I fold myself into the chair next to Max’s bed and sweep up his hand, impervious to my mother’s disgruntled glare. I stroke the back of Max’s hand with the tips of my fingers. There is a fine sprinkling of hair across his knuckles. I touch that as well.

I notice other things as well. His perfectly manicured fingernails. The healed cut inside the juncture of his thumb and index finger, trophy from his one and only attempt to cook. I think back to that day with a tearful smile as I stare down at his hand.

We hadn’t been married more than five months then. What was it they said about newlyweds, they were in a state of constant marital bliss? That was Max and me. We were always kissing, always smiling, always touching. Those days I couldn’t get enough of his skin and his warmth. I had to wrap myself in his smell. I willingly drowned in his eyes and what was marvelous was that my feelings had been reciprocated.

That morning he had struggled into our bedroom bearing the breakfast try and wearing a lopsided grin I couldn’t resist. Only when he was closer did I notice all the blood. Instead of bacon and kisses to begin our morning we spent the time in the emergency room where Max had to receive 12 stitches for his trouble. He had laughed the entire time, as if the incident hadn’t meant anything to him at all. “I would gladly bleed one hundred times over, baby,” he had whispered fiercely into my hair, “Just to see you smile.”

I shiver slightly when I think about it now. How long has it been since Max last called me baby? How long since he had buried his face into my hair and kissed my neck in that tender, seductive way of his? How long since I have wanted him to? Am I only living in the past now, I wonder.

I can’t call to mind any recent, happy times with Max. We’ve spent all our couple time locked in bitter fights or strictly avoiding one another. It’s as if the love between us has vanished completely. But has it really? I am still in love with Max, or at least I am with the man he once was. I’m not naïve by any stretch but I firmly believe that man still exists. I have only to find him again. I think of our marriage, I think of Katie and I know I have to make the effort. I have to.

“I hate to see you doing this to yourself, Liz,” Mom says, her voice intruding on my thoughts once again. Why had I thought that she might have gone in the commencing moments? I had most definitely dismissed her from my mind.

I lean my forehead wearily against the back of Max’s hand. His flesh is incredibly warm. I marvel at that. How can he look so lifeless and still be so vibrantly warm? For a moment I bask in his warmth, trying to drown out my mother’s voice. But she refuses to be ignored.

“It’s not your fault,” she persists stubbornly.

I turn my cheek against Max’s hand and stare up into his pale, still face, at least what I can see of it through the head bandage and respirator. It whistles loudly, filling the moments of silence between my mother and me.

“Please, don’t blame yourself, Lizzie.”

I actually snort at that. “Who do I blame then, Mom? God?” I swallow back the fresh tears gathering at the back of my throat. I’ve cried enough. My tears can’t save Max now. Only time, only hope, only prayer. “I wanted him flat on his ass, Mom,” I whisper, my guilt slashing at me like knives, “and now I have my wish.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Liz,” Mom says in exasperation, “You’re hungry. Eat something and you’ll feel better.”

I suppress the very real urge to roll my eyes. Yeah, right, Mom! Eat a sandwich and then everything will be miraculously right with my world again. Where does she come up with this stuff, I wonder snidely. I am suddenly thinking that it might be better if she goes back to the house with Maria, after all. By this point she is providing more aggravation than comfort. “Mom, you don’t have to stick around, you know,” I begin casually, never taking my eyes from Max’s face, “Isabel will be here in a while.” I lift my head to look at her then.

My mother isn’t fooled. She knows exactly what I’m doing and the hurt shows plainly on her face. “Don’t do that, Liz,” she says plaintively, “don’t send me away. I just want to help you.” I sigh deeply and she takes that as an opening to say more. “You’ve been running on empty for the last four hours, Liz, and I don’t mean with just the shooting. You need some down time. Go take a breather…I’ll watch Max.”

She is right. I hate to admit it, but she is. I haven’t had a peaceful moment of thought since Max came home from work that evening. At first I was all worked up over the prospect of asking him for a divorce, now I’m all worked up over the prospect he could die. And yes, my empty stomach isn’t helping matters. Perhaps if I ate something the dizziness that had been plaguing me for the last hour might subside.

My mother knows that she’s won the argument when I untangle my fingers from Max’s and rise to my feet. Thankfully, she’s perceptive enough not to be smug about it. “I can trust you not to pull out any of his tubes while I’m gone?” I ask, half serious.

She is totally appalled by my innuendo and draws herself up in righteous indignation. “Elizabeth Anne-Marie Parker, what a perfectly horrible thing to say to your mother!”

Again she’s right. Damn her! I apologize meekly, but still a part of me wonders. My mother hasn’t always hated Max. No, this was a new development. She has only just recently developed an intense dislike for him…when I suffered a moment of weakness and admitted to her that Max was cheating on me.

It’s not even his indiscretion that she hates Max for. It is the fact that his reactions remind her so much of her late husband though she will never, NEVER admit it. My mother could never hold my father accountable for his actions. She was the epitome of the loving, long-suffering wife. But the hate is there, just simmering right below the surface. She can’t direct it at Daddy so Max is the next best option. I’ve almost called her on this a couple of times, but I don’t want to provoke an argument so, in the end, I usually hold my tongue. One of these days I might just share my theory with her, however. One of these days…

“I’ll only be gone for a little while,” I tell my mother as I head for the door, “If anything changes have--,”

“I’ll have the nurses page you,” she finishes knowingly.

I offer her a small smile, deciding that I’m glad she’s there with me after all.

As I step into the hall a sudden movement catches my attention. There is a blond, young woman milling about in the corridor. She is about my age or perhaps a few years younger and very petite. Whoever she’s there for can’t be in a very good way. She looks as if she might collapse in the floor at any given moment.

The second I clear the door her electric blue eyes meet my gaze in a telling stare. I recognize the sheer devastation on her face, knowing that it mirrors my own. I can see that she’s waiting and hoping and praying the same as I am. Apparently, her world has turned around tonight as well. I offer her a slight, sympathetic nod before heading down the corridor in search of the elevators.

Chapter 5

When I make my way back upstairs to Max’s floor the blond is still there. She is in the lobby now, slumped down in one of the chairs fast asleep. She looks wholly uncomfortable, her neck twisted at an odd angle, leaving her springy blond curls to cascade over the wooden armrest. I wonder vaguely why she doesn’t go and wait with her loved one, but then quickly reach my own conclusion.

It is quite difficult to watch someone you love hover near death. The waiting is excruciating, unbearable. It is as if your body is on constant alert, you can never relax, never breathe deep because any given second your world could be shattered. I know exactly how that feels. It is the exact anxiety coursing through my blood every time I look at Max, every time I see him lying there so still and helpless. Sometimes the need for air, for space is just too much. Sometimes when you stayed it was enough to drive you mad.

So yes, I can identify with this woman. In this hospital, in this moment we are the same. I am she and she is me. Our souls are kindred here. In the last crazy six hours she probably knows my emotional state better than anyone, a complete stranger. It’s rather ironic when you meditate on it. I stare at the sleeping woman for a while longer before continuing on my way down the corridor, heading for the payphone.

I haven’t spoken to Maria since earlier that evening when she dropped me off at the entrance. Now that I am absorbing the shock of what has happened I find myself being bombarded with a new concern. How do I tell my daughter that her father may die? This is a brand new quandary that I feel ill equipped to handle.

My heart aches for my little girl. Poor Katie. I cannot possibly imagine the fear that she must be enduring at that moment. Having been abandoned by both her parents in the same night has had to provoke a myriad of questions from her, questions that have gone unanswered. I have asked Maria not to say anything to her about Max, but I realize I can’t put the discussion off for long. Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow I will go home and explain everything.

Yes, tomorrow. That seems like as good a day as any to break my daughter’s heart. I will alter her life; devastate her completely…oh yes, tomorrow. Because tomorrow I may be better prepared for the task. Because tomorrow Max may be miraculously stronger. Because tomorrow affords me a luxury. If I put off the necessary things for tomorrow then I have no need to worry over them today. Perhaps this sort of logic makes me a coward but at the moment I couldn’t give a damn! I only want the last six hours to be a dream. I only want not to have to explain to my daughter why her father is laying in critical condition with a hole in his chest and head. Right now I can only look on tomorrow with an encompassing sense of dread. Right now I hope tomorrow never comes.

When I finally reach the payphone, I fish around in my pocket for thirty-five cents as I cradle the phone against my ear and shoulder. I slide the change into the phone slot, quickly dialing my home phone. Maria answers on the first ring, bless her. I don’t need the added stress of wondering what she’s doing in my house and who she is entertaining. I don’t hear any background noise when she picks up so I emit a tiny sigh of relief when she answers.

“Is he going to make it?” Maria demands the moment I say her name in greeting. There are no words of greeting. She is just blunt and straight to the point. Gotta love Maria. She is definitely not one to bush beat.

“He’s still in critical condition,” I tell her tiredly, “but he’s out of ICU so that’s a good thing I guess.” I rub the back of my neck wearily. “I’ve called his sister. Her flight should be arriving shortly if it hasn’t already.”

