Goodbye, Orchid Page 3

By afternoon, Dex ushered Liv into a conference room, his normally jovial eyes red.

  “It’s bad,” he said straightaway. “He was hit by a train. He lost a lot of blood. I don’t know if—” He stopped, then tried again. “He might not make it.”

  She fidgeted with her glasses to hide her trembling hands.

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  “For now, I think he’d want us to keep it business as usual.”

  That sounded like Phoenix. She nodded.

  “I’m going to get the agency together and tell them what happened. I’m going to ask everyone to keep this from becoming a media circus. We’re an ad agency, we know how to generate PR and how to avoid it. He’s never on social media anyway, so no one needs to know. He wouldn’t want our clients losing faith in us.”

  “Okay.”

  Despite having avoided church for many years, Liv squeezed her eyes shut and brought her hands together in prayer.

  CHAPTER 6

  TAKE ME WITH YOU WHEN YOU GO

  Orchid

  MONDAY JULY 30, BEIJING CHINA

  Orchid pulled her suitcase through the echoing terminal at Beijing’s Capital Airport. Her brain tried to make sense of the unintelligible pictograms and literal translations. You’re not in Kansas anymore. She didn’t have Chinese yuan yet, so she dropped US bills into the hands of the few beggars who’d snuck into the uber-clean terminal.

  What would they do if Phoenix were here? He’d probably snag a few tourist brochures and convince her to take far-flung excursions, then research vegetarian restaurants to make sure she ate well. His long fingers would swipe a set of kitty playing cards for her from the duty-free shop. Wait, no.

  She replayed their goodbye yesterday morning in New York. Phoenix’s darkly handsome face and kind eyes shrinking back. His voice exposing his heart, which was in stark contrast to the night before. Sure, they’d drunk a lot, but his words had felt like the truth. They’d been sitting so close. On the little settee in her living room. He’d studied her, then brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. The spot where his skin had grazed hers left a trace of electricity in its path. “You are amazing. Everything about you,” he’d murmured.

  She’d read the tenderness in his eyes and leaned in, breathing in his warmth. He’d smelled of Scotch and spice. After all these months of holding back, she’d lifted her face and brought her lips to his. They were soft. He’d returned her kiss. Gently at first, then more urgently. In contrast to their months of professional distance, their closeness sent a shock through her, even more explosive than the hum she felt whenever they were in the same room. Her hands explored his ripped arms and muscular back. Lost in passion, time had no measure. While her brain was still foggy, he’d pulled back and studied her, his lids hooded and eyes wet. She had no idea how she looked. Her lips felt swollen, her cheeks raw from his stubble. He’d stood, unsteady on his feet, either from the booze, or emotion. He bent, his cheek to hers, and said something that she couldn’t hear over the buzz in her ears. Then, he’d left. Walked out her door. The next day, he barely wanted to acknowledge or talk about the attraction between them, about the night that should’ve been a turning point in their relationship.

  She hated goodbyes. They seemed so final.

  I have it bad, she thought to herself as she waited in line for a cab.

  “Lidu fan guanr.” She told the driver the name of her hotel, and settled into the back of his taxi. Seat belts would be great, except they were tucked into the fabric cover, unreachable and unusable.

  “Lidu fan dian,” he corrected her, baring teeth brown in the deep crooked crevices.

  During the drive, she practiced her Mandarin, and learned that the driver’s parents were raising his son in a faraway hometown. It was a common practice for rural citizens to move to China’s cities and send their earnings back home.

  She glanced at the time. Four a.m. in New York. Too early to call. Instead, she opened her phone and paged through photos. She paused at an image of Phoenix from their day at the beach, his familiar gaze and cobalt eyes framed by thick lashes. It seemed as if an artist had brushed an impressionistic sweep of stubble around his full lips to soften the perfection of a straight nose and masculine brow. Stop. To distract herself, she snapped a pic of her agreeable driver, and wrote a post to check on her friends. “Arrived! Miss you all already!” Nothing from Phoenix. After his refusal to talk about their relationship, she wasn’t about to be the first to make contact.

