Читать книгу In Your Dreams - Kristan Higgins - Страница 12
ОглавлениеON THURSDAY, WITH a knifelike winter wind slicing off the lake, Jack went into the Cask Room, the stone basement where they stored the oak barrels filled with the red wines of Blue Heron. The cool walls, the distinctive smell of fieldstone, the dim lighting all spoke to the centuries-old art of wine making.
Time was the most important factor. In most things, he supposed. Too little time, and the wine wouldn’t have the chance to mature and develop all the levels of taste and texture. Too much time, and the color would muddy and the flavor would fade.
Like Josh Deiner. Too much time without air. Too much time underwater.
One of the victims sustained a head injury and possible anoxic brain damage. He was the last one rescued.
That had been the report on the news. Jack had watched every minute of the coverage; he’d programmed his DVR to catch every story, every mention, hoping for a hint of something positive for Josh. The kid wasn’t dead. That was it.
He wasn’t dead yet, that was. Nor had he improved.
Jack realized he was sweating, despite the coolness of the cellar. He really needed to get some sleep.
Two nights ago, he’d come home from work to find his front door wide open and every light on; yet he had a clear memory of locking the door, as he did every morning, a leftover from living in Washington, D.C. When the hell had he gone upstairs and turned lights on up there? He had no clue, and it was unnerving. Jeremy Lyon, who was a family friend and a doctor, had called Jack to check on him; maybe Jack would ask for a prescription for a sleeping pill.
His phone buzzed with a text.
Thinking of u.
Hadley. Frankie had caved and given her sister the number, then called to apologize.
Hadley was the wine that hadn’t aged enough—bright and beautiful in color, vibrant and lively at first taste, and then the lingering tannin, the cottony, unpleasant feeling. Too much, too soon.
Dinner w/ me & Frankie this week?
Playing the Frankie card so soon? Frankie sometimes came out to have dinner with Jack, sharing stories about school and herself and not mentioning her sister. She’d called right after the news of the accident hit and sent him a few texts since then. Jack had always liked her.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket, pulled the plug on the side of the barrel and inserted the sampling tube. He let it fill and then poured the wine into the glass. Swirled and inhaled the scent, getting notes of blackberry, tobacco and leather. Nice. He took a sip. Nope, not ready yet. Too cottony.
The door at the top of the stairs opened, and his youngest sister came waddling down the stairs. Her giant golden retriever, Blue, followed, making a beeline for Jack’s leg.
“Hello, you horny bastard,” he said. The dog smiled up at him, happy dope that he was.
“Hey, Jack,” Faith said.
“Hey. Should you be down here in your delicate condition?”
“I have at least seven weeks to go. Also, Goggy brought in half a ton of grapes the day she went into labor with Dad, and Pru drove the grape harvester the day Ned was born, so I think I can handle the stairs.” She handed him a foil-wrapped package. “Lemon cake from Mrs. Johnson. I was told not to eat any. It’s so unfair, you being her favorite.”
“I can’t help being perfect,” he said in a pale imitation of his usual back-and-forth with his sisters. The cake was still warm. He’d eat some later, maybe. Then again, his appetite hadn’t been so good.
Faith sat at the old wooden table. “Can I smell the wine, at least?”
He handed her the glass, and she took a deep sniff of the wine. “Oh, nice. Leather and plum. This’ll be great in a few months, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
She settled back in her chair and rested her hands on her bulging stomach. “So how are you doing these days, buddy?”
“Good. Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Thanks.” He wasn’t about to burden her with tales of limp, lifeless teenagers. “I’m fine, Faithie.”
“Good. You know, we all love you, even if you’re a little prince.”
“Please. I’m head winemaker for our family dynasty. You, on the other hand, plant pretty flowers.” Faith was a landscape architect, and while he completely respected what she did, he wasn’t about to tell her. It would throw off his big-brother coolness.
“I’ll ignore that. So, Jack.”
“Yes, what’s-your-name?”
“You know Emmaline, right?”
“Sure.”
“She needs a date for her ex-fiancé’s wedding.”
“Okay.”
“It’s—wow, that was easy.” Her dog came over and sat next to her, putting his cinder-block-size head on her knee, and Faith scratched his ears. “It’s in California—that’s the thing. It’d be the whole weekend. Colleen’s going, too. She knew the bride in college.”
