F. Paul Wilson: Bloodline

And not being able to care fully for Vicky slowed their healing.

Her motor skills hadn't returned to normal yet, though they were worlds better than when she'd come out of her coma. With physical and occupational therapy she'd recovered about ninety percent of her manual dexterity, but it was the missing ten percent that was killing her.

She couldn't braid Vicky's hair.

And she couldn't draw or paint—at least not like she used to.

Which meant she couldn't make a living. Graphic art paid her bills, but her personal paintings soothed her soul. She worked daily at both in her third-floor studio, but didn't like much of what she produced commercially, and wouldn't show Jack her private paintings. He worried she'd one day explode and he'd find her splattered all over her studio.

"Am I going to be late for school, Mommy?"

Gia said, "You just asked me that, remember?"

Vicky frowned, then nodded. "Oh, right."

Vicky's only deficit was her short-term memory, but that was steadily improving. The neurologist said she'd be back to normal in a few more months. Her teachers were taking that into account and cutting her some major slack.

Jack looked around at the bookshelves lining the wall of her high-ceilinged bedroom. The good news was that Vicky was still a voracious reader. He glanced at her Jets banner—she remained a devoted fan—and at the four too-handsome faces crowded onto her Boyville poster—still her favorite music group, unfortunately.

Gia was unraveling the botched braid.

"You'd better do it or she'll be late."

As she rose to let Jack take her place, he gripped her elbow.

"Okay, but coach me. I still haven't got this down."

Not true. He'd helped so many times he could do it in his sleep.

So she stood over his shoulder and talked him through brushing out the hair, separating a nice fat lock, then poking his index and middle fingers through to divide it into three fat strands. Then the tricky part of keeping the strands in the webs of his fingers as he picked up new strands while braiding.

"Now… which one do I start with?"

He felt a gentle punch on his back and heard a soft laugh from Gia.

"As if you didn't know."

She kneaded his shoulders as he worked.

"Boy, if the guys at Julio's could see you now."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, I doubt this is the guy they know."

"Maybe not. But you wouldn't hear a peep out of them."

"No rib nudging? No wisecracks?"

"Uh-uh."

"Why not?"

He looked up and winked at her. "Because of the guy they know."

He finished the weave—something very comforting about working with Vicky's hair—and tied it off with a blue elastic band.

"There. Not bad for a guy, ay?"

Gia bent and kissed his cheek. "Actually it's great. And thanks for being so patient." fie looked at her. "Patient? What's patient got to do with it?"

"Everything. It's not one of your strong points. Just… thanks for putting up with me."

As she hurried Vicky downstairs, Jack remained on the bed, staring out Vicky's window at the still-bare trees and feeling low. Worse than low. Like a rat. And a cowardly one at that.

Patient? Of course he was patient. He would be patient with her under any circumstance. And considering how he was the cause of all the trauma that had befallen her and Vicky, how else could he be?

But she didn't know that. Because he hadn't told her. Yet.

Gia, the accident that killed our baby; that almost killed you and your daughter, that left the two of you with broken bodies and battered brains, was no accident.

When would be a good time to say that? When would it be okay to tell her it had happened because he cared for them, because they mattered to him, because the baby carried his bloodline?

Would there ever be a right time?

"Dollar for your thoughts?"

Jack jumped. "Hey."

Gia looked down at him. "You seemed a million miles away."

"Just thinking."

Her eyes bore into his. "Didn't look like happy thoughts."

He shrugged. "They weren't. Can you think of much to be happy about?"

She smiled. "I'm alive, Vicky's alive, and it's been great having you stay with us. So look on the bright side."

Yeah. The bright side: moving in here to take care of them after they were released from rehab. Not easy, but maybe the most rewarding thing he'd ever done.

She kissed the top of his head. "Okay, we're heading for the bus stop, then I'm off to OT."

"Want me to drive you?"

She shook her head. "A cab'll have me there by the time you degarage the car. See you for lunch?"

"It's a date."

"Got anything planned for the morning?"

"Probably hang with Abe."

She looked down at him. ^No business?"

"No business."

"What about that lady who wants help for her daughter?"

"Hmm? Where?"

"I just saw it on the screen downstairs. She sounds worried."

Jack shrugged. "I'm on hiatus."

"You're bored is what you are. You've made our troubles your troubles, but we're coming out of those troubles. You need a break."

Couldn't argue with that. The less and less Gia and Vicky needed him, the more restless he'd become.

Gia squeezed his shoulder. "Why don't you see what she wants."

He looked up at her. "I believe I'm having an out-of-Gia experience."

She laughed—a sound he didn't hear nearly enough these days.

"Seriously," he said. "This doesn't sound like you."

"Maybe it's a new me. I know spending all your time hanging around here or at Abe's isn't you. I know who you are. I thought I could change you but I realize I can't. I'm no longer sure I want to. You are who you are and I love who you are, so why don't you go out and be who you are?"

Jack stared at her. She meant it—she really meant it. A crack about the lingering effects of brain trauma leaped to mind but he quashed it. Not funny.

"Maybe I'm not so sure who I am anymore."

"You know. It's in your blood. See what the lady wants."

"Doesn't sound like my kind of thing."

"Maybe not, but it's her daughter ."

The last word hung in the air.

Daughter… like Vicky was to him, emotionally if not legally… like Emma would have been if not for…

He remembered the message: / need to keep my daughter from making a terrible mistake .

Like what? Getting involved with a guy like me?

No… he wasn't going there again. He'd been there too many times.

"Maybe I'm not on hiatus. Maybe I'm retired."

A wry smile: "Then why are you checking the Web site? As a matter of fact, if you're retired, why keep it up and running at all?"

"Maybe I just haven't got around to shutting it down."

"And maybe you need a diversion, Jack. Go on, give her a call. If it's not in your ballpark, simply beg off." She kissed him and headed for the door. "Gotta run. Think about it."

He sat a moment longer. When he heard the front door close he forced himself to his feet. Lots of inertia lately. Too long since he'd awakened with his own agenda for the day.

He ambled downstairs and into the study where he stood and stared at the screen.

Someone said you might be able to help me …

She'd included her phone number.

What mistake do you think your daughter's going to make, lady? And why do you think a stranger will be able to do anything about it?

Okay. He'd bite. Couldn't see any down side to giving her a call.

3

"Nu?" Abe said as Jack approached his perch at the back of the store carrying a paper bag. "Two days in a row—what's the occasion?"

A lot had changed in Jack's life since January, but not Abe's place. The Isher Sports Shop—with its high shelves precariously jammed with dusty sporting goods that no one ever saw, let alone bought, the scarred counter at the rear, the four-legged stool where the proprietor perched in his food-stained white half-sleeve shirt and shiny black pants—remained a constant star in his firmament.