  Her hotel room smelled like cigarettes, the still-smoldering butts hurriedly ground into bedspreads, tables and any available surface. Tucked in between the pages of her book, she discovered a little reminder of Phoenix. A note from the congratulatory flowers he’d sent, his handwriting a loose and confident scrawl. At the last minute, she’d grabbed the memento as a bookmark, a talisman against anything happening during their time apart. Now, anything related to Phoenix seemed to mock her.

  In the morning, a downstairs breakfast buffet featured rectangles of turnip cake, thousand-year-old eggs (hopefully marketing puffery), sweet red bean soup with gelatinous doughballs, and Chinese cabbage in savory sauce. She wanted to share the experience with those back home.

  Orchid tapped her screen to post photos for her friends. Chats rolled in from girlfriends wishing her well. Mandy had sent a baby photo, colleagues posted funny memes, and her boss wished her a safe trip.

  Nothing from Phoenix. Jerk.

  CHAPTER 7

  NEVER FAR AWAY

  Veronica

  When the twins were little, Veronica lost herself in their innocent eyes, one pair bright like the sky, the other pair polished like obsidian. She didn’t love one child more than the other. But Caleb sure brought home the heartache. Her husband, John, said Caleb butted wills with her because he was too much like her.

  Then John died so unexpectedly. He’d been a part of her. They were supposed to retire in the next few years and travel. Even now, she would forget and turn to tell him something. Especially now, with this accident.

  The news of Phoenix’s injuries had floored her. She couldn’t bear to picture her beautiful son under a train. How could she not have realized that Phoenix was as much a part of her as John had been? Just like when the boys were little, she felt his pain as if it were her own.

  She looked past the IV line dripping fluids into him, past the tubes entering and exiting his body. She squeezed his hand.

  “Phoenix, please wake up. I need you to come back to me,” she murmured. Nothing. Silence. Just the beeping of equipment keeping him alive.

  His skin held a gray pallor, which frightened her. His jaw was slack, his body motionless. He lay so still that several times she checked to ensure he was breathing.

  He was not dying. The doctors had said so. She worried they might be wrong.

  One diminished worry only meant that another took its place. She could barely fathom his loss. She pictured his chubby-yet-firm toddler arms flung around her neck for a kiss, or his child’s long legs urging a dirt bike down the steep path behind their summer house. As a teen, he would dive over and over until he sliced through the water with perfect precision.

  Unbidden as they were, ugly ideas gripped her. Her mind tried to push away thoughts of his abilities, and now, limitations. How would he take the news she’d have to tell him? The hospital staff assured her that he’d be able to do more than she imagined. She clung to the ray of hope the nurses had given her. “Prostheses are getting better and better nowadays. He’ll be able to return to an active life.”

  She didn’t look closely at his bandages. She’d promised she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want him to hear her and bear the weight of her grief. Instead, she talked to him. Looking around, confirming Caleb was out of the room, Veronica brushed her lips over his cheek.

  “When I first held you, I knew you were a wise soul. I said you would teach me more than I co
uld teach you.” She paused. “This is not what you’re meant to teach me. Not this.”

  Then, in a cruel twist, her mind sighed relief. At least it’s not Caleb. She imagined that losing so much might undo Caleb.

  But even in her worst nightmares, she never thought this accident would undo Phoenix.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE AIR NEAR MY FINGERS

  Phoenix

  An insistent beeping stirred inside Phoenix’s brain. Its fuzzy edges grew crisper, more solid until he could no longer ignore the sound. He assessed himself, struggling to move. His mind waded through semi-consciousness to test out the weariness in his body. Eyelids resisted until he forced them open, only to close against a flash of bright white.

  A pressure on his arm let him know he wasn’t alone. A familiar voice reached him from far away. His head seemed heavier than possible. So tired.

  “Phoenix?” asked the voice again, closer now, and finally giving him the strength to pry open his eyes.