“No problem.” It was winter, things were slow and, man, it’d be fantastic to get out of town, somewhere warm where people didn’t want to ask what it was like to save those kids. “Who am I going with again?”
“Emmaline, dummy. The cop.”
“Right. Tell her yes.”
“Hooray! And here we thought you had no purpose in life.” Faith grinned. “Would you tell her, so this doesn’t feel so eighth grade?”
“But it is so eighth grade, Faithie. That’s what you love about it.”
“Just obey me, okay? I’m brewing you a nephew.” She stood up and rubbed her lower back. “You like her, right? I mean, you’ll be a good date and all that?”
“Sure. She’s the best right wing on the hockey team.”
“Women love to hear that kind of thing.”
“I’ll mention it, then.” He opened another barrel. “Anything else, whoever you are?”
“Yes. Will you be the baby’s godfather?”
He did a double take. “Sure. Thanks, Faith.” He went over and kissed her head. “I guess I figured it would be Jeremy. Or Tom.”
“Jeremy and Tom aren’t my beloved, much-worshiped older brothers.”
Jack smiled, and this time, it felt genuine. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you told Megan Delgado that I had roundworm.”
“Hey, I did you a favor,” she retorted.
“Did you? Because last time I looked, she was still incredibly gorgeous.”
“And speaking of gorgeous women—”
“Smooth.”
“I know. Speaking of gorgeous, I hear Hadley’s back in town.”
“Yep.”
“Is she looking to reconcile?” Faith asked.
“Yep.”
“You interested?”
“Nope.”
“Why now?” Faith asked. “Did she see the rescue coverage or something?”
“Yes.” He removed Blue from his leg. The dog looked a little blurry. That wasn’t a good sign.
“Jack, come on! I get enough one-word answers from Levi when he’s grumpy.”
“Uh, yeah. She saw something on the news and thought I might need her.”
“Do you?”
“Like I need roundworm.” His inner ear ached.
Faith smiled. “So you want Pru and Honor and me to go beat her up? We could bring Mrs. Johnson. She never liked her.”
“I’ll let you know.”
The water had been cold like he’d never felt before. Cold enough that his bones hurt.
“So this wedding comes at a great time, then,” Faith said.
Jack gave his head a little shake. “What wedding?”
“Jack! Jeesh! The wedding you just said you’d go to. Emmaline’s fiancé.”
“Right, right. I’ll stop by the station. Now get out of here and go plan your next garden. I have wine to check.” He paused. “Thanks for godfather. That means a lot, Faith. Tell Levi, okay?”
“I love you,” she said, giving him a hug.
“Love you, too.” She always smelled like vanilla cookies or something, his youngest sister, and Jack hugged her back, the blurry, floating feeling fading a little.
Faith pulled back. “Oh! The baby just kicked. He knows his uncle Jack is here.” She put his hand on her stomach, and Jack felt a strange, firm, wavelike motion.
His nephew. A little boy who’d dig in the dirt and play with trucks and learn to drive the harvester years before he could drive a car, and when he did drive a car, his uncle Jack would put the fear of God in him, and that kid would never, ever, ever drink and drive and crash—
He removed his hand and cleared his throat. “Got any names picked out yet?”
“No,” she sighed. “Levi says whatever I want is fine, which makes me insane.”
“Heartless bastard.”
“I know. It won’t be John...I’m saving that for you, so you can have John the Fifth. If you ever get married and produce the Holland grandchild. Not that Mrs. J. has been complaining about that or anything. Or Goggy. I was over at Rushing Creek today, and she said, ‘Oh, sure, it’s wonderful that you’re having a baby, Faith, but I want a Holland baby to carry on the family name.’”
“Let’s not forget my superior gene pool,” Jack said. He paused. “But if you want to name the little guy John, go ahead, Faith. Dad would love it.”
“Nope,” she said. “You’re John Noble Holland the Fourth. You get to have Number Five if you want. If you can trick some woman into marrying you, that is.” Then, realizing that perhaps his marital state was a sore subject with his ex-wife in town, she added, “Sorry.”
