"Fa la la la la," Unfortunately, Lula couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, and without "The What" to drown out her off-key warbling, we were getting some pretty funny looks from the crowds at Quakerbridge Mall. Then again, Lula's hair was dyed green and she'd covered her entire head with iridescent red bugle beads just to keep things festive. In her stretchy red sequined tube top and tight white fleece pants, she looked like chocolate dipped elf on steroids. Christmas shopping with Lula, I had discovered, was kind of like taking a hyperactive kid to a fireworks show. She bounced wildly from one display to another, rarely stopping to buy. I could shop with the best of them, but she was making me tired.
"Did I show you what I got for Tank?" she asked, stopping mid-la.
"Huh?" I replied stupidly. I'd been kind of zoned out by all the la-la-la-ing she was doing, and the switch to actual English caught me flat-footed. It was okay. Lula didn't wait for an answer. Lula rarely did. Instead, she exuberantly pulled a red silk G-string edged in white rabbit fur out of her shopping bag and waved it over her head in triumph. "Ta-da!" she could even provide her own fanfare. Sheesh. People were starting to stare. Imagine that.
"Wow," I said, nonplussed. "Are you sure you got the right size?" Granted, I hadn't seen Tank's goodies, but based on the size of the rest of him, I thought she was seriously overestimating the capacity of that G-string. Or else seriously underestimating Tank. I squinted. I was pretty sure there were going to be dangly bits left over if Tank tried to stuff himself into that teeny-tiny scrap of fabric and fur.
"It's one size fits all," declared Lula blithely, dismissing my concerns.
I cocked my head to one side and reexamined the G-string. No way in hell would Morelli fit in there. Then again, there were times I wasn't quite sure of the mechanics of how Morelli fit in me. I shrugged. Lula knew a lot more about Tank's physique than I did, and for sure she knew a lot more about spandex. And, I admitted, since Lula used to be a 'ho, she probably knew a lot more about dangly bits in general.
"Are you about ready to get out of here?" I shot a narrow-eyed look at a stiff in a business suit who was looking down his nose at the vaudeville act that was Lula, swinging beads, twirling G-string, sequined boobs and all. The handles of all my shopping bags were cutting into my hands, my feet had been protesting my high heels for the past two hours, and I'd been ready to leave half an hour ago before Lula had gone all Lula on me and started darting from display to display and touching everything that wasn't nailed down.
"It's getting close to six." Ordinarily, my mother was obsessive about getting dinner on the table on the dot of six o'clock, come murder or mayhem. On Christmas Eve, she managed to kick herself and everyone around her into overdrive. The house would be redolent with the smell of tomato and garlic, and my mouth started to water. I'd managed to catch one final skip this morning before the holiday started by cornering him like a rat in a maze before he even got out of bed. I badgered Connie into writing me a check so I could do my Christmas shopping in one fell swoop since my last check had gone to catch up on my rent and my Christmas tree was practically naked. I'd guilted Lula into driving me around in my mad rush to the bank and then to the mall since my POS Crown Vic had gone to that big smelter in the sky. We hadn't had time for lunch and I was starving.
"Yeah, whatever," Lula answered. "The whole damn Burg would probably go up in flames if dinner wasn't on the table at six o'clock." I opened my mouth to refute her, but nothing came out. I'd never stopped to consider what would happen if I didn't get home to Christmas Eve dinner by six on the dot. I pictured my mother's face, eyes narrowed and mouth pinched tight, and I swore I could practically smell the scorched cheese of a ruined lasagne. I shuddered. Not going there. Call me a wimp. At least I'd be a well-fed wimp.
We managed to thread our way out of the mall okay, but Christmas Eve traffic with Lula was a whole nother nightmare. "Do you think you should slow down?" I asked, flinching as Lula narrowly avoided two cars and a really rusted out pickup before fishtailing on the slush in the parking lot. "You were the one in the hurry to get home," she said, sailing through the red light without hesitation. I shut my eyes and began to pray silently. "Hail Mary, full of grace The Lord is with thee." Please, Lord, be with us too, or Lula's going to get us both killed, I added. Not exactly canon, but I figured God would understand considering the circumstances. I didn't reopen my eyes until we were safely back in the Burg.
"Uh oh," said Lula, as she pulled up in front of my parents' duplex. There was a cop car sitting in the drive, and cops always made Lula nervous.
"Joe probably caught a ride with one of the guys from the station," I explained patiently, trying to calm her down.