“Will you come home then?” Maria asks.

I don’t respond. It’s never crossed my mind to leave the hospital when Isabel arrives. I have determined that I will stay as long as Max stays. When I tell Maria this she is obviously upset. She doesn’t say anything for nearly a full minute. Finally, she says rather tightly, “You’re going to stay at the hospital…for him?”

“He’s my husband, Maria,” I reply woodenly. I don’t feel like having this argument with her, but unlike my mom Maria does not know when to back down.

“Only on paper, Liz!” she spits and then she adds in a furious hiss, “You found his bitch’s panties in your damned bed for God’s sake! You don’t owe that son of a bitch a thing!”

“That son of a bitch is Katie’s father and my husband,” I argue fiercely, “Right now he has no one, ‘Ria, absolutely no one. I can’t just leave him.”

“You’re letting your fucking past with this guy cloud your judgment, Lizzie.”

“Maria, I won’t fight with you,” I state evenly, “If you start up with me I’ll hang up. I mean it.”

There is a long, thoughtful pause and then she asks, “Can you at least drop by? Katie has been asking about you ever since we got home.”

“She’s not asleep?” I burst out in surprise. I recognize then that Katie must be beside herself. It’s nearly five in the morning now. The fact that she is still wide-awake attests to that fact. “Maria, you haven’t told her anything yet, have you?”

“No, I think that’s your place,” Maria replies, her voice lowered to a whisper, “but I can’t evade her questions forever, Liz. You need to talk to her.” And then she adds pointedly, “You need to come home.”

That last barb upset me greatly and it takes all my willpower not the slam the phone down then and there. I’m not angry at her for reminding me about my daughter, but for reminding me of what a philandering asshole I am married, too. I can admit that in the last six hours I had forgotten. Setting my jaw tight, I bite out tersely, “I’ll be there in a couple of hours. I’ll check with you again before I leave.”

After I end the call I feel ten times worse than before I made it. Maria has managed to make me feel even guiltier than before. I know I shouldn’t leave Katie in limbo like this, but I’m too much of a coward to do anything contrary. It’s almost like I’m choosing between her and Max and I hate that. Not to mention that the prospect of telling Katie the truth, of shattering my little girl’s world…just simply paralyzes me.

My heart heavy I trudge back towards Max’s room. When I enter I find the space strangely silent, but for the whooshing and whistling of Max’s respirator. I don’t see my mother anywhere. My first response is shock that she would actually leave Max alone when I specifically asked her not to do that. And then rage explodes in my brain at my mother for leaving and at myself for trusting her to stay.

I stalk over to Max’s bedside, fuming, but the moment I look down into his pale features my anger become gnawing fear. He looks no better than before I left. Actually, he looks worse. His skin seems grayer now. I look over towards his heart monitor, staring at the indecipherable green zigzag marks that make their way across the screen. Even those seem different. I kneel down beside Max and scoop up his hand, a nameless panic gripping me.

The bathroom door suddenly swings open and I jump in surprise. Isabel emerges, drying her hand against the legs of her ivory colored slacks. She looks tired and worn, her long, blond hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. It’s a far cry from the glamorous socialite she usually is. I half rise to my feet. “Isabel,” I gasp, frowning, “when did you get here?”

“Nearly forty-five minutes ago,” she clarifies, offering me a weak smile.

Belatedly, I regain my senses and rise to enfold her in a tender, sincere hug. “It’s good to see you,” I tell her warmly, “I’m just sorry for the circumstances.”

Again Isabel smiles despite the tears glistening brightly in her eyes. “Me, too.”

I turn away from her to survey Max, lifting my hand to cover my mouth. “It doesn’t look like he’s improving any,” I murmur sadly, tiredly.

“Well, the doctor did tell us not to expect much with him slipping into the coma and all.”

I do a double take, certain I couldn’t have heard her correctly. “Wait, what did you say?” I demanded shrilly. I know I’m on the verge of panic, but I feel like I’ve been dropped in the middle of nowhere with no means to find my way back to civilization. “What are you talking about? What coma?”

“You haven’t spoken to your Mom,” Isabel groans, “She went to find you when you didn’t respond to the page.”

“No, of course not! What page?” I snap, becoming more agitated by the second, “What has my mother got to do with this? What are you saying about Max being in a coma?”

Isabel drops her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “While you were having a bite the doctor came in to evaluate Max. He told us that Max is comatose.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, “Max came out of surgery just fine. He…he can’t be in a coma. I would have known it!” I’m babbling I realize but I have this idiotic notion that if I keep talking none of what Isabel is telling me will be true. “He’s not in a coma,” I reason wildly, “He doesn’t look that much different than when I left!”

At this point Isabel grasps me by the shoulder and shakes me gently. “Liz, you have to be strong right now. For Katie. You can’t fall apart,” Isabel orders me sharply.

Despite her words I wilt in her grip. “God, a coma…” I moan. Do people even wake up from those…I don’t know.

“The doctor doesn’t expect for him to come out of it,” Isabel informs me tentatively, “He says that Max will need round the clock care that…that he won’t be anything more than a…a vegetable.”

I sink to the floor then, tears cascading down my cheeks anew. “This can’t be happening,” I mutter to myself plaintively, “This can’t be happening.”

Isabel kneels down beside me, the misery on her face mirroring my own. “The doctor suggested a nursing center here in Roswell that he says comes highly recommended,” Isabel says dully, “He thinks we should send Max there or hire a private nurse to care for him.”

“Doesn’t he hold out any hope for recovery?” I cry out tearily.

Isabel just shakes her head in regret. “The doctor says that even if Max comes out of the coma he’ll never be the man we knew.”

Never be the man we knew. If he comes out the coma. We should send Max there or hire a private nurse. The words just float around in my head, lashing me, beating me further and further down into the darkness that has been fighting to claim me all night. I feel lost, devastated, numb. In some ways it’s a worse feeling than the gripping fear that has been in my heart ever since I learned of the shooting. I have been so afraid of Max dying physically that I have thought of little else. Now I realize that my fear has been a reality all along. The man I knew as my husband died the moment that bullet entered his brain. That cowardly bastard of a doctor just didn’t have the balls to tell me straight out.

And now I can’t run anymore. Now is the time to deal. No more hiding, no more being afraid. The cards are on the table now, the ante upped. I am all Max has now, all Katie has. I must be strong for them both. I can no longer afford to let my grief overtake me.

Swallowing, I struggle to my feet and square my shoulders, brushing the remaining remnants of my tears from my cheeks. “Did Dr. Kadaffey happen to leave any information on this facility he was telling you about?” I ask calmly.

Isabel rises to her feet as well, shaking her head as she does. “No, Liz,” she protests, “this isn’t your concern anymore. I…my parents and I will take see to Max’s care from now on.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to help?” I rasp, feeling as if I’ve been socked in the chest. I’m sure my eyes transmit how hurt and betrayed I feel at her words.

“I’m just saying it’s not your responsibility anymore,” Isabel explains and she must see that her words are hurting me because she rushes to add, “I know about the divorce, Liz. Your mother told me. I don’t want you to think you’re stuck with Max now because…because of his condition.”

My mother, I think acidly. I should have known from the very start. Of course, she would be burning to fill Isabel’s ear with the news of the divorce after I had shut her down. She had found a way to insure that I wouldn’t be caring for Max, after all. Or so she thought. I make a mental note to have a rather edifying chat with my mother later, but for the moment I focus my attention solely on Isabel. “Isabel,” I begin mildly, “Max and I are just going through a rough spot right now. I only asked him for the divorce to get his attention. It…I wasn’t serious.”

Isabel’s expression remains unconvinced. She folds her arms over her breasts. “Your mother told me you would say that.”

“I’m perfectly serious!” I swear, “I don’t want a divorce. I want my marriage to work. I still love your brother.”

“She said you would say that, too,” Isabel replies dryly. Now I feel the urge to gnash my teeth. Damn you, Mother! “Look, Liz, Nancy explained to me how Max ended up at the convenience store in the first place.” She places a comforting hand against my shoulder. “I know about the fight…you don’t have to feel guilty.”

I shrug her off and turn my back, feeling angry and frustrated. “This isn’t about guilt, Isabel.”

“Is it about money?” I hear Isabel ask at my back, “Because it’s not a problem. I’m a trust fund brat remember? I can easily quit my job so that I can be home with Max full time. I’d do it gladly.”

“I don’t want you to do that,” I whisper hoarsely.

“And I don’t want you to sacrifice your life as penance for something that isn’t your fault,” Isabel counters. Perhaps I should be grateful for her offer. Logically, I know I should grab hold of it with both hands. This is what I’ve been waiting for right? I get my divorce and relinquish any responsibility in caring for Max. I should be happy right? But if that’s the case why does Isabel’s offer infuriate me so? “Liz, look at me,” she implores softly, but still I keep my back turned. “Are you angry?” she asks me after a long, tense pause.