His heart was beating way, way too fast. “Don’t worry about it. Actually, do worry about it. Make me a cake or something, and I’ll forgive you. Now get out of here. I mean it.”
Because a flashback was coming, and Jack wanted to be alone when it hit.
* * *
ON THE DAY the car went into the lake, Jack had been waiting twenty years to save a life.
For twenty years, he’d never been in quite the right spot at quite the right moment. For twenty years, it seemed like he’d always been five minutes too late or five minutes too early, just missing the chance to help.
For twenty years, he’d had to live with the image of his youngest sister trapped in the crumpled wreck with their mother’s body, and for twenty years, he’d been waiting for the chance to make up for that. Not that the thought made sense—he’d been away in college when his mother had died, but the thought that his little sis had been alone, in shock, with no one to help for more than an hour...that his mother had had no one to hold her hand in her last moment...that no one had come to help for far too long... Of course it left a mark.
From that day on, Jack had been on alert. He joined the navy thinking he might try to become a SEAL, but Uncle Sam had other plans after seeing his test scores, so to the lab he went. It was fine; he still had to train, improved his swimming skills, get advanced scuba licenses—open water diving and specialized rescue, black water search, whatever he could.
But that feeling never went away, even after his service was done.
Every time a car raced past him on the highway at ninety miles an hour, every time he saw a motorcyclist tearing around town without a helmet, the pictures would unfold. The accident. The victims. What he would do, how he would help, how he’d make sure his own pickup truck was pulled safely off the road, how he’d call 911 as he ran, how he’d pull the driver from the car or out of the road and put pressure on the wounds until help came. He had a fire extinguisher in his car (didn’t everyone?) and a window-breaking tool on his key chain, as well as a hammer in the glove box. Flares. A first aid kit, a really good flashlight (batteries changed twice a year), a seat-belt cutter and a blanket.
In the summer if he was down at the lake, he’d count the kids in the water and check to make sure parents were alert and not too engrossed in their books or conversations or phone games. When the flight attendants went over safety procedures, Jack listened, then looked at his fellow passengers and noted who would need help should their plane land on the Hudson or in an Iowa cornfield.
As Honor said, a hobby was a hobby.
Jack put his training to work and became a volunteer rescue diver for the Manningsport Fire Department. He was certified for ice rescue and as a lifeguard. He was an EMT.
And still, he’d never saved a soul. Last spring, when his grandparents’ house had burned down, it was Honor who’d done the heroics; Jack’s house was way up on the ridge, about as far away from the Old House as you could get on Blue Heron land. By the time he’d gotten down there, Honor had already saved their grandmother’s life, with a little help from her fiancé.
But on January 12, Jack had gone down to the dock to take photos. He loved winter, loved the brilliant red sunsets at dusk and the cold wash of the Milky Way at midnight. From here, he could see the Crooked Lake to the east and all the way up to Blue Heron to the west. So around 4:30 p.m., he was taking photos of the fields where the snow and dormant vines stood in stark contrast to each other. The sky over Rose Ridge deepened, promising one of western New York’s famous sunsets. There might even be the aurora borealis later on.
At times like this, the power of the land spoke to him. It wasn’t just the fact that the Holland family had helped found this town, that his ancestors and grandparents and parents had worked this land. It was the area itself: the cold, deep lakes, the gorges and waterfalls, the fertile, rocky soil.
This kind of thing reminded him of how much he had. A family—three married sisters, a niece and a nephew and another on the way. His father and stepmother. A job he loved. His, uh...his cat. His health. All that good stuff.
It was just that lately, Jack had been feeling a little...unfinished.
After twenty years of being a widower, Dad had gotten married last spring. Which was great, because Mrs. Johnson was the world’s finest woman and had been like a surrogate mother since Jack’s mom had died. Pru and Carl had been together for nearly twenty-five years. Honor and Faith both married recently. Goggy and Pops had recently fallen in love after sixty-five cantankerous years of marriage, thanks to the fire.
Jack...Jack had gotten divorced after eight months of marriage.
And then he heard the car. Judging from the sound of the engine, it seemed as if the car was going at least sixty miles an hour in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone.
He turned away from the water and waited, oddly calm. The car would crash. How could it not, going that fast?