  Caleb’s face appeared, dark eyes scowling, framed by a blinding whiteness around his head as if the tattooed scoundrel had turned angel.

  “Are you okay?”

  Phoenix groaned, and shut his eyes, still unaccustomed to the light.

  “Are you in pain?” Caleb asked, protectively releasing Phoenix’s arm.

  Christ, that’s what was wrong. Everything hurt. His arms, his legs.

  His gut clenched, as he tried to roll into a position that would alleviate the fire incinerating his limbs. Moving was difficult, as if he was weighed down by sandbags.

  A chair scraped the ground. “You want me to get the doctor? Or Mom?” Caleb asked.

  “Wait.” Phoenix’s voice croaked from what seemed like years of disuse.

  “Water? You want a drink?” His brother leaned so close that Phoenix could feel his breath.

  Phoenix’s mouth felt as dry as Death Valley in August. He nodded.

  He heard liquid trickling into the hollow of a cup. He opened his eyes to reach for his brother’s hand, the cup blurry. Shit. Wires restricted his movements.

  His brother’s face came into focus, distraught, with his mouth set in a grim line.

  “What happened?”

  Caleb’s brows furrowed. “You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital.”

  “In the hospital? What do you mean?”

  This makes no sense. I need to finish a campaign pitch . . . brunch with Mom . . . Orchid.

  He twisted against the pillows, eyes shut again, exhausted by their exchange.

  His brother kept talking. Phoenix couldn’t concentrate as memories started to unlock.

  Orchid at the airport . . . back to my place before meeting Mom. The subway station. The homeless guy with the beard. Oh my God. Losing my balance, flying through the air. . . . His eyes squeezed tighter, shutting out the scenes that clamped around his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

  Can’t be.

  He struggled to move. Pain pierced through his leg, as if it was on fire.

  Caleb put a supporting hand on his brother’s shoulder. Phoenix opened his eyes to find his brother still toting the cup. He reached for the water. Clumsy with grogginess, he knocked it over. The water spilled onto the bedspread. Phoenix instinctively threw out his left hand to steady the cup.

  He whiffed air.

  Confused, he regarded his arm. Bandages ended inches above where his wrist should’ve been. Bile spiked in his throat.

  “What the—” he yelped, heart pounding from images of bloodied limbs, inanimate, lying apart from his body.

  Caleb swallowed. “I’m sorry. They couldn’t save your hand or your leg.”

  Phoenix barely registered the ache in Caleb’s voice.

  “My hand and my leg?” He didn’t recognize his own guttural cry, as his future spun 180 degrees around him.

  His mom swept into the room, setting a paper coffee cup beside his bed.

  “Oh, Phoenix, it’s going to be okay,” she said, reaching over to press the controls to elevate the head of the bed, helping to calm his flailing as he tried to sit up.

  Little by little, the room came in focus, LED bulbs glaring overhead, machines buzzing beside him. He searched wildly around the reflective surfaces of the room. He knew he needed help, but from whom and for what?

  “Mom?” he asked, confused. “What are you doing here? How’d you get here so fast?”

  “Oh, honey, I’ve been here three days.”

  Three days? Looking down, he saw sheets dipping below his left knee. He tried to kick them back to no avail.

  “No. God. No. This can’t be.”

  His mom stroked his right arm. He could feel her fingertips. “Shh, I know, sweetie. It feels bad but it’s going to be all right.”

  “Do you see what’s missing? There’s nothing left of me.”

  “All the important parts are there,” Caleb intervened.

  “The important parts?” Phoenix practically screamed. As he lifted his shoulders in a shrug of denial, the sight of his bandaged left arm provided a shocking reminder of his tragedy. Spent, disbelieving, he leaned back into the pile of pillows. “No, please no.”

  His mother pushed the bed down to a supine position. “Just rest, Phoenix. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Okay?

  His life’s dreams, gone, sublimated to nothing. How am I going to do anything? A nurse arrived with a sedative and he fell into a troubled sleep.

