Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series) Page 5

  “So, if she doesn’t sell paintings in a gallery, how did you have a showing?”

  “Those are from her own personal collection,” he says. “They are the only ones she displays in public. And they aren’t for sale. They are just used to display her talent and attract clients. She’s never shown a commissioned painting anywhere. Claims it’s not her right because they aren’t her memories.” He shakes his head. “That girl is a damn shrew when it comes to everything else, but when it comes to art—hers or anyone else’s—she’s got the utmost respect.”

  I nod to my phone. “So this one was her own memory? Is the girl supposed to be her?”

  “No,” he says. “That’s a painting of someone else’s memory. A lot of her clients will post pictures of their paintings. But she’s never done it herself.”

  I find it odd to be learning so much about the woman in the coma, but at the same time, it’s fascinating. So much so that I almost forget why I’m here.

  “Were you close with her?” I ask. “I mean, were you friends?”

  Davis studies me and then glances down at my shirt again. His hand comes up to his mouth to cover a pained sigh. “Is she dead?”

  “No,” I say quickly, wondering why he would ask.

  “Oh, thank God,” he says, looking relieved. “Because the way you asked, you talked about her in the past tense. It made it sound like she was gone.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “She’s not dead, but she was in a serious accident.”

  He closes his eyes and makes the sign of the cross in front of his body. “What happened?”

  Suddenly, I remember the driver and wonder if he knew her as well. “Do you know Anna Jorgensen?”

  He bites the side of his lip and looks to the ceiling in thought. “Name sounds familiar, but she’s not someone I run around with, why?”

  “I’m sorry to say Anna did die in the accident.”

  “That’s horrible,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. But Sara is okay?”

  “Not exactly. She’s in the hospital in a medically induced coma due to a head injury.”

  “Oh, the poor girl.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here. We’re having a hard time locating her boyfriend.”

  “Ollie?” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Another yummy one.”

  “So you know him?”

  He winks at me. “Not as well as I’d like. Couldn’t you just die for that accent?”

  “I’ve never talked to him. Uh, I don’t even know Sara. I was at the scene of the accident. I’m just trying to locate him. Do you know how I can find him?”

  He stands up and walks over to the counter to grab his phone. “I should hope so. He’s an art dealer. It’s how they met. He’s the person rich people hire when they want a nice piece. He visits their home, sees their space, finds out what kind of people they are, and then he finds a painting for them, or in Sara’s case, an artist to create one.”

  He shows me Oliver’s contact information and I type it into my phone.

  “Thank you,” I say, standing up and handing him my tea. “I really appreciate it.”

  “You’ll let me know how Sara is?”

  “Of course,” I say, getting his number, too.

  Before I reach the front door, he calls out to me. “Denver?”

  I turn around and raise my brow.

  “If all you needed was Ollie’s number, why all the interest in Sara’s paintings?”

  I think about his question before shrugging a shoulder. “Just curious, I guess.”

  On my way to the hospital, I wonder what I should say to Oliver. I haven’t had a serious girlfriend in a while, not since Kendall dumped me back in Kansas City a few months after my arrest. But before that, we dated for several years. She helped me get through the death of my parents. And I know it would have been hard to get a phone call like this about her.

  I imagine Oliver will feel the same way I did when I got that awful call about my parents. I decide it’s best to handle things similarly and not tell him the full extent of her injuries.

  I sit down on a bench outside the hospital and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail, where I hear the accent Davis mentioned. Oliver sounds British, but it’s not a heavy accent, like maybe he’s lived most of his life in the states.

  “You’ve reached Oliver Compton,” his message says. “Leave a message and I’ll ring you back.”

  “Mr. Compton, my name is Denver Andrews. I’m calling about Sara. She was in a car accident a few days ago and is currently in the hospital. Please call me at this number as soon as you can.” I quickly go over the words in my mind and wonder if that will freak him out. “Uh, she’s not dead, but … well, just call me.”

  I hang up the phone, thinking how awkward that was. I probably shouldn’t have been the one to do that. Maybe I should have let the doctors handle it.

  On my way to the elevator, I pass by the gift shop. And I’m not sure why, but I stop and get a vase of flowers. I mean, Sara’s not even awake to see them. But I feel bad that no one has bothered to send her anything. I’d hate for her to wake up and think that no one cares.

  When I approach the nurses’ station on the sixth floor, Krista comes over to greet me. She looks at what I’m carrying. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Flowers aren’t allowed in the ICU rooms.”

  I look down at them. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.”

  She holds her hand out. “How about I put them on our desk where she’ll be able to see them through the glass window when she wakes up?”

  If she wakes up, I think.

  “Okay. Thank you. How’s she doing today?”

  “Dr. Miller is just finishing up with her. Go on in.”

  “Good morning,” I say to the doctor as I put on the jacket I remembered to bring with me today.

  “Good call,” he says, nodding to my coat. “We’re still having trouble keeping her temperature down. But the good news is her ICP has stabilized, so we’re weaning her off the sedation meds.”

  “Really? Does that mean she’ll be okay?”