Then again, he’d had that same thought hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.
None of that ever happened, but the instinct—to watch over, pay attention, be alert, be ready—was a reflex. His rational brain knew how unlikely it was that what he feared and watched for would come to pass.
But he looked up the hill anyway. In another few seconds, he’d be able to see the car as it came down the curve on Lake Shore Road, thirty feet up the hill from Keuka.
Later, when people heard about the accident, how Jack of all people happened to be there at that exact moment, they said the usual things—everything happens for a reason, it was a miracle, God works in mysterious ways.
To Jack, however, it was more of a statistics thing. All these years not being there had to end eventually.
Almost automatically, he processed what might happen: the car swerving off the road as the driver tried to handle the curving road, the vehicle rolling over and over into Blue Heron’s chardonnay vines, which were closest to the road. Or the car would smash into the same telephone pole he himself had scraped when he was sixteen.
Worse, the car would hit the big maple at the base of the entrance to Blue Heron. The driver was a teenage boy, Jack guessed, because there was no one on earth who believed in his driving skill and immortality more than a teenage boy.
Hopefully, everyone in the car was wearing a seat belt. The windows would be closed, since it was January, so no one would be thrown from the car. Going that fast, though, even with air bags...
The engine screamed with a downshift as the hotdogging kid played with his life.
And here it was. The screech of brakes applied too late. Jack tensed for the crunch of metal as the car rolled or hit a tree, the subsequent, constant blare of a horn.
The sound came, but it wasn’t what Jack expected.
Instead, there was a sharp, oddly clean noise, and Jack felt his mouth drop open as the car burst through the guardrail, snapping off the topmost branches of the hillside trees. It sailed over his head, its engine still revving, tires spinning. Jack had a detailed view of the chassis.
And then there was a tremendous whoosh as the car hit the water nose-first—the lake wasn’t frozen; it was too deep for that. There was a massive slosh, and a crow screeched from a tree and Jack saw the white, terrified faces of two boys. Yep, teenagers.
The car was a silver coupe. An Audi. The nose started to sink almost immediately, the headlights shining down into the lake. The sky was red and purple, helluva sunset, his boots were off and he was diving. He much would’ve preferred to do this in August, and holy mother of God, the water was cold.
For a second, the frigid shock slammed all other thoughts from his head as every muscle in his body contracted in shock even as he was cutting through the water (thank you, United States Navy; they’d trained him to act first and think later).
His bones already hurt from the cold.
The boys were screaming, their voices muffled by the closed windows. Damn. The best thing would’ve been if the windows were already open, giving them an exit. One boy was pounding it with his fist. Pointless, since that wouldn’t break anything except a bone in his hand. The electrical must’ve already gone out, if they couldn’t get the windows down by pushing the button. Or they were just panicking and not thinking of it.
Now the boy was hitting the door with his shoulder. Also pointless with several tons of water pressing against the doors. No, they’d have to break the windows and get out that way, or let enough water in to equalize the pressure and then open the door.
But they don’t teach that in high school, and, yes, Jack thought he recognized one of the boys as a classmate of his niece, Abby. Seniors or thereabouts.
The thoughts shot through his head rapid-fire.
The water would be flooding in through the front of the car.
They maybe had five minutes before the car was submerged. Maybe eight, but that’d be pushing it. That is, eight for hypothermia. Obviously less time if they couldn’t breathe.
Jack’s arms already felt heavy and dead. Not good. No, strike that, no negative thoughts permitted. Just move. He made it to the car, which was now halfway into the lake at a forty-five degree angle, the water up to the middle of the windows. Four boys, two in front, two in back, one with blood on his face. The driver was slumped over the wheel.
“Help us! Help!” the bleeding boy pleaded, and it wasn’t like Jack wasn’t trying.
He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the window breaker he had on his key chain. Ten bucks on Amazon, and not only did he have one, but every member of his family did, too. His dexterity was off, thanks to the cold, his fingers clumsy and slow.
One of the kids had his iPhone out. Good. Help would be on the way. Then again, by the time the fire department got here, the boys would be drowned. They’d all drown, Jack included, or die of hypothermia. How many minutes had he been in the water? One? Two?