When I finally turn to face her my body is rigid with determination. “I appreciate your offer,” I tell her sincerely, “But I will care for Max’s needs, Isabel. You’re more than welcome to help, but I’m not stepping back. I’m not walking out on Max. Not when he needs me, not ever.”

It may only be a trick of the light, but in that moment I could swear that I glimpse relief and pride in Isabel’s eyes.

Chapter 6

When I come home a few hours later Maria is in the kitchen preparing breakfast. I can smell the aroma of frying bacon as I approach. For a minute I stand suspended at the entrance, amazed by what I am seeing. My little sister is much more at home in an apron than I could have ever imagined. I hadn’t even realized that Maria could locate the kitchen much less prepare a meal. To say the least, I am impressed. I watch her prance around in her “Kiss the Cook” apron while bopping happily to the radio, which is playing on the counter.

I can’t help but envy her in those moments. For the life of me I can’t figure out how she manages it, how she maintains her child-woman persona. She can be sexy and innocent all at once. Not like me, so staid, so dependable…so boring.

I must make some sort of small movement because Maria suddenly glances up from her pan of frying bacon, completely startled. She presses one hand against her breast and shakes her spatula at me with the other. “Dammit, Liz! You scared the shit out of me!” she huffs, “I almost peed in my pants!”

I hardly have time to admonish her for her language because Katie is already hurling herself into my arms with an excited exclamation of “Mommy!” As I hug her small, wiggling body against mine I marvel over how nearly ten hours of utter hell can be washed away in a few seconds just by holding her.

“Aunt ‘Ria made me French toast,” Katie chirps as I set her back down on her feet. I find myself smiling at her wistfully. God, she reminds me of Max so much at this moment. The adorable way her bangs flip over her forehead, the intense flash of her golden eyes, her pouting lower lip…it is all her father, right down to the way she is scrutinizing me right now. “Where have you been, Mommy?” she demands.

I look helplessly at Maria who gives me a small nod of encouragement. I see the tension lining her face then and I know she’s spent the better part of the morning dodging Katie’s endless questions. I know that the time for dodging in now at an end. “I’d better go call off for work tonight,” Maria says suddenly, excusing herself from the kitchen after she has drained the bacon from its grease.

When she is gone I guide Katie over to the kitchen table and sit her down, pulling up a chair in front of her. “I imagine you have a lot of questions,” I begin neutrally, pressing her small hands between my own.

Her eyes drop away, but not before I can see the confusion and fear making their usual cheerful depths riotous with emotion. “You and Dad had a fight,” Katie pouts with a whisper, “Is that why you didn’t come home last night?”

Her intuitiveness never fails to surprise me. I think she is too young to be privy to the knowledge she has. It frightens and impresses me all at once. My Katie is no fool. She knows something is wrong even if I have yet to confirm it. I reach forward to stroke her shiny hair. Maria has left if free this morning, using only two small, butterfly clips to hold Katie’s hair back from her face. “Honey,” I tell her gently, “I didn’t come home last night because I had to go to the hospital.”

Her brown eyes widen considerably. “The hospital,” she echoes, “Are you hurt or something?”

“Sweetie, no I’m fine.” I hold up my hands and turn them so she can see that there are no boo boos. And then I pull her into my arms because the look of sheer dismay on her face is unbearable. Katie knows the news isn’t good. She bands her small arms about my neck tightly. “Honey, you need to understand something,” I continue gently, “I wasn’t hurt…but your Daddy was.”

Katie goes completely still, not even breathing. She blinks at me several times, slowly processing what I have just told her. “Daddy’s hurt?”

I nod jerkily, finding it difficult to look at her but making myself do so. “When Daddy went to the store last night,” I explain simply, “a bad man was there and he hurt Daddy really bad.”

Her lower lip trembles, but other than that she reveals no emotion. “He put Daddy in the hospital?” Katie surmises shakily.

“Yes, he did.” I frame her face with my hands, hoping the small, reassuring kisses I press over her cheeks and forehead will help to ease the sting.

Katie is limp in my arms, her eyes darkened with anguish. “Is Daddy gonna die?”

“No, sweetheart.” The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly, but my heart twist easily at her words. No eight year old should have to worry about a father dying. I know that pain firsthand and I want to spare Katie at all costs. I am completely unwilling to shatter my daughter that way, to respond to her fear with uncertainty when I can see she’s on the verge of breakdown.

“I didn’t mean it when I said I hated him, Mommy,” she whispers, dissolving into tearful hiccups, “I don’t want him to die.”

“He won’t,” I promise, “He won’t. I’ll bring him back home to you…”

“Can I see him?” Katie asks me innocently.

It breaks my heart to refuse her, but what else can I say. I’ve told her that her father is in no danger of dying, however, if she sees him in person Katie will know it’s a lie. Though she was a little girl, my Katie was by no means naïve. She had inherited her father’s skepticism and perceptiveness. Even now I can see that my words haven’t fully convinced her, which is the very reason she’s asked to see him. She wants to ascertain for herself if my words are true or not.

I smooth her hair back from her expressive face lovingly. “Honey, Daddy is too sick for you to see him right now,” I tell her honestly, “but when he gets better I promise I will take you to him.”

She studies me a while longer before finally nodding her head in satisfaction. And then she asks in a low whisper, “Will you stay for breakfast? Aunt ‘Ria made enough french toast and bacon for you, too.”

“Of course I will,” I say without hesitation. I tuck her head beneath my chin and that’s when I catch Maria in the doorway, watching us with tears in her eyes.

We actually have a nice, leisurely breakfast together despite the fact that Claudia has yet to be dressed for school and is full of questions about her father. The frantic bustling around to pack her lunch and iron her clothes thankfully distracts me from the worry that has been plaguing me for hours. But when she and Maria are gone and the house is left empty of Katie’s constant chattering and Maria’s groaning complaints I can feel that dark cloud of sadness settle over me once more.

I sink down onto the sofa and lift up the phone, punching the number for Max’s hospital room almost mechanically. Isabel answers on the second ring. “Has there been any change,” I ask anxiously, twirling the springy phone cord around my fingers. I know it’s too much to expect, but I find myself asking anyway.

“He still has woken up,” Isabel informs me, “Your mother left half an hour ago to go home and change. She said she’d be back later this afternoon.”

I compress my lips tightly, holding back the impulse to say that it might be better if my mother stays away. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her support, it’s simply that it’s not the kind of support I need right now. “How are you holding up?” I ask Isabel, trying to redirect my thoughts from the gloomy turn they’ve taken.

“I think I’m still in shock,” Isabel whispers, “It hasn’t sunk in completely yet. I still can’t reach my parents.” The dejection in her tone is quite plain but I hold off my sympathy. Isabel has always been the type to reject pity.

She pauses for a moment and I sense that she’s gathering up her will to tell me something important. “Dr. Kadaffey brought in the information on that facility to me this morning.” I say nothing in response, holding my breath while waiting for her to continue. “He thinks we should try and move Max there once he’s stabilized. He brought all the paperwork.”

God knows I don’t want to think about any of this right now, but I realize that I can’t put it off either. After all, I’m the one who pushed for this responsibility, right? And I had promised Katie…I had promised her that I would see her father through his recovery. I can’t go back on my word to her. I won’t. I am determined to stick it out with Max until the very end, no matter what it may be.

I sigh and lean back against the sofa. “Just give me an hour to wash up and change and I’ll be back there,” I assure Isabel tiredly.

“Liz?” Isabel queries when I am about to end the conversation, “Have you called any of Max’s colleagues to let them know what’s happened?”

I slap my palm against my forehead. Hah! I scoff mentally, wanting to kick myself. I haven’t thought to call anyone. How irresponsible of me especially when I realize that his partners will very well be expecting him into the office this very morning. I groan aloud. “God, it completely slipped my mind to do that,” I sigh, “I’ll do it the minute we hang up.”

There’s a curious silence on the other end. Finally, Isabel asks, her tone somewhat tentative, “And you’re sure you haven’t told anyone?”

“I’ve only called you and your parents…no one else,” I tell her, “Why are you asking?”

“No reason,” Isabel replies quickly. Too quickly and too brightly. I know immediately that she’s keeping something from me.

“Isabel, what are you not telling me,” I persist.

Finally, she sighs, probably knowing that I won’t stop badgering her until she tells me exactly what is going on. “After you left Max had a visitor,” Isabel informs me haltingly, “She said her name was Teresa Harding. I found her in here hovering over his bed when I came from the bathroom…she must have thought he was alone.” She pauses again, as if she is trying to gather the strength to continue. “She was stroking his hair when I came in and…and kissing him, Liz. When I asked her who she was she claimed she was his colleague.”

I grip the phone hard, my emotions veering crazily once again. I have gone from anger, to fear, to guilt, to grief to anger and back again all in the space of ten hours. These rapid mood swings are starting to wear me down. My eyes tear up at the implication but I sniff back my feelings of grief and betrayal. “What did she look like?” I whisper softly. But I already have an idea and it starts a churning in my stomach.

“She was blond and petite,” Isabel reveals, “And she had blue eyes…really blue eyes.”