"Yeah. Probably." She didn't sound convinced. "Just the same, I think I'll go on home and wrap up Tank's present." Her jaw was out, and I knew arguing with her wouldn't do any good.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, and hurried up the walk to the stoop. The wind was starting to pick up, and ice crystals were blowing in the air. We'd get either snow or sleet tonight as the temperature dropped, and I was really pulling for snow.
I quickly checked my watch as I let myself in the front door. Three minutes to six. Yes! I was golden. "Hey," I called out in greeting. No answer from the kitchen, and nothing but a swollen ugly silence from the living room. No TV, no pots and pans clanging, no clatter of dishes and cutlery being set on the table. I peered around the doorway into the living room. Big Dog was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his large body all but suspended in mid-air, while his fingers worried the brim of his hat. Around and around it went, over and over, no beginning and no end. My mother's skin was like milk, and my father desperately clutched the arms of his Barcalounger while he stared at nothing. Even Grandma Mazur was quiet, looking small and frail and somehow older than she had when I'd seen her the day before.
"Wh---" I cleared my throat and tried again. "What's going on?" Better, but still raspy. I could feel my windpipe closing up again as soon as the words left my lips.
Big Dog stood, hands still worrying at his hat. He looked at me, and his eyes looked old and tired. "It's Joe," he said, and the world went black around me.
I fought my way out of the black depths that tried to swallow me. Flailing wildly, I connected with something solid and clawed my way to the surface. My mother's voice was coming from a long way off, her words an unintelligible wash of soothing sounds that were meant to comfort, but didn't. I scrubbed my hands over my eyes, and discovered they were open after all, and I forced them into focus. I was collapsed in a heap on the floor with Big Dog leaning over me, his left eye swelling even as I watched. "What happened?
Where's Joe? Is he--" Big Dog held up a hand and silenced me.
"Joe's at Helen Fuld, Stephanie. It was just one of those things. He walked into DeFazio's jewelry store this afternoon, and there was a robbery in progress. The guy caught him point blank."
I shook my head. This was so not happening. "He was wearing his vest, right?" Big Dog looked down. "Tell me he was wearing his vest," I implored. I needed something to hold onto right now. Joe was careful. Joe was smart. Of course he was wearing his vest. He probably got the wind knocked out of him, maybe needed a few stitches. He'd probably have some miserable bruising from the bullet impact, but he'd be just fine. If I could talk my mom into holding back the lasagne for an hour, he'd probably walk right in the door and sit down for Christmas Eve dinner. He'd probably be too sore to sit through midnight mass though, and I was sure I'd have an argument on my hands to get him to stay home. Hey, a good dose of pain relievers and an up close and personal inspection of the new silk teddy I'd bought at Victoria's Secret would take care of that. I was confident I could handle Morelli.
"He was off-duty, Steph," Big Dog said gravely. "No vest." I felt the blood drain from my face, then, and the damn black edges started closing in on me again. I shoved them back angrily. "How bad?" It was a good thing that Big Dog could read my lips, because there wasn't any sound behind my words. Big Dog wouldn't meet my gaze.
"I'll drive you," he said finally, and put his hand under my elbow to guide me out to the waiting squad car.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Wait. Hadn't I just done this? With Lula? Who was the patron saint of cars anyway? Or maybe I needed the patron saint of cops. Would God let me take back the earlier prayers, because these were so much more important? What if there was a limit, and I'd wasted my prayers on the stupid parking lot? Which saint could I ask to intervene? I hadn't known earlier that I needed to save my prayers; surely God would cut me some slack. Surely He'd cut Morelli some slack.
I clutched my mother's rosary like a lifeline and counted off the beads in quiet desperation while Big Dog sped through the dark and the falling snowflakes. I kept waiting for him to reassure me, tell me everything was going to be okay. But he didn't. He just stared straight ahead his radio giving out a tinny rendition of Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas."
Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our—No! It might be selfish, but I couldn't bring myself to pray for the hour of Joe's death. Not when there were so many things left unsaid between us.
I don't want a lot for Christmas, There's just one thing I need Please God. I don't want a lot. I just want for Morelli to be okay. You can do that, right? Make him okay? I just need another chance. There's a lot I haven't told him, a lot I wish I'd said.Make my wish come true...All I want for Christmas is you...
Holy Mary, Mother of God...
Another bead.
Another corner.
And finally, after what seemed like an eon, the welcome lights of Helen Fuld's Emergency Room entrance. Big Dog stood on the brakes with a screech, and I was out the door and had banged open the ambulance bay doors before the car ever stopped moving.