The car was slipping deeper.
There. His numb fingers closed around the little device. Pressed it against the window, his hands shaking hard, and it slipped right off.
“Hurry! Hurry!” the bleeding boy screamed.
“You can do this,” said another, oddly calm, voice muffled behind the glass.
Jack positioned the tool again, pushed hard and the window shattered, water rushing in.
The car immediately began sinking faster, but already, one boy was wriggling through the window. Jack grabbed the collar of his coat and hauled him out. Did the same with the second, the calm one, Sam Miller, that was his name. “Get to the dock,” he said. They were already swimming. They’d make it.
The driver, on the other hand, wasn’t moving, which was not good, and the bleeding boy was screaming. Should’ve been out by now.
The tail of the car slipped underwater with a gurgling sound.
And then it was quiet.
Jack grabbed on to the roof and went with the car, the water gripping his face and head with a fist of ice. Through the window, the boy grabbed on to his arms. Jack pulled him free, but it was hard, the car was tipping in the water, nose down, the headlights shining into the eerie dark water.
The boy was free, and Jack kicked his numb legs, hoping they were moving upward. His lungs burned; the rest of him was dead. Then they surfaced, and the air was so cold it hurt, but damn. The kid choked and gasped, still clutching Jack.
“Relax and kick,” Jack said, his lips hard with the cold, his breath clouding the air. The boy just grabbed Jack harder, so Jack looped his arm around the boy’s neck and swam.
The dock was sixteen, twenty feet away, maybe. He could make it.
How many minutes had it been? Three? Five? More?
Sam was on the ladder of the dock, reaching out for them. He and the other boy grabbed their friend by the arm, silent with shock and shivering with cold.
Jack was already swimming away.
“I can help!” Sam called.
“Stay there,” Jack ordered.
He was also shivering. No, shuddering. This wasn’t good. This was Hypothermia: Stop Fucking Around edition.
Still...what was the word? Still...survivable.
The last boy, the driver—probably dead. Drowned, if not killed on impact. Jack himself would probably...what did they call it? Oh, yeah. Die trying.
It was getting hard to think. Advanced hypothermia.
So quiet now, the red sky above, the frigid water all around.
The cold didn’t hurt so much.
The car’s headlights were still on. Jack wasn’t sure why.
A deep breath, a hard exhale, a deeper breath, and he was under again, swimming as hard as he could and still too slowly.
The car rested on the driver’s side on the bottom of the lake. Ten feet deep, give or take. A fish swam in front of the headlights, then was gone into the darkness.
Jack tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked or jammed. But the window was smashed. The dashboard was still lit up. The clock said 4:41.
He reached in for the driver, who looked oddly peaceful, arms drifting, hair waving in the current. Eyes closed. Almost certainly dead. Not wearing a seat belt, a huge gash visible on his forehead, black against the white of his skin, blood trickling up in a dark, lazy swirl.
No bubbles, meaning he wasn’t breathing.
Jack reached for the boy’s arm and pulled.
The kid didn’t budge.
Soon Jack would have to surface again or die down here. Which maybe wouldn’t be so bad. Nice that he could see. Deep blue all around.
He pulled again. A little movement now, but Jack’s chest was working, wanting to breathe, and if he didn’t go up now, now, he’d drown, navy or no navy.
His niece was eighteen, too.
He’d want someone to try one more time for Abby.
He pulled as hard as he could, bracing his legs against the car, all the air in his lungs leaving in a bubbling rush.
And then they were moving, heading up, and how they were doing it, Jack didn’t know because he couldn’t think anymore, but they were making it, a centimeter at a time, and then there was the sky, red and purple and violently beautiful, and full of air, like icy needles in his lungs, but so, so good, the sound of his gasps tearing through the cold.
His gasps. Not the kid’s.
He held on to the boy and tried to keep going. It wasn’t pretty. It was hard and sloppy and weak.
A siren screamed, then another. Police and firefighters, on their way.
The dock was still so far away. Jack closed his eyes, his head slipping again under the water. Shit. Kicked harder, his legs really just flailing now.
The boy was still and quiet. No breath, no coughing. No resistance.
Jack’s labored panting rasped in and out of his aching lungs.