The woman in the corridor, just as I suspected. Apparently, Max hadn’t been alone when he was shot the night before after all. I wonder vaguely why the police officers never mentioned Max having a companion that night but then dismiss the information as inconsequential. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when I know. Max had never had any intention of repairing our marriage. He had walked out of this house, out of my life and straight into the arms of his mistress. Though I’ve been quite aware of his unfaithfulness for some time the betrayal still slices away at my heart.

“Is she still there?” I ask Isabel carefully, trying to keep my voice neutral as I spoke.

“I told her to leave and not to come back or I would call security,” Isabel says, “I didn’t trust her at all.” I can hear Isabel shuffling around on the other end and then she asks me, “Have you thought anymore about my offer, Liz?”

“Isabel…”

“I’m not stupid, Liz,” Isabel charges, “I know exactly who that little tramp was! You don’t think I can recognize my brother’s taste in women!” The words batter me and I wince with every utterance. “God, Liz, I love my brother but he’s first class bastard and you deserve better!”

My tears spill over then. I know I am sobbing into the phone now but I am past caring. “Isabel, please…” I beg, but I have no idea what I’m begging for. I just want this intense shattered feeling in my heart to heal.

“He doesn’t deserve your loyalty, Liz,” Isabel whispers gently, “He doesn’t deserve you…maybe he never did.”

“Don’t say that,” I protest tearfully and there’s guilt as well because I know I’ve played my part even if Isabel doesn’t.

“Well, don’t sentence yourself to a life of servitude simply because you feel guilty,” Isabel counters, “Lord knows Max doesn’t deserve it.”

I think to try again, although I don’t know why I bother. I hate Max so much right now that I feel physically ill with it. But then I hate myself so much more. How could I have deluded myself so thoroughly? Was I in such denial that I had actually convinced myself that Max might want to save our marriage? The reality is something harsher, colder and completely absent of idealism.

When I think of how his mistress was there the entire time at the hospital and that I actually felt sorry for her I want to cringe in humiliation. I want to scream, to have a tantrum of epic proportions, but mostly I want to hurt Max, to humiliate him as he’s humiliated me. But then as soon as the thought surfaces I am overcome with shame and guilt. I can’t wish ill on Max if for no reason other than Katie-kins. Her father is her world and the fact that he is hurt now is devastating her.

And so I put forth a valiant effort to be the perfect, long-suffering wife, an exact replica of my own mother. Despite the fact that these are the very qualities about her that disgust me thoroughly I still find myself repeating her mistakes, bending myself the exact same way. “Isabel, I am committed to your brother,” I say, but the words sound dull and unconvincing even to my ears.

“Don’t feed me that line of crap, Liz!” Isabel orders me fiercely, “I’m giving you a way out here…you might want to consider taking it.”

Chapter 7

I am numb as I watch them load Max’s catatonic body into the hospital van bound for the Danner Ridge Sanitarium. Not much has changed in the last three weeks since the shooting. Max is still in a coma and showing no signs of improvement. The doctors tell us not to set our hopes too high and with each day that passes without any progress I find that my expectations lower a little more. Katie has been asking me to see him every day and I am quickly running out of excuses. In addition to that stress I have just recently discovered that I cannot legally divorce Max at this time. Apparently, the law doesn’t permit for divorce when one mate is incapacitated. That development has me more agitated than anything else, mostly because I’m startled over the true source of my anxiety. I’m actually relieved by the information rather than irked.

It takes nearly a week for my anger over the Teresa Harding matter to cool down. I spend the better part of that time trying to reign in the burning desire to confront my husband’s newest girlfriend or yank one of Max’s feeding tubes. It’s during that time that I seriously entertain the notion of divorce. Mom and Maria don’t even have to do a great amount of browbeating to get me to see a lawyer. I’m eager to go. But after five minutes of sitting in the man’s office, J.W. Hooper, (who the hell has a name like that anyway?), that same familiar leaden weight settles in the pit of my stomach. I still don’t want a divorce, I realize…not really. There’s still this desperate part of me that wants to hold onto my marriage. Maybe it’s pathetic, maybe it’s denial, but it’s true.

There is also the added fact that I find it singularly impossible to hold a grudge against Max at this time, not when he’s so broken, so helpless and nearly alone. His parents have only visited with him briefly since he was admitted to the hospital. Philip and Diane Evans arrived three days after Max fell comatose. They stayed at his bedside less than five hours. It was the first time that I had been thankful that Max was unconscious. Isabel had gone for a walk once her parents were gone, but I knew she went to cry. I cried too.

It was about that time that the little insidious voice inside my head began whispering again, but I had mutinously gone to see Mr. Hooper anyway. But my heart hadn’t been in it, it never had been. I still can’t conceive that my marriage is truly over, just done with no fight, no sparks, nothing.

And of course there’s my own insecurity, my fear. After all, what will a divorce say about me? Maybe it means that I’ve failed as a wife. Maybe that’s why I’m truly afraid, why I’m so damned reluctant to end this relic our relationship has become. The voice is louder now, telling me that perhaps the reason Max has turned to so many women isn’t because there’s something wrong with him at all, but because there’s something wrong with me.

The idea plagues me and I consider it quite seriously. Prior to Katie’s birth I can say that my marriage was near perfect. It’s no exaggeration, no delusion. There was a time when Max and I had been each other’s world. It was like neither of us had lived until we’d met the other. Once there had been a spontaneity between us, an indescribable excitement, as if we needed to be inside each other’s skin. I never had any doubt that I thrilled Max or that I was the only one who ever had. Back then when Max looked at me I felt as if I were the only person in the world that existed for him. But then Katie was born and all that between us gradually changed.

I was wholly unprepared to have a baby. We weren’t trying at all. At the time I had been taking the pill almost religiously. I thought having a child would prove to be a complication in our perfect little arrangement. Max and I had still been young and impetuous, and too drunk with one another to see anything beyond our own little world. Honestly, I had wanted it to remain that way.

But it had been different for Max. When he learned of my pregnancy he was over the moon with joy…I was not. I saw a baby as the ruination of our relationship and we’d actually had a terrible fight over it with his insistence that we continue the pregnancy. God, when I think about those times I’d considered defying him… Those first four months were a marital nightmare. I can honestly admit to what a bitch I’d been for the better part of my pregnancy. My moods swung from high to low seemingly without warning or provocation. I had hoped that things would improve once the baby was born. They didn’t.

Following Katie’s difficult birth, which required a caesarean section and several weeks of painful recovery I battled a severe bout of postpartum depression. I didn’t want to be touched; I didn’t want to be bothered…I didn’t want my baby. I can still remember how I used to lie there in bed, pretending not to hear Max when he pleaded me to hold the baby. “Just look at her, Liz,” he would beg, almost on the verge of tears, “God, baby…can you please just look at her.” I have to close my eyes against the memory now. The recollection is still too raw for me.

It’s hard to believe that I ever felt that callous, that cold inside. It’s hard to believe that I ever turned away from Max when he had been my entire world. It’s hard to believe that there was ever a time when I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with Katie. But I had turned away from him, from them both. I shut Max out for so many months following the delivery. I broke him so badly that there were nights when I would listen to him sob himself to sleep. I felt shattered to know that I was destroying him but I couldn’t bring myself to open up to him. I was just so sick inside and I only wanted for the world to go away and leave me in peace.

To his credit, Max struggled to keep it together. He tried desperately to maintain the balance in our family, stretching himself thin between Katie, me, and work. It was around that time that he hired Rosa, even though we’d barely been able to afford groceries, much less a housekeeper. But the job of being a single parent and a full-time worker just became too much for him to bear alone. Though my mother did what she could she couldn’t be available full time and that’s what Max needed.

Though I don’t remember that time with crystal clarity I don’t need a faultless memory to recognize that it had to be the hardest time of Max’s life. He was a first time father, struggling to raise his daughter and make ends meet and all without the support of his wife. Even with nearly no communication going on between us I could see that he was slowly dying. His gradual exhaustion, both physical and mental, was exactly what prompted me to finally seek out some help.

Even to this day I can still feel his breath on my neck from when he would hover over me at night when he thought I was asleep. And when I was awake he would watch me for hours it seemed, his eyes silently begging for some sort of acknowledgement. He would bring me my meals, bath me, and stroke my hair when I allowed him and all with that same hungry desperation, that same pleading need. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to see him, to open my eyes and recognize that he loved me, that he was there for me and he always would be. Why, oh why hadn’t I acknowledged him then?

That saying about “too little, too late” is so aptly true. Almost six months went by before I was fully recovered from my depression and by the time it was done my marriage was nearly unrecognizable. Max and I were two completely different people by then. I think perhaps that the stress of dealing with Katie combined with my rejection simply drained him emotionally. By the time I was better Max simply had nothing left to give.

I tried to rekindle what we once had but it seemed an impossible task. By then Max was too engrossed with work to give time to me. At first it had been about keeping us afloat financially, but it had all too quickly become something more. I wasn’t so blind that I didn’t realize he was using his work as a means of escape. Only weeks after Katie’s first birthday Max took his first girlfriend. I can scoff at the irony of that now, but when it happened I had been utterly devastated.