The reception area was crawling with cops, but I didn't stop or even slow down. Something was wrong with the receptionist. I couldn't seem to make her understand how important it was that I get to Morelli. She kept telling me to calm down. She didn't understand that I couldn't calm down until I got to Morelli. If I could just see him with my own eyes, he'd be okay. I had to believe that.
I finally caught the flash of Angie Morelli's familiar red coat on the other side of the room, and I plowed through the waiting cops. Angie would get me to Joe. I knew she would. I clutched her arm in desperation, and she turned blank eyes toward me. "How is he?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said brokenly, and her whole body quaked. Just then, Carl Costanza came through the double doors directly behind Mrs. Morelli, and I blanched at the deep red stain on his uniform shirt. Mrs. Morelli and I both turned expectantly toward him.
"How is he?" I demanded.
Carl took a deep breath to answer, then deflated even as we watched, unable to answer.
"Carl?" I was begging, but I didn't care.
"Not good," he said, and I could see him gathering his composure, putting his cop face back on, getting on with the job. He was my friend, and Joe's, and we'd all grown up together, and Joe being shot had hit him hard. "He's in surgery," he continued. "I won't lie to you, he's hurt pretty bad. He coded at least once on the way over, and they don't know how long he'll be in surgery."
Or if he'll make it. Carl didn't say it, but I could hear it just as plain as Mrs. Morelli obviously did. She staggered over to a chair and sank down as her legs refused to support her any more. Carl took her arm, and nudged her back to her feet, and toward the door he'd just come through. The cops clustered around, but at a sharp look from Carl, they backed off to wait until Joe's family was taken care of. Carl led us both back through the doors and down a maze of hallways until we finally reached a private waiting room for the surgical floor.
Wordlessly, I sat by Mrs. Morelli, our shoulders touching, the only point of warmth in the entire room. We took turns watching the minute hand of the ancient waiting room clock inch glacially forward. Her fingers worked her own rosary, as my own forgotten beads lay clutched in my hand; silent and still. As the minutes crept by and became hours, I picked them up again and began the old familiar prayers once again.
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Oh, God.
Maybe this was my punishment. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb. But what about the fruit of my womb? My hand inched slowly down the flat plane of my belly, seeking something that had been gone for more years than I wanted to remember. I told myself I'd only been sixteen. I was a kid. I was scared. I did what I had to.
But part of me wondered if God hated me for what I had done.
And sometimes, I wondered if Joe would hate me if he knew what I'd done.
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Please, God, be with Joe. I know I gave up any right to ask You for favors a long time ago. But it's Joe, and he needs You.
Blessed art thou among women. More blessed than I had been, certainly. Mary had confessed her unexpected pregnancy to her Joseph.
I hadn't.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. My womb was empty. My womb had been empty for the past sixteen years, ever since that antiseptic trip to the antiseptic clinic. Sixteen years. Half my life. The equivalent of all the life I had lived up until that morning on the vinyl table with the cold metal stirrups.
Would Joe and I have had a son or a daughter? A son who looked like him and chased the girls, or a wide-eyed girl like I had been, ripe for the plucking by a hot-blooded boy who stole my breath and my virginity? And my childhood.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now... Would Mary pray for me? Could I ask for the prayers of a mother when I had given up my own child? I had no one else to ask. No one else to beg for Joe's life, as the clocked ticked remorselessly onward.
Mariah Carey was wafting quietly from the Nurses' station. This is all I'm asking for. I just want to see my baby... Please God, let me see Joe. I'll tell him about the baby. I swear I'll tell him. Standing right outside my door . Oh I just want him for my own More than you could ever know . Please, God, please. I gave up my baby. I can't give up Joe too. Please God. Holy Mary, full of grace... Grace enough for me? Grace enough for Joe? God, I hoped so.
Make my wish come true . Baby all I want for Christmas is you. That's all. Just Joe. Please, God.
I don't know if God heard me or not, but the surgeon did. There was blood on the top of his scrubs, and I felt my stomach lurch. So much blood. So very much blood, and all of it Joe's. I swayed on my feet, and I hadn't even realized I'd stood.
"Mrs. Morelli?" the surgeon asked, looking from Mrs. Morelli to me, then back again.
"Yes," she answered.
"Yes," I echoed. I don't know why, but Angie Morelli didn't say anything, just squeezed my hand hard.
The surgeon continued to look back and forth between us, addressing one of us and then the other. "Detective Morelli is stable for now," he said, and I felt my breath leave me in a great whoosh. The surgeon frowned at me. "But his condition is very grave. He has lost a lot of blood, and there was a great deal of trauma to his chest." The doctor removed his glasses, and hung them in the vee of his scrub shirt. "He arrested twice on the table," he said bluntly. "We'll just have to wait and see."
