“You shouldn’t have jumped,” Mitch finally said after Taylor hadn’t responded.
Taylor raised his head sluggishly, wiping the water from his face. “It just looked dangerous,” he said flatly.
“That’s because it was dangerous. But I was thinking more about the car that followed you into the water. You could have been crushed.”
I know....
“That’s why I swam under the bridge,” he answered.
“But what if it had fallen sooner? What if the engine had blown twenty seconds earlier? What if you’d hit something submerged in the water, for God’s sake?”
What if?
Then I’d be dead.
Taylor shook his head, numb. He knew he’d have to answer these questions again, when Joe grilled him in earnest. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said.
Mitch studied him with concern, hearing the flat discomfort in his voice. He’d seen this look before, the shell-shocked appearance of someone who knew he was fortunate to be alive. He noticed Taylor’s shaking hands and reached over, patting him on the back. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Taylor nodded, too tired to speak.
Chapter 17
Later that evening, once the situation on the bridge was fully under control, Taylor got in his car to head home. As he’d suspected, Joe had asked every question Mitch had and more, walking him through every decision and the reasons for it, covering everything two or three times. Though he was still as angry as Taylor had ever seen him, Taylor did his best to convince him that he hadn’t acted recklessly. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t want to jump. But if I hadn’t, neither of us would have made it.”
To that, Joe had no reply.
His hands had stopped shaking, and his nervous system had gradually returned to normal, though he still felt drained. He was still shivering as he made his way down the quiet rural roads.
A few minutes later Taylor walked up the cracked cement steps to the small place he called home. He’d left the lights on in his haste to leave, and the house was almost welcoming when he entered. The paperwork from his business was still spread on the table, the calculator had been left on. The ice in his water glass had melted.
In the living room he could hear the television playing in the background; a ball game he’d been listening to had given way to the local news.
He set his keys on the counter and pulled off his shirt as he walked through the kitchen to the small room where he kept the washer and dryer. Holding open the lid, he dropped the shirt in the washer. He slipped off his shoes, then kicked them against the wall. Pants, socks, and underwear went in with the shirt, followed by detergent. After starting the washer, he grabbed a folded towel from the top of the dryer, made his way to the bathroom, and took a quick hot shower, rinsing the brackish water from his body.
Afterward he ran a quick brush through his hair, then walked through the house, turning everything off before slipping into bed.
He turned out the lights almost reluctantly. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but despite his exhaustion he suddenly knew that sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, immediately upon closing his eyes, the images of the past several hours began to replay in his mind. Almost like a movie, some moved in fast-forward, others in reverse, but in each case they were different from what had actually happened. His were not the images of success—his were more like nightmares.
In one sequence after another, he watched helplessly as everything went wrong.
He saw himself reaching for the victim, he heard the crack and felt a sickening shudder as the ladder snapped in two, sending both of them to their death—
Or . . .
He watched in horror as the victim reached for his outstretched hand, his face contorting in terror, just as the car tipped over the bridge, Taylor unable to do anything to stop it—
Or . . .
He felt his sweaty hand suddenly slipping from the cable as he plunged downward, toward the bridge supports, toward his death—
Or . . .
While hooking the harness, he heard a strange ticking immediately before the truck engine exploded, his skin tearing and burning, the sound of his own screams as his life was taken from him—
Or . . .
The nightmare he’d been living with since childhood—
His eyes snapped open. His hands were trembling again, his throat dry. Breathing rapidly, he could feel another adrenaline surge, though this time the surges made his body ache.
Turning his head, he checked the clock. The red glowing digital lights showed that it was nearly eleven-thirty.
Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, he turned on the lamp by his bedside and began to dress.
He didn’t understand his decision, not really. All he knew was that he needed to talk.
Not to Mitch, not to Melissa. Not even to his mother.
He needed to talk to Denise.
The parking lot at Eights was mostly empty when he arrived. One car was parked off to the side. Taylor pulled his truck into the space nearest the door and checked his watch. The diner would be closing in ten minutes.
He pushed open the wooden door and heard a small bell jingle, signaling his entrance. The place was the same as always. A counter ran along the far wall; it was here that most truckers sat during the early morning hours. There were a dozen square tables in the center of the room beneath a circulating ceiling fan. On either side of the door beneath the windows were three booths, the seats covered in red vinyl, small tears in every one of them. The air smelled of bacon despite the lateness of the hour.
Beyond the far counter, he saw Ray cleaning up in the back. Ray turned at the sound of the door and recognized Taylor as he stepped in. He waved, a greasy dishtowel in his hand.
“Hey, Taylor,” he said. “Long time no see. You comin’ in to eat?”
“Oh, hey, Ray.” He looked from side to side. “Not really.”
Ray shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Somehow, I didn’t think so,” he said almost mischievously. “Denise’ll be out in a minute. She’s putting some stuff in the walk-in. You here to ask if you can drive her home?”
When Taylor didn’t answer right away, Ray’s eyes gleamed. “Did you think you were the first one to come in here, that lost puppy-dog look on your face? There’s one or two a week comin’ in here, looking just like you do now, hoping for the same thing. Truckers, bikers, even married guys.” He grinned. “She’s somethin’, that’s for sure, ain’t she? Pretty as a flower. But don’t worry, she ain’t said yes to one of ’em yet.”
“I wasn’t . . .” Taylor stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Of course you were.” He winked, letting it sink in, then lowered his tone. “But like I said, don’t worry. I’ve got a funny feeling she just might say yes to you. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
All Taylor could do was stare as Ray vanished from sight. Almost immediately Denise came out from the kitchen area, pushing through a swinging door.