And perversely, I couldn’t really blame him for that first time. Even during my recovery there had been distance between us. We had made love only a handful of times once I was better and never with the same abandoned passion we once had. I was only mildly surprised when I discovered his infidelity. But we agreed to work it out. We went to counseling and it seemed that our marriage was starting to improve, but then the calls started. Strange women, at all times of the night, hang-ups, secret phone calls and I realized that I’d never reclaimed my husband at all.

Our marriage was a downward spiral in the following years. The affairs hurt me and, of course, I lashed out. A lot. The more I did the less Max came home, the less he came home the more I lashed out until Katie and I barely saw him at all. And that was the most hateful part of it. Not only did my relationship with Max suffer, but because it did so did his relationship with our daughter. In avoiding me he avoided her and I regretted that more than anything.

Maybe that’s another reason why I can’t bring myself to push for a divorce. I already feel responsible for depriving Katie of a close relationship with her father. Can I really bear the guilt of being the reason their relationship fizzles completely? I know now that Max no longer loves me. Sometimes I think I don’t love him any more either, but something gnaws at me to stay with him, to grit my teeth and make it work. Katie. I think I have to do this for her. She deserves that much.

Of course, my mother thinks I’m five times a fool and I half suspect she’s right. Only the day before she blasted me for making a “martyr” of myself. Her words continue to explode in my head even at that moment and I struggle to ignore them. I know that she’s right. I know that I’m making a foolish decision, loading myself down with an unneeded burden. I can walk away right now if I choose. No one will hold me accountable and no one will blame me. But as I watch them hook up all his machinery and tubing I can’t bring myself to do it and not because I’m still in love with him and not because of Katie either. I simply can’t admit that I’ve failed. Not the perfect and composed and always demure Liz Parker-Evans. I have never failed at anything in my life and I’m not going to let my marriage be my first failure.

Isabel comes to stand beside me as I watch them load Max up though I barely acknowledge her presence. She is as worn and haggard as I, only a step away from collapsing on the concrete sidewalk. I laugh inwardly at the picture we must make, two women in desperate need of support desperately supporting each other. She sighs a moment later, a heavy sigh filled with resignation and I stiffen my body in preparation for what I know she is about to say. “It’s still not too late,” she murmurs softly, clapping her hand on my shoulder.

I don’t shrug her away though I want to in that second. “How can you be like this when he’s in so much pain?” I ask her brokenly, never once taking my eyes from Max’s still face, “Don’t you have any loyalty?” The moment I ask the question aloud, however, I know that I’m being unfair. Isabel is perhaps the most loyal person Max has in his life. She is here when nobody else would be just like I knew from the beginning. Even as she’s providing my means for escape I know that her loyalties lay completely with her brother.

“Max wouldn’t want your pity, Liz,” Isabel informs me after a long moment of silence.

“It’s not pity,” I argue, but my words have no heat.

“Then what is it?” she demands. I stand mute, but she is undeterred. Isabel snorts at my stoic expression. “You’ve got too much self esteem to be staying with him out of some grand delusion of love, Liz.”

“Do I?” I query sadly.

“Don’t you?” she counters.

She knows me too damned well. Why shouldn’t she? We were friends for years before I fell so completely for her brother. I decide to give up the pretense. “I feel responsible,” I admit quietly, “Not just for the shooting, but for everything that led up to this moment between us.”

Isabel slips her hand from my shoulder and shrugs. “Sometimes love just dies, Liz,” she says gently, “We don’t know why or how…but it just doesn’t last, even if we want it to.”

“I don’t accept that,” I mutter stubbornly, “Max didn’t want a divorce. He nearly went ballistic when I suggested it.”

“He’s staying for the same reason you are,” Isabel tells me sadly. She fixes me with a knowing look, which prompts me to fidget nervously. “He doesn’t want to admit failure anymore than you do.”

It makes me cringe to think I am that transparent. My motives must seem extremely selfish to Isabel at the moment. Maybe because they are. I have to swallow several times before I can respond. “Did Max tell you that?” I ask her tremulously, “Did…does he think our marriage is a failure?”

Isabel sighs heavily. “I know that despite what a complete asshole my brother is that he loved you, probably still does. But he knew he wasn’t making you happy anymore…maybe he felt like he couldn’t and I guess he just…”

“…gave up,” I finish glumly. To my miserable disappointment Isabel nods her head in agreement. But instead of allowing the admission to beat me down I square my shoulders against it. “Don’t you think there’s been too much giving up between us, Isabel?” I counter bitterly, “God, one of us has to try…”

“And if it’s too late?”

I don’t want to hear her words but they still make an impact. Max may never regain consciousness. Can I really spend the remainder of my life pining away for something that might have never been in the first place? Who am I benefiting really if I do? Not Katie, not myself, and definitely not Max.

I have been mentally going round in circles for nearly a month now and I can’t do it any longer. My marriage is over. I know it, I feel it and now I have to accept it. I can wait for Max to get better, but even if he doesn’t it won’t change the truth. It won’t change the past. So I make the decision. I’ll see him through to his admission to the hospital and then I’ll step back. It’s the best thing I can do…it’s really the only choice I have.

When I look at Isabel there is pity swimming in her brown eyes. Isabel knows that I’ve finally given into her, even without my speaking a word. She gives a little nod, looking away quickly so I don’t see the tears sparkling in her eyes. “I’ll follow in my car,” she tells me hoarsely, “Why don’t you ride in the medical van with Max.” I know what she’s doing. She’s giving me my final chance to say good-bye, the private moment I need to make a clean break.

I watch her walk to her car before finally climbing into the van to situate myself next to Max’s hospital cot. He’s lost a great deal of weight in the last few weeks. It’s one of the few changes that have taken place with him. Other than the fact that he is no longer on a respirator Max has not improved markedly. His bandages have been removed; leaving exposed the pink, puckered scars from his surgery. The hair that had been shaved away has begun to grow back now. I run my fingers across the prickly, stiff tendrils.

I lean down close so that my mouth is against his ear and feel my tears run down my cheeks warmly. “I’m sorry it came to this,” I whisper, “I loved you, Max…I really did.” I close my eyes, smelling him one last time, striving to recall the scent of his cologne while being overwhelmed by the medicinal odor of the van and the painkillers and i.v. solutions that are being pumped into Max’s body.

As the van begins to move away from the curb I begin to cry in earnest, impervious to the orderly who pretends not to notice. I don’t know how long I lean over him, weeping out my heart and whispering apologies, but it seems like hours…and it changes nothing. For ten years he’s been a part of my life and today I will walk away forever, as if we had never happened. As if we had never loved. It is almost too much to contemplate.

With one last sniffle I press a trembling kiss to his cheek and lift my head to stare down at his face for the last time. But as I start to pull away my breath hitches in my lungs and my heart begins a frantic thundering, pumping the blood through my veins at an alarming rate. There is a roaring in my ears and all for one, heart-stopping beautiful reason: he is staring up at me.

His beautiful eyes are finally open and looking straight into mine.

Chapter 8

In the commencing seconds I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I can’t form a coherent sentence. His eyes are fixed steadily upon me, wide and unblinking. It’s almost startling how intensely he stares at me that it takes a moment for me to grasp that his eyes are utterly blank. Tentatively, I whisper his name, stroking at his prickly hair. He doesn’t even flinch.

My faculties begin functioning once more as my shock wears down. I motion for the orderly frantically. He’s quite slow about moving his ass, which, of course, irritates me greatly. Losing my polite façade, I snap, “He just opened his eyes, dammit! You may want to move a little quicker!”

That gets him in gear and he brusquely shoves me aside and quickly checks Max’s vital signs. “Well, look who’s rejoined the land of the living,” he mumbles to himself, unsmiling as he goes about his task. Max’s eyes don’t acknowledge him either. “They were thinking you’d sleep awhile, bud.”

I watch him work with mechanical precision while suppressing a shudder. I can’t help but be chilled by how vacant Max’s gaze seems. It is as if he doesn’t recognize me…doesn’t recognize anything. I don’t think I can process the full joy of knowing he’s awake because I kept help but wonder what’s wrong with him. His eyes are open, yes, but when I look in them there’s absolutely nothing there and that fact is all I can focus on. God, I’m such a cynic. But I’ve learned the hard way not to hope for the best, especially when I seem to always be presented with the worst.

“Is he okay?” I ask the orderly, but I am not surprised when I am thoroughly ignored. Some people just get off on being rude to others it seems. This orderly is definitely that type.

My palm is literally itching to grab my cell phone from my purse and place a quick call to Isabel with the good news. I slide my excited gaze towards my handbag, darting my eyes surreptitiously between it and the orderly. I only begin to reach for my purse when the orderly swivels around and pins me with his iron stare. “Don’t even think about it,” he warns as if he’d somehow read my min and had discerned my intentions, “It messes with our equipment.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes in frustrated irritation. There went that brilliant idea.