  An alarm shrills. The green glow of the room’s EXIT sign indicates head this way, if you can. Are one good hand and one leg enough to escape? Maybe. Crawl, drag, clutch any leg of furniture, any object along the path. Inch a broken body through empty hallways. Follow the fluorescent signs through a darkened labyrinth. Get to the fire door. Moving like an inchworm whose sightless head seeks the warmth of the sun. Work the handle with an uninjured right arm. Flames lick one foot, intact but mateless. Pushing with newfound alacrity, one shoulder abuts the door. One hand scrabbles to do the work of two.

  The heavy metal door slams shut. The heat of the flames is gone. In its place are stairs, the simplest of escape routes. For those with feet. Crawling, tumbling, falling, down the stairs until exhausted; unable to perform a simple feat from last week. Last week. The final week of living. Now there is only living hell.

  “Carry me.” Arms outstretched, beseeching.

  “Carry you?” Mother mocks. “First scramble me an egg,” she taunts.

  “Carry you?” Caleb mocks. “First cut me a line of coke.”

  “Carry you?” Father asks. “Get your lazy ass off the floor!”

  Orchid turns her face away, as if disgusted by the flailing legs of a beetle unable to right itself. She lifts me, navigating the hard-won steps I spent forty minutes tumbling down. She opens the fire door. The flames are gone. Everything is sterile. The hallway is empty. She pushes through the door to my room and, like an offering, places me on the bed. She wipes clean her clothes as if contaminated.

  In the bright white of the light, I see what shocks her. The bandages covering my stumps are gone, discarded in the struggle. My wounds lie bare and ugly. Bloody lines wind around blunt, severed limbs like moss creeping up a tree. I scream. Orchid appears, grimacing.

  “What do you need, love?” She turns her back on my disfigurement. At least she called me “love.” But then, what’s wrong?

  “Why are you crying, Orchid?”

  “I’m about to be sick.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Only when I’m here. What do you need?”

  “My limbs . . . my leg and hand. Please.”

  “Okay, love.” She departs the room.

  “No!” he shouts. “Don’t leave, please don’t leave.”

  Real hands comfort him. His mom’s voice soothes. “Shh.” She wraps one arm around his
chest. “It’s okay,” she says over and over like a mantra. “You’re okay now.”

  In the cruel darkness of that first night, ideas form, amorphous but deep-seated, never to allow what’s missing to make him dependent on another. Nor to shackle anyone else to his half-state.

  CHAPTER 9

  WEEP THEMSELVES TO SLEEP

  Phoenix

  The morning was rough. Every nerve, physical and emotional, felt raw. His mom didn’t want to leave, refusing even the bathroom until Caleb arrived.

  “Hey, how you doing?”

  Caleb seemed careful to avoid the tubes and tender spots that had pained his brother the day before. Phoenix pressed the button releasing morphine into his veins. Relief snaked its way through his bloodstream, easing the sharpness in his body and letting him care a little less.

  Phoenix stared at his brother from his propped position against a pile of pillows. He could offer nothing. Everything he thought was too awful to say, and his mind was a jumble of drugs and pain. He closed his eyes to the sight of Caleb’s worried expression. A weird jealousy arose over what previously seemed to be givens—the ability to walk, to care for oneself. Phoenix was always the more capable brother. This can’t be.

  The sound of air compressing from the vinyl chair at his bedside accompanied the pinging of the machines keeping track of his broken body. Caleb must’ve eased his mass into the guest seat.

  His mom’s heels tapped towards his bed.

  “Is he okay?” Caleb asked their mom, knowing the answer.

  “He had a bad dream,” she explained. “He’s going to be okay.”

  What do they know about being okay? And dream? That was no dream.

  No, that nightmare was Phoenix’s subconscious screaming in no uncertain terms that he was never going to be the same again. That he’d lost as much as he thought and more. That there was no point to his denial.

  “What do you need, dear? Are you hungry?”

  He wanted them to leave. He could only shake his head. Even that small motion triggered discomfort.