Fireproof

CHAPTER 71

Maggie sat on the sofa next to Racine, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her body tense, nerves twisted, head pounding.

“Hospitals remind you of your mother,” Maggie said, and Racine nodded again, staring at the muted television in the opposite corner.

Maggie tried to remember what kind of cancer had taken Julia’s mother from her when she was nine or ten. She did remember that the woman had died in a hospital.

“I don’t understand why she called me,” Racine said, almost in a whisper, all the typical smart-ass wisecracks tucked away. This was Racine raw, unguarded, her defense barrier destroyed by exhaustion and perhaps a bit of shock, though Maggie knew she’d never admit it.

“Because she knew you’d call me” was Maggie’s only response.

She wasn’t sure she understood why her mother did what she did, let alone could she explain it to someone else.

“There was so much blood.” Again a quiet, calm tone. “I beat the frickin’ ambulance there. I tried to clamp her wrists with my hands. Then I tried to use hand towels as tourniquets.”

Racine was staring at her hands like she could still see the blood, though it had obviously been washed off. Maggie understood the shock of it—someone you know. Her blood still warm and splattered on your skin, your clothes. Both she and Racine had witnessed countless bloody murder scenes, and yet nothing prepared you for finding someone you knew—a colleague, a friend, a family member. Nothing prepared you for that moment, that helpless feeling.

“I remember the first time I found her,” Maggie said, elbows still on each knee, but now her chin rested in her hands, her pounding head suddenly heavy. “She had just taken a bunch of pills and washed them down with vodka. I didn’t know what was wrong with her. She was unconscious on her bed. One side of her face was caked with vomit. I’m not sure how I even knew to call 911.”

With little coaxing that night could come back to her as vivid as if it were last week, and Maggie didn’t want to revisit it just now. Nor did she want to tell Racine all the details. Like the fact that it wasn’t her mother’s first attempt and she wasn’t alone. One of her male friends practically knocked Maggie over trying to leave their apartment. He hadn’t called 911 or considered the fact that Maggie was only fourteen. Some things were better left hidden in the dark corners where they belonged.

All her mother’s therapists—and there had been too many to count—always said it was a scream for help or attention. That Kathleen really didn’t want to kill herself. Maggie disagreed. Her mother wasn’t looking for attention. She was looking to punish herself.

It had taken Maggie years to understand that, because for a long time it felt like her mother was trying to punish her. And no matter what the reason or excuse for Kathleen O’Dell’s suicide attempts, there was one thing Maggie was certain of. One of these times her mother would probably succeed by sheer accident.

Maggie took a deep breath and sat back. She desperately wanted to change the subject.

“How’s your dad?” she asked Racine, staying on common ground. While Racine had saved Maggie’s mother from self-destruction, Maggie had once upon a time saved Luc Racine from a serial killer. She thought about the kind, gentle man often but hesitated to ask about him, knowing his Alzheimer’s disease rarely brought good news.

“He’s starting to forget my name.” Racine crossed her arms and slouched down even more into the sofa next to Maggie.

“It’s the disease. You can’t take it personally,” Maggie said, now regretting her cheap excuse to change the subject at the expense of Racine.

“He never forgets the fucking dog’s name.”

This time Maggie didn’t say anything. Instead she put her arm around Racine, squeezed her shoulder, and pulled her in against her. Racine’s body went limp as if finally relinquishing the tension of the day, and she slid down enough to lay her head on Maggie’s shoulder.

They sat there quietly, side by side. The beeping of monitors from the intensive care unit stayed muted in the background.

“You think maybe you should call Ben?” Racine asked, again almost a whisper.

“I don’t know what to do about Ben,” Maggie said, a bit surprised with herself for letting her guard down. She discussed her personal life with only two people—Ben Platt and Gwen Patterson. Julia Racine was nowhere near the list of possible additions. At the moment she was too exhausted to care. “Ben wants kids.”

“Just because his ex-wife started a new family.” A statement, not a question. Racine had met Ben’s ex. Maggie shrugged, even though Racine couldn’t see it. “You don’t want kids?”

“I never imagined myself a mother.”

“Me either,” Racine said, easily and without hesitation. “Rachel says it’s because I never got a chance to be a kid.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s because I hate kids.”

Maggie smiled and contained a laugh because she knew Racine was serious.

“Doesn’t Rachel have a daughter?”

“Yeah, CariAnne. She’s a pain in the ass. Always has too many questions. Always on my case about using the fucking f-word. Last fall she puked all over my favorite shoes. Cole Haan, driving loafers. I loved those shoes. Couldn’t get the smell out of the leather. Had to throw them out.”

“So what happened?”

“Bought a new pair.”

“No, silly. I mean what made you change your mind?”

Racine’s turn to shrug. “She’s a part of Rachel. How can I love Rachel and not love her child?”

A man appeared, filling the doorway. He was dressed in khakis and a sports jacket.

“Are you Kathleen O’Dell’s daughters?”

His voice was deep and authoritarian but his eyes gentle. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts and Maggie caught herself staring at them, thinking they could have easily clasped around her mother’s wrists and stopped the bleeding.

“I’m Maggie,” she finally said, standing. “This is Julia.”

She didn’t bother to correct him, that they weren’t both Kathleen’s daughters. After stopping one suicide attempt and witnessing the aftermath of a second, Julia had earned the right to be called Kathleen’s daughter, though it came wrapped in burden rather than honor.

She offered her hand to shake his and immediately saw his eyes take notice of the scars on her own wrist.

“No, it doesn’t run in the family.”

He didn’t look convinced, but Maggie didn’t think she needed to explain how months ago a killer had tied her hands together with zip ties. How the plastic had cut deep into her skin while she tumbled down rock ledges and ran through a dark forest at night. So deep had the ties cut into her wrists that when she finally sliced herself free she had to dig the plastic out of her flesh. Of course, it left scars and she didn’t need to explain.

“How is she?” Racine asked, standing up beside Maggie.

“I gave her something to help her rest. She asked not to see anyone right now. She’ll be groggy, but in an hour or so I think it would be a good idea for one or both of you to sit with her for a while. You’re welcome to stay here in the meantime or go home and come back. There’s coffee in the reception area outside of the ICU. Cafeteria’s downstairs.”

He went on to tell them how to contact him and what to expect. Maggie tuned him out. She’d heard the litany too many times before.

He left and Maggie and Racine had just sunk back into the sofa when a dog—a brown-and-white corgi—sauntered in.

Maggie looked up to find Dr. James Kernan with two foam cups, which he handed toward them, arms stretched out in front of him.

“Coffee’s awful,” he told them, “but it helps pass the time.”