But as I sit on the edge of the seat in the back of the medical van I’m so antsy I can hardly stand it. Is God trying to tell me something, I wonder? The moment I decide to walk away from Max for good, the very instant I decide our marriage is beyond salvaging he opens his eyes. The irony is not lost on me. Not a single flicker of improvement in weeks and yet in those stunning seconds he opened his eyes. It’s almost like he knew…

By the time we reach Danner Ridge the van is vibrating with excitement and medical terms I don’t understand. I don’t think I even wait for it to roll to a complete stop before I am tumbling from the back and running towards Isabel’s car. She looks shattered as she exits and I can tell from her expression when she sees me that she doesn’t expect the news to be good. “Oh my God, did he die!” she cries, stalking towards me, “Tell me he didn’t die on the way!”

“He’s awake!” I tell her excitedly.

Isabel, dignified, debutante, trust fund brat Isabel, actually screams right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Ridiculously, we are hugging and dancing together in small, happy circles together right there in the middle of everything. And then Isabel breaks away from me, covering over her mouth with her hands. “I’ve got to see him,” she announces, but as she makes her way for the van the orderlies are already quickly removing him. They must take him for more tests. I catch a glimpse of his eyes as they wheel him away and I can almost swear that he’s watching me.

As we have been for the last three weeks Isabel and I are waiting again. In a different hospital, for a different reason, but still waiting. We don’t talk much during that time, but merely cling to one another’s hands as we wait for whatever it is we’re waiting for. We sit there forever it seems, just willing someone to come and tell us the news and the silence is almost unbearable. However, the moment I open my mouth to break it Isabel beats me to it.

“This doesn’t have to change things, Liz,” she tells me quietly, “You can still walk away if you want.”

“Isabel--,”

“No, I know you too well, Elizabeth Parker-Evans,” she argues in tired tones, “You’re already being sucked back into the abyss that is my brother’s life.”

“I only want to make sure he’s alright,” I say and it’s the truth. I’ve been married to the man for nearly ten years now. I couldn’t just walk away regardless of the circumstances. My God, he opened his eyes and looked straight at me! How do you simply walk away after that? I twist one stray tendril of hair about my index finger. “You’re going to need help, you know,” I inform Isabel after a pause of silence.

“I’ll hire a nurse,” she responds quickly, already knowing what I’m driving at. Have I mentioned yet how well she knows me?

“I can help you, Isabel,” I insist, “You don’t have to do it alone. Lord knows your parents won’t be of any assistance. The house has plenty of room if we need to take him home.” There it is. Not you, but we. I try to be blasé about the offer, but it doesn’t escape Isabel’s notice.

She offers me a weak smile. “I can manage.”

“I love him, too, you know,” I press on stubbornly.

“I know…and that’s exactly why I don’t want you to help me.”

“What?”

“You’ll get emotionally attached, Liz. You always do…and then we’ll be right back where we started.”

I know exactly of what she’s speaking. When I first met Max all those years ago he had been in the hospital then, too. I had been fresh out of college and in my first year of teaching pre-school. I had never expected I would form a lasting relationship with my college roommate, especially when I had yet to meet any of her family. But back then Isabel and I were inseparable. She was actually the one to help me deal when Maria was giving me shit and Mom couldn’t be bothered.

It was her unflagging emotional support that prompted me to accompany her to the hospital when she learned of her brother’s admittance. He wasn’t there for noble reasons, of course. Following a drunken binge of celebration Max had foolishly attempted to climb a tree and had fallen out. He had managed to break his leg in three places and crack his tailbone. Isabel had cursed his idiocy the entire ride to the hospital, but I could detect the concern in her tone for her errant brother. I had to swallow back the urge to giggle, after all, her brother had broken his butt.

He had been sleeping when we arrived. Isabel had disappeared for a few moments to put in a call to her parents, which I would learn later was quite the norm. They were absentee for nearly everything in their children’s lives. I know for a fact they hadn’t been present for Isabel’s graduation, although they did send a nice, shiny black BMW as way of apology. At the time I thought, “Hey with presents like that, my parents can ditch me anytime.” But I was so young then and too foolish to understand just what sort of lonely existence that had been for the two of them. All their lives they had only had each other.

While Isabel had been gone I had crept over to Max’s bed to get a closer look. He was absolutely gorgeous and simply lying there like an angel, his thick lashes flickering slightly. I hadn’t been bent over him two seconds before his eyelids fluttered up, revealing the most amazing pair of eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, and a slow lopsided smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. “Where have you been?” he asked me sweetly.

I was somewhat taken aback by his familiar tone and for a second I thought he must have been confused with all the painkillers being pumped into his system. “I’m Liz,” I rambled, flustered, “Isabel’s friend. I came with her--,”

His smile only broadened. “Liz? That’s a beautiful name…but it still doesn’t answer my question,” he told me, “Where have you been?”

At that point I glanced anxiously towards the door, silently begging Isabel to come walking through it. I was absolutely positive her brother was cracking up. He was beautiful…and loopy…just great. “Uh…home?” I ventured.

He made a disappointed clucking sound with his tongue. “Now that’s too bad,” he remarked, “Cause where you should have been all this time was in my arms.”

That’s when it finally penetrated my bewildered senses. Maxwell Christopher Evans, spoiled, rich playboy law-student, was hitting on me. From a hospital bed and still hung over from the previous night of alcoholic binging, no less. I had never in my life met the acquaintance of someone so arrogant and so rude and so completely obnoxious. But I had also never known a man who could be so charming and so funny and so incredibly ardent all while high on painkillers. It hadn’t taken me all that long to fall for him hard.

All this plays through my mind now as I wait with Isabel. It’s as if my life with Max has come full circle. Today in the medical van is eerily reminiscent of the first time we met. I felt that same instant connection with him as I had felt then…almost like starting over…

Of course, I don’t attempt to explain any of this to Isabel. She will just take it as further proof that I’m being sucked back in. She’s wrong, of course. I’m just shaken right now and understandably concerned, but that’s all. Really! That’s all.

I appraise Isabel with a chagrined, sideways glance. “Can I at least stay for his prognosis?” I ask her wryly.

Something in my tone must alert her to how ridiculous our conversation is because she giggles. “I don’t mean to make you feel unwanted, Liz,” she tells me with a small smile, “I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might be staying just as much for your benefit as for Max’s?” I can tell from her startled expression that it hasn’t. “You’re still my friend, Isabel…my best friend.”

Her eyes fall away, but not before I glimpse the hurt swimming in her gaze. “I didn’t know…” she stammers, “There’s been such distance between us…”

I squeeze her hand in reassurance. “That was unfair of me,” I admit shamefully, “I held you responsible for Max’s actions and that wasn’t right.”

“I really didn’t know what to say to you either,” Isabel replies, “I was just so terrified of being put in the middle, Liz. I did my fair share of avoidance, too.”

Her words elicit a thoughtful frown from me. “Weren’t we friends long before your brother ever came into the picture?”

She grins, tapping her chin in mock pensiveness. “I seem to recall that,” she teases, “Weren’t we roommates or something…”

I give her a playful nudge with my shoulder. “That’s exactly my point,” I tell her half seriously, “Don’t let Max come between us. Men come and go, Isabel, but friends…they’re forever.” The embrace I share with her then makes me feel safer and more loved than I have in nearly three years. It’s exhilarating and sad all at once. When we break away, I smile at her. “I’m sorry if I ever put you in the middle,” I tell her, “I never did it deliberately.”

“I know you didn’t. But Max wanted me to hear his side of things and you wanted me to hear yours and I just felt tugged in two different directions,” she explains, “I should have never just stopped calling, Liz.”

“Well, I should have never blamed you,” I insist and then I laugh as it dawns on me what we’re doing. “Are we having a contest as to who’s sorrier here?”

Isabel laughs outright. “Oh, I definitely win that one!” We are still laughing when the doctor comes in to inform us of Max’s prognosis.

This new doctor is not what I expect. He is a tall, rangy fellow with dark hair and an easy smile. His long, white lab coat is long and flowing but not long enough to conceal the fact that he’s wearing blue jeans. Blue jeans? Somehow his choice of clothing doesn’t seem to mesh with the ritzy atmosphere of Danner Ridge. That’s when I notice how young he appears. The man looks fresh out of high school. I’d be willing to bet my savings that he doesn’t even shave. As he approaches to shake our hands, I scrutinize him closely just waiting for a reason to pounce. I’ve already decided that he’s probably another quack like that damned Dr. Kadaffey.

“Mrs. Evans…and Ms. Evans,” he greets us with a jovial smile, “I’m Dr. Alexander Whitman. I’m the attending physician here at Danner Ridge and the evaluating physician for Mr. Evans case.” Head physician? Now I hadn’t expected that one. So maybe he’s not as young as I first supposed, but I definitely still think he’s a quack. “You ladies will be happy to know that Mr. Evans is recovering quite nicely now. His vital signs are excellent. All that I’ve seen indicates he will make a full recovery.”

“What about brain damage?” I burst out; drilling right to the matter I know is on both Isabel and my minds. “Did the bullet do any lasting damage?”