  “We still don’t know. We’ll take her in for an MRI later today. And as long as her ICP stays down, we’ll remove the monitor from her skull after another twenty-four hours. She still needs the ventilator, but I’m hoping that as the sedation meds wear off, she’ll start to breathe over the vent.”

  I look down at Sara, still lifeless and alone, and I sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Miller says. “I wish I had more news, but it’s always wait-and-see with this type of injury.”

  I nod.

  “One thing you can do is talk to her. As the meds wear off, the hope is she will become cognizant. If she does wake up, she’ll be scared. It helps to talk to her. Maybe remind her about things she likes.”

  “I don’t know what she likes. I’m just a firefighter who was at the scene,” I remind him.

  “Right. Well, if her cousin or boyfriend show up, maybe they could talk to her about her life. It could help.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looks from Sara to me. “Pardon my bluntness, but why are you here if you don’t know her?”

  I wave my arm in a motion around the empty room. “Because no one else is. I’d hate to think of her lying here alone.”

  He studies me. “Okay. Well, I’ll check on her later.”

  After the doctor leaves, I take my usual spot in the chair by her bed.

  “Hi, Sara. It’s me, Denver. Remember me? I’ve been here for the past few days. You’re in the hospital and you’ve been in an accident. But you’re going to be okay. The doctor said you might even wake up soon. Which is good, because I almost forgot what your eyes look like.”

  It’s a lie. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what those chocolate-brown eyes looked like as they held my gaze in the mirror.

  “It would be nice to have a proper introduction. Oh, I met Davis today. He’s an interesting character. He told me a little about your paintings. What an awesome
job you have, traveling around the world in order to recreate memories for people. If there was one thing I would want a painting of, it would be my parents. Of course you’d have to go to Vail or Breckenridge or Aspen to do your research. Because you would have to paint them on a snow-covered mountain.” Then I laugh. “And I’m sure I could never afford what you would charge, so it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

  I look around the room, trying to think of what else to talk about when I see a new face in the doorway.

  The woman walks in. “The nurse said it was okay to come in.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  She walks over and looks sadly at Sara, and then she looks back at me. “I’m Lydia. Sara and I are … uh, were, friends what seems like forever ago. Her cousin called me yesterday and told me what happened.”

  “I’m Denver.”

  “I know. The nurse outside told me everything. So you’re the one who saved her?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know about that. But I was in the car with her after the accident.”

  Lydia nods. “I hope she’ll wake up. We may not have parted on the best terms, but I still wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about her? The doctor said we should talk about things she might like and that are familiar, so she won’t be so scared when she wakes up.”

  I pull another chair over for Lydia and we sit down.

  “I can tell you what she used to like. But if you want to know about the person she is today, that person is a stranger to me. That person will probably wake up and demand to be moved to the VIP suite.”

  “The VIP suite?”

  “Yeah. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the girl is rich. I mean, she was rich even when we were kids, because she grew up in a wealthy household, and then she got everything when her parents died. And now she sells twenty-thousand-dollar paintings.”

  “Isn’t that because she has to travel in order to paint them?”

  “I guess. But still.”

  “So, what can you tell me about her?”

  Lydia looks at Sara like she can’t decide if she loves her or hates her.

  “We haven’t spoken in over two years,” she says. “She was a lot to handle after her parents died four years ago. And that says a lot coming from me. You see, it takes one to know one. Bitches, I mean.” She laughs half-heartedly. “But the thing is, we knew that about ourselves and we owned it. We used people. We toyed with men for sport. We were selfish and demanding and rude. Except with each other. We were each other’s touchstone. We moved to the city together after high school and, man, did we have fun. But that all changed when her parents died. I tried to be understanding, because, well, they died within like six months of each other and that has to mess with a girl. But I just became another annoyance to her. I could only be her doormat for so long, you know? And then, once her paintings got noticed and she started hanging around with those snobby artists, it just all became too much.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Two people have now painted a very unflattering picture of Sara. Yet I can’t help still feeling sorry for her. She lost both her parents. And now she’s alone. I know exactly what that feels like.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I kind of went off on a tangent. I know that’s not what you asked me. You want to know what she likes.” She gazes back at Sara, this time placing a hand on her arm. I can tell she’s trying to make an effort to be a friend even though she’s no longer considered one. Her face cracks into a small smile. “She liked the Beach Boys.”

  My eyes go wide. “The Beach Boys? Really?”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe it’s not so much that she liked them, but her parents did, and she was pretty close with them. And after we moved to the city, I always knew when she was feeling sad because she’d blare “Kokomo” or “Surfin’ USA” throughout the apartment.”

  “Okay. Beach Boys. What else?”

  “Cats. She liked cats. Neither of us had the time or patience for a dog, but we both loved our cat, Freckles. We got him together as our first purchase when we came to the city.”

  “What happened to him? I hope he’s not stuck inside her apartment.”

  “He’s not. I got him in the divorce. But I can’t say she hasn’t acquired a new one. However, take it from a cat owner, they can go days without their humans.”

