Page 83 of The Drowned Woman
His banal smile was more infuriating than his silence had been. “I wonder if it’s enough for you. I wonder if perhaps there’s something more fulfilling or rewarding that your chosen careers provide you? If we can explore that fully, perhaps we can also find ways to mitigate any attendant danger in the future.” He opened the door for her. “Just a thought. See you next week.”
Leah left, feeling a bit sheepish. Deep down she knew exactly what he meant. Once a colleague had accused her of having a savior’s complex, needing to try to save every victim that came into her ER. But she’d brushed him off, never explored the why behind her actions. It had to be more than a need for control, more than being an adrenaline junkie.
She turned to stare at the closed door, wondering if she’d find the courage to return. Decided that, for Emily’s sake, she would.
Leah crossed the street from the outpatient clinic building to Good Sam’s inpatient tower and began her rounds. First, she saw Mrs. Czury, the elderly victim of a vicious mugging. Mrs. Czury was finally awake, moving from the ICU to the neuro-psych unit where she’d receive intensive therapy for the stroke her head injury had caused. It would be a few days before Leah could do a complete forensic interview for Luka, but Leah was hopeful that the old lady would make a fair recovery.
Next was Walt Orly, Trudy’s husband. Dr. Chaudhari had fine-tuned his medication regimen and he was much calmer, able to be transferred to a long-term placement. The home in Smithfield that Trudy had hoped for didn’t have an open bed, but a very nice facility in Hershey did. The curious thing was that in Walt’s mind, Trudy was still alive and well, living with him at the hospital, just out for a cup of coffee when Leah stopped by. She saw no need to torture the man with the truth. Sometimes denial was the best medicine.
Which left her final patient, Risa Saliba, who was undergoing chelation therapy for heavy metal toxicity. But when Leah got to Risa’s room, she’d already been discharged. Leah tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Hello, you’ve reached Risa Saliba’s number. I’m out in the field for the near future, because life is too short, and the world is too big to be a prisoner of your own life. Leave a message if you want, but I probably won’t be checking. People to meet and places to go.Ciao.”
Leah listened to the message twice, enjoying the strength and passion that colored Risa’s voice. At first, she’d thought Risa might tip into a crevasse of depression and guilt, but the reporter was proving more resilient than Leah imagined. Good for her.
She left Good Sam through the ER, smiling and waving at the nurses and other staff who greeted her. It’d been such a thrill, rushing Risa into the ER two nights ago, feeling like her old self for the first time in a month. It made her aware that her new job wasn’t as different as she thought. Which reminded her of her therapist’s final question. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers, was maybe a coward, afraid to search too hard for them, but she was slowly discovering her own truth.
Surviving without Ian had felt like a betrayal. But now she realized that hiding in shadows of guilt and grief were the last thing he would have wanted. He’d want more for her. Not just to merely survive but to learn how to live again, to embrace her new life, as painful as it was.
Living without him didn’t mean living without his love. Far from it. Every time she looked at Emily, it was clear that Ian was never truly lost.
She drove over to her next appointment: volunteers from Ian’s church were meeting her at her old house to help her sort through their possessions, pack the ones she wanted to keep, and take the rest to their charity shop.
She arrived early, just as she’d planned. Not only in case she had another panic attack, but also because she wanted time alone with their home, with Ian. This time she strode straight up to the door. Despite the tears blinding her eyes she managed to get the key turned and walk inside without any sense of panic. In fact, she felt the opposite—she felt a bit giddy, like when Ian took her hand and they danced their first dance as husband and wife.
He was with her, a comforting weight supporting her, a warm hand guiding her. And he’d never abandon her—or her him.
Epilogue
17 days later…
Luka straightened his tie in his truck’s rearview mirror. He couldn’t believe the crowd that had gathered along the river to celebrate Cherise’s life. He was the only one dressed in a tie and suitcoat—everyone else had followed the instructions on the invitation and came in jeans and work boots. He nodded and smiled to them—old college friends, friends from work, Cherise’s family, even McKinley and Ahearn, Leah, Ruby, Emily, Pops, Janine, and Nate, holding Rex’s leash in one hand and a shovel in the other.
Luka took his place standing on the rock where he’d left the dead irises. What a difference a few weeks made. The sky was blinding blue, as if competing with the flowers crowding the back of his truck. The river gurgled a happy tune, its angst and roiling rage vanquished. The grass was green, the trees were budding, and a breeze carried the scent of pine down from the mountain.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “I’ll keep it short and then we can get to work. First of all, a huge thanks to someone who couldn’t be here today, Risa Saliba. She orchestrated all this, getting the county to turn this land into something to truly honor Cherise’s life. Welcome to the Cherise Sumner Community Garden.”
The crowd applauded, even Cherise’s parents, who were both wiping tears away between clapping.
“As you know, a famous poem by one of our favorite poets was used to mark Cherise’s death. So now, I’d like to remedy that miscarriage by reciting a poem I’ve written in tribute to both Cherise and Langston Hughes.”
He pulled the well-creased and sweat-stained slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Like the original Langston Hughes poem, his was only twelve words long, but he didn’t want to risk messing it up. Every word had been carefully chosen to mirror Hughes’ “Suicide’s Note.” A study of opposites and contrasts. He hoped.
“Beloved’s Letter.” He read the title. He cleared his throat and began—he’d never performed any of his poems without Cherise in the audience, but now as he looked out over the crowd of faces, he realized she was here, in each and every one of them.
“The vibrant,
Warm touch of your lips
Invites me to live forever.”
He finished and looked up. Silence greeted him and for a moment, he feared he’d made a fool of himself, desecrated Cherise’s celebration.
But then, a few anxious heartbeats later, applause broke out, all at once as if the crowd was obeying the commands of an invisible orchestra conductor. Several openly wept—including Harper and McKinley of all people.
“Enough tears,” he said. “Let’s get planting.”
As the crowd broke apart, grabbing tools, soil, and the plants for the garden, Leah approached him. She carried a box wrapped in Christmas paper. “Sorry, it was all I could find at Nellie’s.”