“Ironically, the bullet did very minimal damage, Mrs. Evans,” Dr. Whitman replies, never loosing his trademark grin, “The part of his brain that was affected deals mainly with motor skills and coordination.”

“What does that mean?” Isabel urges.

“Your brother is going to have to relearn how to walk, how to talk, how to feed himself…the whole nine yards,” he tells her, “When it’s all said and done, he might still walk with a very pronounced limp, but I expect that will be the extent of it.”

I take a moment to process what he is telling us and then ask the second most pertinent question on my mind. “Does he remember us?”

It was then that the jovial Dr. Whitman’s grin finally faltered. I snorted mentally. Why didn’t I know it wasn’t going to be all sunshine and roses? Of course, there would be bad news. You could never have good news without it. Dr. Whitman sighs heavily before laying it all on us completely. “Mrs. Evans, your husband has no memory of anything at all. When I said he has to relearn everything I meant it. He’s like a newborn baby. It’s not just a matter of relearning…he has no knowledge of how to do the things he once did. It’s almost as if he were born today.”

I’m at a loss as to how I should respond. On the one hand, the doctor has just assured us that Max will make a complete recovery. On the other hand, he has also just said that my thirty-six year old, powerhouse defense attorney husband has all the skills and capabilities of a newborn infant. At the very least, I’m in total shock. I look at Isabel and see that same uncertainty I feel stamped into her features. And then I look back at the doctor, who seems so bloody optimistic despite the rather depressing circumstances we face now. There’s nothing more I can do other than what I’ve been doing, I realize. Nothing but wait and pray once more. And so I ask the doctor the only thing I can ask, the only thing I really have any power over. “When can we see him?”

Chapter 9

I’m a liar.

Not necessarily to other people but most definitely to myself. I don’t know if that makes it any better or makes me less of a liar but there it is. I’ve been lying to myself…for five glorious, exhausting months now. But I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not when I walk into the rehab room of Danner Ridge and see the way Max’s eyes light up the moment he notices my entrance. Not when I see that beatific grin that spreads across his face as I come closer. Not when, because his excitement over my arrival is so great, he actually gets knocked in the head with the ball Michael is tossing to him. And not even that is enough to break his smile. Because all he can see is me. No, I can’t bring myself to regret my liar status at all.

He’s made tremendous progress in the last few months, so much that he’s now attempting the balancing bars now. It won’t be long before he’s standing on his own completely. No more wheelchair. I know it will be a relief for Max more than anyone. He hates the thing, but something in his manner tells me that his determination to walk isn’t due solely to his desire to rid himself of the wheeled conveyance. I get the vague impression he wants me to be proud of him. And I am. In fact, pride is swelling in my heart at this very moment as I watch him take a few valiant steps before collapsing into Michael’s arms.

“You did good today.” I hear Michael tell him encouragingly, “But I don’t want you to push it too hard…you’ll do more damage than good.” However, Max isn’t listening to him. He’s much too preoccupied grinning at me. And I’ll be damned if I’m not grinning right back. I creep up behind Michael silently, careful not to alert him to my presence. “Yo, Max!” Michael laughs, trying unsuccessfully to gain Max’s attention, “What’s got you all smiley this morning.”

Max’s hitches his chin in my direction, his eyes positively dancing. “L-Liz,” he slurs.

I almost drop my bag of Krispey Kremes in surprise at how fluently he manages my name. “Oh my God,” I exclaim, “Pretty soon you’ll be chattering a mile a minute!” Max just grins all the more, proud and innocent, and my heart just aches to see it.

I can still remember clearly the first two months after he’d been admitted. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t feed himself, couldn’t even go to the bathroom himself. There were times when I simply couldn’t take it, when the idea of rolling my full-grown husband over to change his diaper sent me into tremors of grief.

But I had never let myself think about his recovery too deeply or much of anything for that matter. Instead I plunked through one day after another, concerning myself only with the intense need to get by. I went to work and after work I spent my time at the facility. In between those times I managed to squeeze in time to be a mother to Katie, although I can admit I’ve been failing miserably in that department lately.

The only times I really see her now are before school and right before she goes to bed in the evening. Thankfully, she’s not resentful. She seems to realize that all the time I spend away from home is justified. In fact, more often than not she’s the one encouraging me to keep optimistic. She says it’s because the sooner her daddy is better the sooner she can see him, but I think she’s eager for life to get back to normal again. Understandably, she’s grown weary under the stress of the last six months. We all have, me especially. By now I am hopelessly sleep deprived and thoroughly exhausted with the schedule I’ve been keeping, but when I see the rapid progress Max has made in such a short period of time I’m eternally grateful I didn’t give up.

Once he’s alerted to my presence, Michael swivels around in surprise, a displeased frown creasing his forehead. “I should have known you’d show up sooner or later,” he admonishes as he helps Max ease back down into his wheelchair.

“L-Liz here,” Max intones happily. His eyes are glued on me, dancing with a merriment I’ve never seen before. That’s definitely something I can say about Max now; he’s nearly always smiling. Even sitting in that damned chair and knowing how much he detests it he is still smiling.

“Yes, I know you’re happy Liz is here,” Michael placates, “The sappy grin on your face kinda gives it away, bud.” He then directs his attention to another therapist across the room. “Hey Jose! Do you mind taking Max back to his room for his sponge bath? I’ll be there in a sec.”

The moment Jose takes hold of the handlebars of his wheelchair, however, Max goes into a panic. “No, no,” he protests, struggling ineffectually, “L-Liz here…L-Liz here…”

Michael stoops down before him reassuringly. “You’re gonna visit with Liz, bud, I promise,” he tells Max, “I just need a minute to speak with her, ‘kay?” Though Max nods his agreement his expression is quite mutinous. However, he doesn’t argue any further when Jose begins wheeling him away.

Before Michael can begin to scold me I press the bag of Krispey Kremes into his hand. “They’re still warm,” I wheedle.

“Bribery will get you nowhere,” Michael retorts firmly, “You know you’re not supposed to be here.”

Though Michael seems tough as nails on the outside, on the inside I know he’s nothing but a bundle of feelings. He reminds me of Max, at least in the days before the shooting, mostly during the time when we were falling in love. The moment I met him I knew he would be the perfect physical therapist for Max. He’s only an inch or two taller than Max with a shock of spiky brown hair and dark brown eyes full of attitude. He’s definitely not a conventional physical therapist. But then I’m learning that very few things in this hospital are, which is exactly what Max needs right now. Perhaps that Dr. Kadaffey wasn’t such a quack after all…

“I’ll only stay a little while,” I tell him, smiling as I watch him reach into the paper bag and extract a glazed donut. He takes a huge bite. “Good, huh?”

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says around a mouthful, but his eyes are closed as if he’s just tasted heaven. I have learned that there are two means by way to bribe Michael Guerin. Krispey Kremes and strong black coffee. I brought both. He sips at the hot liquid with a grateful shudder. “You’re an evil woman,” he says, directing a dark look my way, “Isabel’s not going to be happy with this.”

“I’ll smooth it over,” I toss back, already heading off for the direction of Max’s room.

“This isn’t good for him, you know,” Michael calls at my back, effectively halting my steps. I turn slowly, one, single brow arched in incredulity. His statement isn’t at all fair. If anything Max’s recovery has gone by quicker because of me, because of the desire Max seems to have to please me. Michael knows this. Isabel knows this. It’s one of the main reasons she didn’t fight me when I insisted on visiting Max regularly. Only in the last three weeks or so has Isabel begun insisting that I back off.

“He likes it when I visit,” I reply to Michael, lifting my shoulders in a shrug, “I like to visit him…where’s the harm in that?”

“He’s getting attached, Liz,” Michael informs me flatly. I have no defense for that. It’s true. Max is getting attached to me…very attached. But the scary part is…so am I. “It’s not a good thing,” Michael continues, “And in the end it will hurt his recovery.”

My mouth falls open at that. “You think I’m going to hurt his recovery?” I burst out, “I would never do that! I would never--,”

“Before you go all hoity-toity hear me out,” Michael interrupts, rolling his eyes heavenward. He takes another bite of his donut. “I’m not blind, Liz. I see the way Max looks at you, how he smiles whenever you’re in the room. Hell, he started walking weeks earlier than we expected him to and all because I know he had you motivating him. But the problem is that you don’t plan on sticking around.”

“I--,”

“Isabel already told me that you’re thinking about divorce,” Michael plunges on, “If you’re not going to be there for the long haul it’s best if you’re not there at all, Liz.”

“That’s crazy!” I snap, not wanting to admit that his words are hitting their mark.

“Is it?” Michael challenges, “What happens when you go to end the marriage? Do you think Max will understand? It’s true that he’s has no concept of what it means to be husband and wife, but he does understand what it means to care about someone.” He must see that his words are piercing me because, inexplicably, his expression softens. I must admit that I’ve never been very good about masking my emotions. In any case, his words are loose their harsh edge as he continues, “Max needs stability right now, Liz. Constant routine. Just the slightest change to that could cause a setback for him. He’s not ready to have you leave him.”

