Kathleen Creighton - The Top Gun’s Return

It was late when Jessie heard the BMW's well-mannered thrum again. She was in bed but not asleep-Momma'd gone to bed hours ago-and the clock radio on the nightstand had just flipped from p.m. to a.m. She watched the pattern the single headlamp cast on her bedroom wall, and her heart thumped heavily in her chest.

I'll apologize, she thought. I'll tell him-not that I'm gonna quit my job…not that. A leave of absence, though…We'll talk about it. If he's got his heart set on that lake house, we'll work something out.

She lay like a board, listening for the quiet sounds of doors opening and closing…someone moving around in the kitchen…footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps passed her door and a moment later she heard the click of a door closing farther down the hallway. Tristan was sleeping in the spare room again.

Jessie put an arm across her eyes and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating…aching…and she didn't know whether it was with disappointment or relief.

Tristan was still asleep when Jessie left for work the next morning, which surprised her a little; he'd been getting up faithfully at the crack of dawn to go running. It was probably just as well, she thought. They needed to have a good long talk, which there wasn't going to be time for before she had to leave. And with things the way they were between them, it was bound to be awkward and uncomfortable. She was sorry about that, she really was.

I'll apologize, and then we'll talk about it.

But even as she thought it, a bleak little kernel of hopelessness was forming in her belly. Talk? But that's the whole trouble, isn't it? We don't seem to be doing very well in that department. Tristan won't talk at all-not about anything important. And I can't seem to get my own feelings across to him, even when I try. What hope is there for us?

God, help me. I don't know what to do.

It was 11:36 that morning when Irene, the NICU receptionist, came to tell her she had a phone call. She knew that because she glanced up at the clock before she said, "Take a message for me, will you, hon'?" She was showing the Johnsons how to hook up Rosie's heart monitor and oxygen tubes, and Rosie wasn't at all happy about it.

"Uh…you might want to take it," Irene said. "It's Alysha, down in the E.R.?"

"Okay-be just a minute…" Jessie motioned to Ray, one of the staff nurses, to come and take over for her. A call from the E.R. wasn't unusual, and meant she'd most likely be getting a new patient soon-anything from an abandoned infant to an unexpected delivery in somebody's car or maybe the EMS wagon.

At her desk she stripped off her gloves and picked up the phone. "Hey, 'Leesha, whatcha got for me today?"

"Jessie?" The E.R. supervisor's voice sounded unusually restrained. "Honey, can you come down here, ASAP?"

"Uh…sure. What-" It took that long for something in the other nurse's tone to set off warning sirens in Jessie's head. Shocks, like electrical charges, zapped through her and sizzled inside her skin. She sucked in air. "Oh God. What's happened?"

"Honey, it's your husband. EMS just brought him in. There's been an accident."

After being interrupted by Jessie's gasp, the E.R. nurse rushed on. "Don't be upset, now, okay? It looks like he's gonna be all right."

"What…what happened? Did-Is he-"

"MVA-motorcycle. Paramedics who brought him in said apparently somebody cut him off, he was going too fast to stop and went into a ditch. Or at least, the motorcycle did. Your husband went airborne." Jessie gasped; a giant hand was squeezing her heart. Then she heard Alysha's rich dark chuckle. "He was lucky-wasn't wearing a jacket or a helmet, but there don't appear to be any serious injuries-they're running a head CT right now, but he was seein' the right number of fingers. You might want to prepare yourself, though. Honey, the man is not a pretty sight. Seems he landed in a big ol' bank of blackberry bushes. Paramedics had a devil of a time getting him out. They look worse than he does. Anyway, honey, I thought you'd want to know."

"Yes…thank you-" Jessie's legs gave out and she sat down abruptly-and thank God her chair was where it needed to be. "I'll be right down." But as she fumbled the receiver back into its cradle she felt hollow and sick and cold. There was a rushing noise in her ears, and she knew better than to try to go anywhere until the blood that had drained from her head found its way back again.

Oh God…Tris. What were you thinking? What are you doing? Or trying to do…

No! As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she rejected it. Rejected it with a vehemence born of panic. No-it couldn't be that. Tristan couldn't be suicidal. He couldn't be. He'd fought too hard to survive, to get back home. Now that he'd made it, he wouldn't throw it all away-he wouldn't.

And yet…she remembered the autobahn, and that strange, wild light in his eyes. She remembered, from too many other times, the bleakness there, as well. And the painful, bitter irony of his smile.