“Taylor?” she said, clearly surprised.
“Hi,” he said sheepishly.
“What are you doing here?” She started toward him, smiling curiously.
“I wanted to see you,” he said quietly, not knowing what else to say.
As she walked toward him he took in her image. She wore a white, work-stained apron over her marigold yellow dress. The dress, short-sleeved and V-necked, was buttoned as high as it would go; the skirt reached just past her knees. She wore white sneakers, something her feet would be comfortable in, even after standing for hours. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her face was shiny from her own perspiration and the grease in the air.
She was beautiful.
She was aware of his appraisal, but as she neared, she saw something else in his eyes, something she’d never seen before.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, almost to himself.
She stared up at him, concerned, then looked over her shoulder.
“Hey, Ray? Can I take a quick break here for a second?”
Ray acted as if he hadn’t even noticed that Taylor had come in. He continued to clean the grill as he spoke.
“Take your time, sweetheart. I’m just about done here, anyway.”
She faced Taylor again. “Do you want to sit down?”
It was exactly the reason he’d come, but Ray’s comments had thrown him off. All he could think about were the men who came to the diner looking for her.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” he said.
But Denise, as if knowing exactly what to do, smiled sympathetically.
“I’m glad you did,” she said softly. “What happened?”
He stood silently before her, everything rushing at him at once. The faint smell of her shampoo, his desire to put his arms around her and tell her everything about the evening, the waking nightmares, how he longed for her to listen . . .
The men who came to the diner looking for her . . .
Despite everything, that thought erased those of the night’s drama. Not that he had any reason to be jealous. Ray had said she’d always turned the others down, and he hadn’t established a serious relationship with her. Yet the feeling gripped him anyway. What men? Who wanted to take her home? He wanted to ask her but knew it wasn’t his place.
“I should go,” he said, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be here. You’re still working.”
“No,” she said, seriously this time, sensing that something was troubling him. “Something happened tonight. What was it?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said simply.
“About what?”
Her eyes searched his, never turning away. Those wonderful eyes. God, she was lovely. Taylor swallowed, his mind whirling. “There was an accident on the bridge tonight,” he said abruptly.
Denise nodded, still uncertain of where this was going. “I know. It was quiet here all night. Hardly anyone came in because the bridge was closed. Were you there?”
Taylor nodded.
“I heard it was terrible. Was it?”
Taylor nodded again.
She reached out, her fingers gently taking hold of his arm. “Hold on, okay? Let me see what still needs to be done before we close up.”
She turned from him, her touch slipping from his skin, and went back to the kitchen. Taylor stood in the diner, alone with his thoughts for a minute, until Denise came back out.
Surprisingly, she walked past him toward the front door, where she reversed the “Open” sign. Eights was closed.
“Everything in the kitchen’s shut down,” she explained. “I’ve got a few things to do and then I’ll be ready to go. Why don’t you wait for me, okay? We can talk at my house.”
Taylor carried Kyle to the truck, his head on Taylor’s shoulder. Once inside, he immediately curled around Denise, never awaking in the process.
Once they were home, the procedure was reversed, and after sliding Kyle from Denise’s lap, Taylor carried him into the house to his bedroom. He put Kyle in his bed, and Denise immediately pulled the sheet over him. On the way out the door, she pushed the button on his plastic glowing teddy bear, hearing the music come on. She left the door halfway open as they both crept out of his room.
In the living room, Denise turned on one of the lamps as Taylor sat on the couch. After a slight hesitation, Denise sat in a separate chair, catercorner to the couch.
Neither one of them had said anything on the way home for fear of waking Kyle, but once they were seated Denise went straight to the point.
“What happened?” she asked. “On the bridge tonight.”
Taylor told her everything: about the rescue, what Mitch and Joe had said, the images he’d been tormented by afterward. Denise sat quietly as he talked, her eyes never leaving his face. When he was finished, she leaned forward in her seat.
“You saved him?”
“I didn’t. We all did,” Taylor said, automatically making the distinction.
“But how many of you went out on the ladder? How many of you had to let go because the ladder wouldn’t hold?”
Taylor didn’t answer, and Denise rose from her seat to sit next to him on the couch.
“You’re a hero,” she said, a small grin on her face. “Just like you were when Kyle was lost.”
“No, I’m not,” he said, images of the past surfacing against his will.
“Yes, you are.” She reached for his hand. For the next twenty minutes they talked about inconsequential things, their conversation wandering here and there. At last Taylor asked about the men who wanted to drive her home; she laughed and rolled her eyes, explaining it away as part of the job. “The nicer I am, the more tips I get. But some men, I suppose, take it the wrong way.”
The simple drift of the conversation was soothing; Denise did her best to keep Taylor’s thoughts away from the accident. As a child, when she’d had nightmares, her mother used to do the same thing. By talking about something else, anything else, she would finally be able to relax.
It seemed to be working for Taylor as well. He gradually began to speak less, his answers coming more slowly. His eyes closed and opened, closed again. His breaths settled into a deeper rhythm as the demands of the day began to take their toll.
Denise held his hand, watching until he nodded off. Then she rose from the couch and retrieved an extra blanket from her bedroom. When she gave him a nudge, Taylor lay down and she was able to drape the blanket over him.
Half-asleep, he mumbled something about having to go; Denise whispered that he was fine where he was. “Go to sleep,” she murmured as she turned off the lamp.
She went to her own room and slipped out of her workclothes, then into her pajamas. She untied her ponytail, brushed her teeth, and scrubbed the grease from her face. Then, after crawling into bed, she closed her eyes.
The fact that Taylor McAden was sleeping in the other room was the last thing she remembered before she, too, nodded off.