“I’m not going to leave him,” I state hoarsely.

“Ever?” Michael prods, but I ignore him this time and simply walk off.

As I wander the corridor, heading down the hall for Max’s room I mentally lament how everyone seems to have advice concerning my personal life. Even my own mother couldn’t be on my side. Despite the fact she knows that I’ve had to go back to work in order to handle the bills coming in she continues to pressure me even while she realizes I’m completely stressed. Lately, things have been even worse because Max’s Family Medical Leave is almost completely gone. Once that’s over he’ll no longer receive pay from his firm.

There’s his trust fund if matters come to that, but I don’t really want to touch that money at all. Max and I decided when we first learned of my pregnancy that we’d reserve that money for Katie. We’ve never touched it for anything. It’s my strong conviction to keep that so that provokes an argument with my mother. We actually fought about it in the minutes before I left out the door for work. That and how much time I’m spending at the hospital with Max.

“You don’t eat, you don’t sleep!” she had ranted, “You spend all your time at that damned hospital! When are you going to make time for Katie!”

“I make time for Katie,” I rushed out defensively, “Besides she understands why I spend so much time away from home!”

“Really?” Mom countered, “Because she tells me something completely different!”

“Shut up, dammit!” I had exploded. In that second I couldn’t take another negative word from her. After five months of having her badger me over one issue after another I had finally snapped. “Listen to me. If you can’t be supportive of what I’m doing, if you can’t be here without being negative then you don’t need to come back.”

“Elizabeth, you don’t—,”

“I mean it,” I intoned acidly, “Either shut up or get the hell out of my house.” Suffice it to say my mother chose the latter choice. I don’t expect we’ll be exchanging words again any time soon.

As I approach Max’s door I knock softly before entering. By this time he knows my knock pretty well and I don’t have to wait for his invitation before I enter. His smile is wide and welcoming as I come to stand beside him. He’s painting again. His cheek is streaked with color and there are brilliant flecks of paint dotting his hair. He beams up at me with the pride of Michelangelo. I smile at him gently, my chest swelling with an emotion I don’t want to examine too closely. “What is it this time?” I ask. Lately, Max has become obsessed with painting nature. I suppose it’s a step up from his previous muse. In the past five months he’s developed a real affinity for cheese, particularly cheddar. He loves to paint it, but he loves to eat it even more.

I peer at his newest painting now. He’s painted orchids this time, exactly like the ones that grow outside his room window in the garden below. It is really very good. Max truly has artistic talent. It is strange that I’ve never been aware of that fact before his accident. Max had never been interested in anything other than the law. I had never considered that he might well have other talents. “It’s very good.”

His smile widens even more. “F…For you.”

I laugh softly at this. “Oh Max, you’ve given me so many,” I tell him, “You keep this one for yourself.” He only continues to smile up at me, not arguing but not agreeing to my suggestion either. He does that a lot now. Max doesn’t push for his way anymore like he used to, but only responds with pleading silence and that’s exactly what wins me over whenever we lock in these silent battles of ours.

As the seconds pass I find myself falling into his eyes, much the way I always have, only now what I see swirling within their golden depths is as foreign as it is welcome to me. His face is still the Max I’ve always known, but when I look into his eyes it is quite obvious that he is someone completely different. It’s been a slow realization but now I finally understand. The Max I knew really doesn’t exist anymore.

This Max has no baggage, no issues. He looks at everything and everyone with innocent eyes. There is completely no guile present in him. Deception, manipulation, mendacity…all these are unfamiliar concepts to him. He wouldn’t consider employing them now. He has no idea how and even if he did he wouldn’t want to. And therein lies my fascination with the man. He is nothing like my Max at all, yet he draws me to him in a way my Max never did. Never. And the strangest part of all. They are technically the same man. But they’re not.

“You keep,” he insists again, all smiles and innocence.

I can’t resist. I reach out and ruffle his thick hair. After five months it has grown quite a bit. Max absolutely refuses to allow anyone with clippers within a ten mile radius of his person, not even me. He and Isabel have argued back and forth many weeks on this issue, but Max has come away the victor every single time. I guess some things will never change. Isabel had never been able to win an argument with Max before the shooting either.

I caress his shaggy bangs back from his forehead. “Why don’t you give this one to Isabel?” I suggest softly. I’m just captivated with looking at him. He seems so open, so pure now, like I’ve never known him. A shudder passes through me at the thought because I have the sinking suspicion that I’m falling for this man all over again. I don’t want to analyze that prospect too closely…not yet.

“You stay for dinner?” Max asks me hopefully.

I shake my head sadly in response to his invitation and I am surprised by the amount of regret I feel in doing so. “I’ve got to get back home to my Katie-kins,” I remind him, “I have to make dinner for her, you know.” We’ve had several extensive conversations about Katie but Max still has no concept that she’s his daughter. Presently, the idea is completely beyond his realm of understanding. In his mind he and I are just very close friends, similar to the friendship he shares with Michael and with Isabel. He doesn’t understand the import of the term “wife.” In his world it means nothing. The doctors have advised me not to push the issue and so I don’t. I wasn’t pretending when I told Michael that I would do nothing to jeopardize Max’s recovery.

Max stares up at me in disappointment, however, obviously dissatisfied with my refusal. I try and plead my case once more. “She misses me when I’m gone,” I explain softly.

“I miss you,” Max argues, his eyes beseeching me to stay.

I can’t help but laugh at his expression. He’s not playing fair and he knows it. He even throws in a boyish pout for emphasis and, oh God, how beautiful he is to me in that moment. “One more hour,” I concede firmly. But I easily lose track of the time as Max makes an attempt to paint my portrait. His dinner is served, but remains untouched as he focuses his attention toward capturing my likeness on canvas. We are both so swept away by his task that by the time Isabel arrives to bid him goodnight it is fifteen after ten.

“Liz,” Isabel yelps in surprise, “I didn’t expect you to be here.” She pins me with a penetrating stare. “It’s late.”

“I didn’t plan on staying so long,” I tell her, already clicking on my cell phone. Sure enough there are at least four flashing messages waiting for me. I don’t have to check my voice mail to know that they’re from Maria. I imagine she’s positively livid right now. “I’d better be on my way.” I stumble over to Max where he’s practically drooping on his stool, but don’t dare a peek at the portrait. I know how touchy he is about his work being seen before it’s finished. “We’ll take this up another time,” I promise him.

“Tomorrow,” he insists decisively.

“We’ll see,” I say.

“Tomorrow.”

I’m still smiling over his stubbornness when I stop out into the hall but I hardly take two steps before Isabel is running out after me. “I thought we had an agreement, Liz,” she accuses tightly, her expression a mixture of frustration, pity and anger.

“I haven’t broken our agreement, Izzy,” I reply calmly, “I just lost track of the time…”

“He’s getting attached to you,” she says simply, “Is that what you want?”

“And if I’m getting attached to him?” I counter, hardening my jaw stubbornly.

“This is the last thing you need right now, Liz.” Isabel’s tone is infinitely gentler now. She speaks to me as she would a child and not a full-grown woman. “Of course, you’ve grown close in these last few months, but Liz, you’ve got to realize he’s not the same man you married.”

“Exactly.”

“God, Liz, why are you being so bullheaded!”

“He’s not the brother you had before either,” I point out astutely, “But you don’t love him any less, do you, Isabel?”

“You can’t compare the two, Liz.”

I know that we’re on the fast track to an argument and that’s the last thing I want, not after the fantastic visit I’ve had with Max. Besides I know I’ve got one hell of a fight waiting for me when I get home. I’d rather leave on a positive note. That’s when I notice how dressed up Isabel is, like she’s been to dinner or something. “Did you go out?” I ask her, smoothly changing the subject.

My question clearly flusters her because she begins patting at her salon coiffed hair nervously. “I…well…Alex…that is…well,” she stammers, her cheeks blooming to a full rose color.

Noting her blush, I manage to piece together her disjointed babbling. My mouth falls open when I finally figure out the reason for her floundering. “Did you just say Alex? As in Alexander Whitman? Dr. Alexander Whitman?” Isabel nods her head miserably. “You’re dating Max’s doctor!” I exclaim in incredulous shock.

“Shh!” she admonishes me sharply, giving my forearm a wicked pinch, “Why don’t you just get a foghorn, Liz, and announce it to the world?”

I rub at my smarting forearm with a small pout. “I’m just a little shocked is all.”

“So am I,” Isabel admits, her embarrassment finally giving way to a dreamy smile, “I never expected I would feel this way about someone. I think I might be falling in love.”

My responding smile is tinged with envy, but my words are sincere when I say, “I’m happy for you, Isabel.”

Isabel places her hand on my shoulder then, giving it an almost sisterly squeeze. “Don’t you see, Liz,” she implores solemnly, “I want that for you, too. You should be finding love again not spending all your time here playing nursemaid to my brother.”

I can do nothing but smile weakly in reply. After all, I can’t very well tell her that I have found love again…and with the last man I’d ever expected to steal my heart. My husband.