Pack Up the Moon (12 page)

Wednesday, May 14, 2014
11:10 a.m.

I
t didn’t happen the way it had in his Red Cross class—the cop didn’t look anything like the dummy, and he certainly wasn’t as lightweight. This guy had gone down hard and fast.

“Rafe!” he yelled. “Call 911!”

Think.
Think.
Head tilt—that was it—then chin thrust. Nolan put his ear next to the cop’s mouth. He didn’t think he could feel anything, but it was so hard to tell with the traffic still whizzing by—fuckers barely slowed down—and the wind coming up off the bay. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“No service!” yelled Rafe. The damned thing about this affluent neighborhood was there were so many trees that sometimes none of their phones worked.

“Radio it in to dispatch, then.” Nolan had to get this guy jump-started, at least. Their dispatch would call the fire department and start an ambulance, but that might take a minute or two to relay.

He unclipped the cop’s radio mike that sat on his shoulder and clicked it, waiting for a second to compose his thoughts. How did someone do this? “Mayday,” he said. “Mayday!”

A female’s irritated voice came out of the speaker at the cop’s hip. “Last unit, identify.”

“You got a cop down, just off Broadway at Highway 13, maybe a heart attack.”

There was a startled clicking from the speaker. Then, “Which officer?”

“How should I know?”

“Car number, badge number?”

Nolan leaned forward to read the silver pin. “Collins. I’m starting CPR now.”

A flurry of radio traffic that he couldn’t understand started after that, but Nolan ignored it all as he pumped the cop’s chest. Fucking bulletproof vest. He took a precious second to rip open the officer’s shirt, but Nolan couldn’t figure out how the hell the vest was attached, so he just pumped harder.

Kate stood beside him. He remembered when she’d bought those shoes—with their brown leather and red straps, he’d thought they wouldn’t go with anything, but she’d been right as usual, and they ended up being one of her favorite pairs. Eight years later, she was still wearing them. Nolan felt sweat bead along his hairline and start trickling down his face.

He gasped for breath. “When do I mouth-to-mouth?” They’d taken the same CPR course when Robin first got sick. Just in case. Ironic, really.

She fell to her knees, putting her hand under the cop’s chin. “I’ll do it. I took a refresher class last year. I’ll count for you. Keep going.”

Kate counted to thirty and told him to pause while she gave two deep breaths. Nolan felt the man’s ribs rise under his palms. “
Pump
,” she said.

Kate kept counting as the sirens grew louder. Nolan felt, rather than heard, the sickening crunch below the heel of his palm as the cop’s ribs gave way under the vest, just as his instructor had said they would if he was doing the compressions right. Holy
shit
.

They’d done eight cycles of compressions by the time the paramedics moved him to the side and took over, slicing the cop out of his vest, putting him on some kind of pumping board that did the work for them, hooking up the shock box. They said something about finding a rhythm on him, and the other four cops who were already with them on the side of the road sucked in deep, shuddery breaths. More sirens blared, all of them screaming toward them. One officer shook Kate’s hand, tears visible. Another one ran at Nolan so intently, so fast, that Nolan’s fists came up, as if he were back on C-block. But instead of knocking him over, he hugged Nolan, thumping the breath out of him. Nolan gave his name and a brief statement to another cop, who looked like he couldn’t even legally drink yet, and then turned around to look for Kate.

Both she and her car were gone. Nolan breathed heavily, wiping the sweat from his upper lip and forehead, staring at the overpass above him.

She’d slipped away, and he still had no idea what the hell she’d been trying to tell him. She’d saved a man’s life, and then she’d disappeared. Colors around him—the white scudding clouds, the wet green hills, the bright gold poppies—looked surreal, as if he were standing inside an oil painting. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe she’d painted it. Maybe he was still behind the razor wire, in his single-wide cot, surrounded by concrete walls, dreaming.

Then, just to the left of the officer’s car, flapping in the wind, he saw the cop’s ticket book. He’d filled out just her first and last name and half of her date of birth. Not even her license was written down. He looked up to see what the other cops were doing, satisfied to see them all busy with things, pointing, directing traffic, talking to the second paramedic unit that had pulled up for god only knew what reason.

With one smooth tear, Nolan ripped away the top part and the two copies of the ticket. He folded all three and put them in his pocket, keeping his eye on the guy who looked like he was in charge, the sergeant maybe. When the man walked back toward his patrol vehicle, Nolan approached him.

“I found this, sir. Didn’t know if it was important.”

The man flipped the book, looking at the copies. Was he comparing the numbers? Was he going to miss the last one? But then he looked right at Nolan and smiled while reaching out to touch Nolan’s shoulder. “We owe you a huge debt, sir.”