The water splashed, over and over, a hopeless, wet sound as his arm smacked lifelessly in a sorry imitation of swimming. He held on to the boy with his other arm, and God, it was hard.
Still not there. Still not there. In between each stroke, Jack’s face dipped a little lower in the water. He choked on some water.
Still not there.
Then someone grabbed his arm. Sam Miller, clinging to the dock ladder, reaching out for him. God bless Sam Miller.
The other boys reached down and grabbed on to their unconscious (dead) friend, hauling him up the ladder, ice in their hair now. One of the boys was sobbing.
Sam reached down for Jack, pulling him up, which was good because Jack was not going to be able to make it out himself. Water streamed off him, and he fell onto his knees. “On his side,” he managed, and they obeyed, turning the limp boy onto his left.
“Oh, shit, Josh,” the sobbing boy said. “Josh, please.”
Josh. Right. Josh Deiner. A troublemaker.
It was now too dark to see if any water had come out of Josh’s mouth, up from his lungs. Jack pushed him on his back and started chest compressions. He couldn’t feel his hands, but this was a brutish job, just push, push, push, elbows locked, fast and hard.
The sirens were louder.
Sam breathed into Josh’s mouth.
One...two...three...four...five...
God, he was tired.
And then there were red-and-blue flashes, and footsteps thudded down the dock.
“Jack, we got this,” said a voice. Levi. Emmaline Neal was there, too, another cop, a good hockey player. They knelt down and took over compressions.
There was a clattering, and Jessica Dunn and Gerard Chartier were running with the stretcher.
“Dry him off!” someone ordered. “He has to be dry if we’re gonna shock him.”
There was a whole crowd now. The three boys were being wrapped in blankets and hustled away, their faces white in the gloom.
The sun was still setting. How could that be? It seemed as though hours had passed.
Someone put a blanket around Jack, too, then led him down the dock, arm around his waist, holding him when he staggered. The three boys climbed into the back of one of the town’s two ambulances.
The other would be for Josh.
“Let’s get you out of the cold,” said the person at his side. It was Emmaline. Huh. He thought she was back with Josh. She opened the door of her cruiser and gently pushed him in.
“Is he dead?” Jack asked.
She glanced down the dock. “He’s not dead till he’s warm and dead. You know that. Let’s worry about you right now, okay?”
She was about to close the door when Sam Miller came over. His face was ruddy now—he was warming up. “You saved us,” he said, his voice cracking. “You saved us all.”
But Jack hadn’t, because Josh Deiner’s body was still on the dock, Levi and Gerard on their knees next to him as if in prayer.
* * *
THE MEDIA CALLED IT the Midwinter Miracle, going for alliteration over accuracy. And for a few days, it was big news. Anderson Cooper, among others, came to town and interviewed the three boys—Sam Miller, Garrett Baines and Nick Bankowski, who were tremulous and fine, save for a broken nose on Nick. Their parents wept and called Jack a hero, an angel, the hand of God. A former navy SEAL was interviewed and attested that it was a “helluva rescue.”
As police spokesperson, Levi gave a statement, as well, and when Anderson asked if Jack was indeed his brother-in-law, Levi said, yes, he was. When asked to characterize Jack, Levi said, “He’s a good guy.” That was it, and Jack was grateful.
He himself was asked for interviews by fifty-seven media outlets. He didn’t give any.
That night in the E.R., Jack’s father hugged him for a long, long time. Pops’s voice broke as he told Jack how proud he was. His sisters fussed over him and his niece wept, and his nephew got teary-eyed, as well. Mrs. Johnson made him his favorite dinners every night for the next week, as did his grandmother, not to be outdone. So there was a lot of food. Jack tried to eat it.
Josh Deiner was unavailable for comment, since he was in a coma. There was brain damage. He was on a ventilator.
At night, when Jack couldn’t sleep, it was Josh Deiner’s still, limp body he saw, lying on the wooden dock, ice forming on his eyelids since there was no heartbeat to keep him warm. The face of Josh’s girlfriend as she sobbed on Anderson Cooper’s shoulder. And the words Josh’s mother had spat at him in the E.R. ran through his brain, over and over and over.
You left him for last. The one who needed you the most, and you left him for last.