"Can we see him?" Mrs. Morelli asked, sounding breathless and frail, two things I'd never associated with Joe's mother.
The doctor nodded. "Immediate family only," he instructed.
Mrs. Morelli nodded. "That's us," she said, without missing a beat. It was my turn to squeeze her hand. Clearly, the doctor had reservations, but Mrs. Morelli's gaze was strong and insistent, and the doctor was tired. He finally gave in and nodded, asking no questions.
A nurse in pale green scrubs met us at the doorway, and led us through still another maze, deeper into the surgical unit. The smell of antiseptic and alcohol burned my nose and my eyes, and I tried not to remember it was Christmas Eve. Joe and I should be sitting under the Christmas tree on Slater, sated on my mother's lasagne, midnight mass and each other. Italian herbs and pine boughs, beeswax and snow. Those were the smells of Christmas Eve, not this acrid burning intrusion into our senses.
The nurse gestured us into a dimly lit windowless room, a hospital gurney draped in stark white dead center. Tubes, wires, monitors, and bandages all but concealed the body that lay so preternaturally still in the expanse of white. The deep burnished brown of Joe's hair was the only color in the bloodless room. I heard Mrs. Morelli choke back a sob and the nurse murmur to her, but my attention was only on Joe. My hand reached forward without conscious thought on my part to stroke the hair back from his temple.
He was so very pale, dark shadows under his closed eyes, and his usually mobile mouth, so quick to lift in a smile, was deeply bracketed. Although he slept, the pain had clearly taken a toll on him. I gently lifted the ebony waves, and let his hair sift through my fingers. It was the only place I knew for sure I could touch him and not cause him additional pain. Mrs. Morelli was talking to him now, but I couldn't focus on the words. The brush of his lashes against the hard planes of his cheeks were beautiful, and the crisp yet silky feel of his hair under my fingers brought comfort.
Awhile later, it could have been a few minutes or an eternity, Mrs. Morelli said something to me. I nodded absently. I have no clue what she said. All I knew was that I needed to maintain this contact with Joe. If I was touching him, death could not come. I stood as sentinel for him, keeping the shadows at bay. I didn't notice when Mrs. Morelli left, but realized I was alone when the same silent nurse brought me in a chair. I hadn't noticed that my legs were aching and swollen, so long had I stood there by Joe's bed.
The faces at the nurse's station changed, each one more forgettable than the last. Periodically they would come in to check the machinery that monitored Joe's vital signs. At first, each would suggest that I stretch my legs, or get a cup of coffee, or go down to the cafeteria for something to eat. I didn't bother to respond, saving all my energy for keeping watch over Joe. After awhile, they quit asking, and I relished the silence.
I lived a lifetime, of course, between each beat on the heart monitor. Lifetimes filled with memories and regrets, should have beens and could have dones. Ultimately, though, each electronic blip recalled me to the present, and I lived a divided life then; part of me lost in the morass of past and wishful thinking, and part of me in the here and now, unwilling to look forward, unable to keep from looking back.
I brushed my hand through Joe's hair yet again. How many hundreds, how many thousands of times, had I repeated the motion? This time, though, he stirred. His face turned incrementally toward me, and his eyes opened a slit.
"Hey," I said, and threaded my hand through the tubes to lace my fingers through Joe's around the spiderweb of IV's. He squeezed my fingers, and I squeezed back. "Welcome back," I said, and he smiled at me, just the barest tipping at the corners of his mouth. "You scared me," I admitted, my voice breaking.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Not my time," he said scratchily, but with conviction.
I smiled at him through tears, and he squeezed my hand again. "My father said it wasn't my time."
"You saw your father?" I asked. Oh, God. The surgeon said they had lost him on the table. I had put it out of my mind, not wanting to even consider a life without Joe in it. I started to shake.
Joe nodded again, and his voice slurred with sleep. "My father...and Anthony."
I frowned. I didn't know who Anthony was. Maybe some friend of Joe's from his Navy days, or something. Joe drew in a deep breath with a great deal of effort. "Said I needed to come back and take care of his mother. He's watching over the others," he said quietly. "Until it's their time." Joe opened his eyes, and looked through into my soul. "He said to tell you he understands, and you shouldn't grieve."
My throat got tight, and the tears fell unheeded down my face. Oh, God. Anthony.
"He looked like me. But he had your eyes."
The tears fell harder, and I bit back a sob.
Joe shook his head again. "Don't cry, Cupcake. It's Christmas," he rasped. "Love and forgiveness, right? That's what it's all about."