No one seemed to notice when he walked back to the guys—none of the cops, anyway. His guys, that was different. None of them were working; each and every one was staring as if he’d done something impossible, leaped a building or flown across four lanes of traffic.

“It was just CPR, guys.”

Delacruz said, “You saved a man’s
life
.”

“Maybe,” said Nolan. “You never know. He could just die again in the ambulance.”

“Aren’t they gonna tell you?” asked Rafe. “Keep you up to date on how he’s doing? You have to find out if he makes it or not, man. You gotta
know.
” That was so Rafe, always black or white. Right or wrong. Alive or dead.

Nolan hoped like hell they wouldn’t tell him one way or the other. He didn’t want to know. It seemed too much to handle—the weight of it felt enormous, as if the whole sky were pressing down on him. “Whatever.”

Rafe said, “Is that her? The ex?”

Nolan only nodded.

Rafe’s head swiveled worriedly, looking for the now gone car. “But . . .”

Mario yelled from inside his truck. “Back to work! I’m not gonna dock your break for that, but we gotta get this segment done before four, you got it?”

The weight of the shovel felt good in Nolan’s hands even though the way it cracked through the dirt and weeds on the steep side of the road sounded like the cop’s ribs breaking, over and over again.
Kate had been there.
If he’d wanted to, he could have reached out and touched her. Her cheek looked just as soft. She’d always had the most beautiful, natural creamy skin. Perfect strangers on the street would stop her and tell her how pretty her complexion was. They always had.

She’d been there. And then she’d gone. He didn’t know if it was a good thing she’d come. She obviously had something difficult to tell him, something she couldn’t just blurt out.

Then someone had died, at least for a few minutes, while they stood together. First time they’re together since court, and someone else dies. What were the fucking odds? Nolan felt bile rise in the back of his throat and he swallowed it back. He leaned on the shovel and watched another cloud chug over the hill toward Orinda.

Things were moving again. Every time in his life Nolan thought things weren’t ever going to move again, they slid sideways. This time he prayed he’d be able to ride it out. For once.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014
4 p.m.

P
ree held her cold Coke can against her neck and wished for a bucket of ice to shove her feet into. It was hot as hell in the office—the heater was stuck on, and the electrician couldn’t come until tomorrow. She’d known about it the day before and she should have worked from home today, but when Flynn had rolled over to touch her hip, sliding his fingers down her waist—after getting in so late she hadn’t even heard him come in—Pree had been so irritated she’d gotten up without saying a word to him, ignoring his protests.

As the morning rolled into the afternoon and the building got hotter, Pree’s nerves shredded like wet tissue paper. Heat had never bothered Pree before, but now she was finding it almost unbearable. Just one more thing about the pregnancy that she hated.

Come on. How were you supposed to know what you’d feel until you did something, anyway? What if you were just a woman who didn’t want a baby? What if you didn’t want to be pregnant? What if you didn’t want to have to make this kind of decision, period? Why should you feel
guilty
? Pree clicked to the Internet and googled, “Abortion + guilt.” She accidentally clicked on the image search, and immediately wanted to erase the images that filled her vision.

“God
damn,
” she said. People posted harsh pictures. Pree was someone who didn’t blink when a concept artist sent her porn as reference material when she was working on a character’s clothing, and the pictures of corpses they sent her to work on decomposition were more interesting than anything else, but this stuff was turning her stomach.

“You sound upset for someone designing walkways.”

“Shit!”

Jimmy stood next to her, and Pree hadn’t even heard him approach. “Remember when I asked you if you sneaked up on girls a lot? Apparently you do,” she snapped as she closed the window as fast as she could.

“Grumpy, huh?”

How much had he seen? Pree squinted and looked at him, but his face was guileless.

“Hot enough for you? Or are you watching sex tapes again?” He was teasing her—there really was no such thing as politically correct in the gaming industry.

“If I were going to complain about anything, I’d complain about Leif.” She pointed behind Jimmy to where Leif was skipping toward the back hallway wearing a Pikachu outfit and a strap-on. “I don’t even want to know what’s going on back there.”

He shrugged. “Some Furry poker game.”

“They’re not really Furries.”

“Does he look like one?”

Pree had to laugh. “Yeah. He does.”

He swung a folding chair around and straddled it. “Come on, it’s quitting time.”

“It’s four.”

“Like I said. The guys have beer.”

“I’m not playing Furry poker.”

“I’ll give you a raise.”

“Couldn’t offer me enough.” It was good, this give-and-take. Somehow intoxicating, easy, sweet, and heady. He felt it, too. She could tell, by the way he leaned forward, tipping the chair toward her, by the way he kept his eyes on hers. Pree focused on not looking away, not giving up first.