Unless… Understanding hit her with the smothering force of an avalanche. Unless he doesn't believe he's made it back. And is afraid he never will. Oh God, Tris…

Remorse and helplessness overwhelmed her, and she lowered her forehead into her hand and closed her eyes. I don't know enough about this, she thought, thumb and forefinger rubbing desperate circles over her temples that didn't ease the ache behind them. Tris, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you. I wish I did…

And then, as if those words did have the sort of magic fairy tales so often ascribe to them, it came to her that she did know how she might be able to help Tris. Maybe.

She sat up straight. Yes, she thought. I'll do it. He's not gonna like it, but…too bad. Taking her pocketbook from the bottom drawer of her desk, she set it on her lap and opened it. Took out her wallet, and from it extracted a business card. Gazing at it, she drew the phone toward her, lifted the receiver and punched in a number.

She didn't expect anyone to answer. She expected voice mail, or a recording instructing her to dial her party's extension, or press one for this or that option. Instead, after three rings, she heard a vaguely familiar voice say briskly, "Cory Pearson."

"It looks worse than it is," Tristan muttered, squirming under Jessie's unwavering gaze. She hadn't said a word to him, yet, just stood there in the doorway of his E.R. cubicle with her hands tucked in the pockets of her smock and looked at him. He'd expected her to be upset-angry, or crying, maybe-but as far as he could tell, she wasn't any of those things. He couldn't read her at all. Once he'd been able to, like a book. But now he couldn't. He'd have better luck trying to figure out what a stranger was thinking.

But then, he reminded himself, that's what she was now. A stranger.

She came toward him, her face calm…almost serene, and he found himself experiencing rather childish twinges of pique. He'd been in a motorcycle accident, for God's sake, she ought to be a little bit upset. Then he was instantly ashamed of himself. What she ought to do, he told himself, is kick your butt.

"You look like you tried to break up a cat-fight." She reached out to carefully finger the hair back from his forehead, uncovering one of his more spectacular contusions. She examined the neat and tidy little bandages that held it together, then let the hair fall back over it. Her touch felt cool…impersonal. Something inside him squalled in protest of that, like a child with a skinned knee. "So…what happened?"

"Ah, some idiot cut me off. Didn't have time to stop, so I opted to ditch…so to speak." His lips twitched themselves into a smile. Sort of. "Still have my flying reflexes, anyway."

Her eyes were quiet and dark. "What shape is the bike in?"

He made a face, as if he'd felt a twinge of pain-which he had. His brand-new bike. Jeez. "I don't know. Didn't look too bad, what I saw of it before they carted me off, anyway. Damn," he added mournfully.

"You were lucky," she said in a shaking voice. He saw her throat move with her swallow, and remorse wrapped him in its clammy blanket.

"I've had a hell of a lot worse," he growled, and when her eyes flicked toward him, glossy with pain, he wanted to throttle himself. He must be more shaken-up than he realized, to have said something that dumb.

"Well," she said stiffly, "I guess I wouldn't know about that." Her mouth had a wounded look, and he felt dismal and misunderstood. She didn't have a clue what he was doing for her. What he was saving her from by not telling her how it had been for him. Probably, he thought, with a cold gray sense of futility, she never would.

"So," he said, "when are they gonna let me out of here?"

She took a lifting breath, like a mark of punctuation, accepting the change of subject with what he was certain was relief. Like turning our backs on the damned elephant in the room, he thought. So be it.

"You're gonna have to ask the doctor about that," she said, cool and impersonal again, looking past him with her hands in the pockets of her smock. "They've got you scheduled for X rays…some other tests…just to make sure you haven't got any internal injuries…" And he saw the way her throat kept rippling, and how tight her mouth looked, and he realized she wasn't as unmoved as she'd tried to appear.

His feelings for her welled up in him like a pot boiling over-nothing he could do to stop it. He called softly to her, and his voice made a gravelly sound. "Jessie-honey." He held out a hand and she hung back from him for a long, angry moment, as if touching him was about the last thing she wanted to do. "Come on, Jess-please…" his torn, wretched voice pleaded, and she gave in with a breathy whimper of defeat. As she let him take her hand he could see her fighting back tears. He reeled her in so he could get his hand around the back of her neck, then closed his eyes and with a gusty sigh, pulled her close and tucked her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder. "Honey, I'm all right…I'm okay."