  “The divorce?”

  “That’s what I call it. And I tell you, it sure as hell seemed like one. I mean we’d been friends since I moved in down the street when we were five years old. We were inseparable. My husband laughs at the stories I’ve told him about what mischief we used to get into.”

  “Husband?” I ask. “You’re married? What about the whole ‘toying with men for sport’ thing?”

  She admires her wedding rings for a second. “After I left, I realized I never wanted anyone to look at me the way I looked at Sara. I was tired of being a pretentious bitch. So I changed. I got a new apartment. A new job. And I just left my old life behind.”

  “Wow,” I say in disbelief.

  She laughs. “Yeah. It wasn’t easy at first. It’s hard to think of other people when you’ve put yourself first for so long. But then I met Dan. He called me on my shit and refused to let my inner bitch come through.” She rubs her belly, which I’m just now noticing is protruding. “And now we’ve been married for a year and are expecting our first child. Which reminds me, I only have another twenty minutes. I’m on my way to the obstetrician.”

  “Congratulations,” I say. “Well, if we’ve only got twenty minutes, you need to start talking. Tell me everything you can remember.”

  As Lydia shares knowledge of her former best friend with me, I listen intently for anything I could use to help Sara. We enjoy several laughs as she reminisces about their childhood. And by the time Lydia gets up to leave, I feel like I’ve gotten to know the woman lying on the bed.

  On her way out, Lydia looks back over at Sara. I can tell this visit was hard for her. She’s still struggling over their lost friendship. But in my profession, I’ve seen tragedies bring people together. And I hope this isn’t the last time she will visit her old friend.

  After Lydia is gone, I tap around on my phone, and then I turn up the volume as a Beach Boys song plays over my speaker.

  When the first song is over, I swear I see Sara shiver like she did the other day, and again I feel bad that it’s so cold in here. I grab her hand, hoping to offer her comfort.

  “They have to keep you cold to bring your fever down,” I explain to her again. “I hope you can’t feel how cold it is in here, because I’ll tell you, it’s damn cold. As in lips-turn-blue cold. Or freeze-your-balls-off cold.”

  I play another Beach Boys song and it sparks a memory of when I was a kid. I’m reminded of a time when Aspen and I were with our parents in the car on the way to visit our grandparents. Our mom played some of Grandma’s favorite songs for us in preparation. And by the time we arrived at the house a few hours later, we were all laughing and singing along to “Barbara Ann.”

  Out of nowhere, I feel movement in my hand. It surprises me, and I about jump out of my skin. I look at Sara’s face, her expression not having changed. I keep hold of her hand, hoping I wasn’t just imagining things, but she fails to move again.

  I sit and talk to her about everything Lydia told me. Then I tell her I lost my parents, too. I tell her we are a lot alike. I was alone, just like she is. I was alone for a long time, unable to leave a place where everyone hated me. I wasn’t technically behind bars, but Kansas City was my prison.

  An hour later, when the doctor makes his rounds, I tell him about the movement. He checks her over and tells me to expect more of the same as the sedation meds slowly exit her body. But he also reminds me how serious her injury is and that anything could happen.

  After dinner, when they take her for the MRI, I decide to go home and get some sleep before my next shift. But on my way out, I realize all I really want to do is
hold her hand and pray to feel her pinky move again.

  Chapter Six

  “Fran, are you okay?” my father asks after the car comes to rest at the bottom of an embankment. “Fran, can you hear me? Francis!”

  My mother’s hand comes up to touch the cut over her eye. “Ouch. What happened, Conrad?”

  “I hit a patch of ice. Skidded clear off the road.”

  “Are you okay, dear?” Mom asks him.

  “Jammed my leg pretty bad. And the airbag hit me hard. My neck feels it. But I’m more concerned about that gash on your head.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, putting the passenger-side visor down to look in the mirror. “I think my hand was in front of me when the airbag deployed, and my ring cut into my forehead.”

  “Let me have a look,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and angling himself towards my mother. He takes a tissue from her and dabs the corner of it on his tongue before cleaning the blood running down her face. “There, good as new and pretty as the day I met you.”

  My mom smiles. Then she turns and looks out the back window. “Oh, Conrad. We’re pretty far from the road.”

  My father studies the landscape behind us. “I figure we slid a few hundred feet down from the road. We’re damn lucky we didn’t roll over. Although, I’m pretty sure we won’t get her started again—just look at the hood, it’s smashed to high heaven.”

  “I’m not sure we could drive out of here even if the car would start,” my mom adds.

  “I think you might be right,” he says, getting his phone out of his back pocket. “Let’s just call Triple A and let them figure out how to get the damn thing out.”

  He taps around on his phone. “I can’t make a call on mine. Can you check yours?”

  My mom fishes around on the floor in front of her, searching for her phone. “Got it,” she says. “But I don’t have any bars. I think we’re out of the service area.”

  “It must be the gulley we’re in,” he says. “I’ll just head back up to the road. I’m sure I can get a signal there.”

  “But your leg,” Mom cries. “Conrad, let me do it.”