“You want a beer in my office?”

Saying yes would mean something right now, so much more than a beer.

“Drinking with the boss?” She didn’t mean drinking.

He knew she didn’t. “No strings.”

Her stomach flipped. This was the moment she’d told herself she’d walk away from. She’d sworn it to herself, knowing herself to be smarter and better than just some girl Jimmy was interested in for the moment. She thought about his wife. The fact that he was a father. “Yeah,” Pree said anyway. “Sure.”

In his office, Jimmy didn’t even bother with the pretense of offering her a beer. He reached behind her to lock the door. She didn’t move away from him. “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” he whispered against her mouth.

“I really think we should have an HR department,” she said, pulling at his belt buckle so his pelvis hit hers. Fuck Flynn. Fuck everything. Nothing mattered but this man with the sad, smoky eyes who knew exactly what effect he had on her. “Who am I going to complain to tomorrow?”

“Me, of course. I’m
great
with people.” Then he kissed her with calculation and talent, and Pree forgot about everything else. His mouth was harder than Flynn’s, rougher, just as she knew it would be.

His words were rougher, too—darker, dirtier—making her instantly wet. “Come on, little girl. I want to know what that tight little pussy of yours feels like. Little thing like you, can you take it?” She didn’t let him take off her pants, but she allowed him to slide his fingers inside her. He was good at it and she almost came, but she wouldn’t let herself.
That
would be cheating.
Like this isn’t,
her mind chided.

Pree bit Jimmy’s shoulder so he’d know she’d been there. Later, she wanted him to take off his shirt in front of the mirror and see the little ring of teeth impressed next to his clavicle. She wanted the family man to have to hide it from his family.

Then she took him in her mouth. He came with a guttural growl that sounded fake but obviously wasn’t. He tasted different than Flynn—thinner, somehow. Watered down. Pree gasped on the floor, pulling her bra back on. The dust of the carpet made her nose itch, and her knee was wedged against two surge protectors.

For just a minute, Pree wished that he’d been inside her, that she could just pretend the fetus inside her was his, that she could backdate the pregnancy somehow. Wouldn’t it change things? Wouldn’t it be better, carrying the child of a proven family man?

“I’m going to complain to management,” she said. “Jesus Christ, it’s hot in here.”

“I could say the same about you.” Jimmy twisted and wriggled sideways and opened his mini-fridge, pulling out a beer. “Want one now?”

Beer.
God, Flynn loved beer. It was his religion, he always said. The only three things he needed: Pree and beer and heating iron till it twisted.

Pree flopped backward so she could look under Jimmy’s desk. Later in the week, when he was gone for the night, she’d come back in here and slap her RARE right there, just above where his right knee probably was most days. He’d never know.

“I have to go,” she said, buttoning her jeans.

“Hey. Are you all right?” He smiled at her, and she couldn’t read it. Was it a smile he would have given to his wife? Or his daughter?

“Yeah.” She racked her brain, and then her cell beeped. She dug it out of her pocket and scanned the text.

Want to come to my place and talk? I’ll grill something.

Kate.

“My birth mother,” she said, waving the phone at him, grateful for the excuse. “We’re meeting again at her house for dinner.”

“Hey, are you really okay?”

Jimmy started to reach for her, but Pree let herself out of his office before he could say anything else. She didn’t meet Steve’s surprised eyes in the hallway. She would blame it all on the heat in the building. And raging hormones. That’s what this was.

Flynn’s face filled her vision, his sweet blue eyes, those innocent, full lips. Those hands that knew what she needed before she did.

Grabbing her backpack, she raced out of the building toward her car. She texted as she walked.
Is now ok?
Maybe Kate was working; maybe she’d disturb her flow. For one second, she allowed herself a brief fantasy of going to the art store with Kate to look at supplies. Everyone who worked there would know her, would know she was Kate’s daughter. They’d remark on the resemblance. Kate would put her arm around her in a quick hug, and they’d discuss the merits of oil sticks versus tubes.

Another text landed, a response from Kate.
Of course.
She sent the address, though Pree didn’t need it—she’d had it memorized since she’d first looked her up in the adoption database.

Pree should feel guilty, and she didn’t—not real guilt, anyway. Feeling remorse about
not
feeling more guilty was somehow unfair, right? Sorrow was stuck like a lump in her throat and she was sure if she tried to talk to anyone, she would cry.

You should have been smart enough to not get pregnant.
The words rattled around in her head, knocking against her cheeks red-hot with shame.

She
was
smart enough. Or she thought she had been, anyway. Newly graduated, in a new town, new job, she’d thought she’d pulled it off, what she’d planned. She’d been so proud of herself. That was, really, the worst part.