Chapter Twenty
For the last month of her life, Teresa had wondered at the strange sensation of not having a body, but still being able to feel. It hadn't made any sense to her until now. She'd still been connected to her body because her body had still been alive.
She felt nothing now. Not her heart, not the motion of her lungs breathing in and out, and no connection to a body at all. It was only her mind, nothingness and a pale blue. Everywhere.
"Hello?" She called out, but there was no sound, no vibration of vocal chords, and no mouth. She was there but not.
This can't be it. This can't be Heaven. There has to be more.
But she felt no panic. Even her emotions were different. She wasn't afraid. She wasn't confused. Or even nervous. Her mind simply warred with what she'd always been taught of the afterlife and what she now experienced. Maybe this is it.
But what is 'it?' A woman asked, though Teresa wasn't sure how she knew it was a woman, she'd heard no voice, only received the thought in her mind.
Heaven, Teresa replied.
Before her, an image rising from the lightest of cerulean appeared a woman with caramel-colored hair that hung long and curly down over her robed body, if that's what it could be called — it wasn't corporeal yet still very real. She moved in close, her smile contagious and making her jade-colored eyes twinkle. Teresa smiled in return, then glanced down as an image of her former self appeared. She too was clothed in white.
The woman took her hands. Thank you.
Teresa blinked. For what?
For helping my husband. And for caring for him.
Teresa's jaw dropped. You're… you're Angela.
Angela nodded. It's time. You'll only have seconds, so you must act quickly.
What do you mean?
Angela reached up, her long slender fingers stroked the side of Teresa's face.
A yanking sensation started from Teresa's core, barely noticeable at first and then it hit her like a mack truck going a hundred down a steep incline. And she felt it—felt the push and pull, as she was yanked in every which direction.
#
Teresa's eyes flew open, and she cringed in pain. Her entire body ached, her head throbbed, and the light overhead was way too bright—way too white. She sucked in a gasp and glanced around. Tiled ceiling, linoleum floor, an IV stand with a drip attached to her arm, and a heart monitor beeping incessantly to her right.
Beep. Beep. Beep!
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying hard to relieve the pressure building there. If only the beeping would stop. She peered around again. Her door opened slightly and a fuzzy image of someone in scrubs squeezed through the small space, closing the door behind them.
Lilies, sunflowers, roses, tulips, and mixed bouquets of brightly colored flowers in pinks, yellows, oranges, and purples filled the room, crowding in and perfuming the air with their overly sweet scents. Why were there so many flowers? A massive glass vase of pink roses sat on the table next to her bed with a card in it. She honed in on it until her eyes focused. The card was signed "Love the Boscos," but not in Bosco's handwriting. Bosco's wife's probably.
The person in scrubs stopped next to her. "Lucky me," Scrub guy said. "You're awake."
She blinked up at him. Who are you? He didn't respond.
He held an empty syringe, and pulled the tube back, filling it with air.
Now, Teresa, Angela's voice rang out clear and with force.
Scrubs lowered the needle to her IV.
Teresa flinched, grabbed Bosco's vase and brought it crashing down on Scrubs head. His face blurred in and out of view, his beady black eyes rolled back as he fell.
Shaking her head to clear it, Teresa ripped the IV from her arm, and with more effort than she thought herself capable, swung her legs out of bed and dropped to the floor next to her assailant. With all the strength left in her, she rolled him over. Yanking the IV stand down with a loud crash, she used the tubes to bind his arms behind his back; not tight enough.
His eyes blinked open, and he groaned.
"Help!" she called, but the words came out strangled.
He fought against the binding, and she crawled away over the shards of glass and toward the door. A piece jammed into her hand, her vision blurred, and behind her, Scrubs was now on his knees.
She reached the door, and pulled it open with her good hand, while she cradled the other to her chest.
An officer in uniform lay on his side on the carpeted floor in front of her, eyes closed, blood dripping down the side of his face. His peace rested under the hip he lay on.
"Officer," she choked out. "Officer?"
She crawled to the cop, her vision blurring in and out. He didn't move. Grabbing his wrist, she felt for a pulse. It was there but thready.
A slur of curse words flew toward her from the room. She rolled the officer and fell on him in the process. Pushing herself up slightly with her wounded hand, she reached for his gun. She undid the snap that held his gun in his holster. Scrubs grabbed hold of her legs and yanked her back.
Bile stirred in her stomach, making its way up her throat, as he flipped her over and grabbed her throat.
Gasping for breath, she jammed her hand into his nose. He fell back and cursed again. Blood rushed from his nose, splashing her. She scooted up again, toward the officer. Scrubs grabbed her again, just as she got hold of the gun. She let him flip her over again, using the momentum to swing the gun up. As soon as it hit body, she pulled the trigger.
Scrubs collapsed on top of her. She dropped her head back to the officer. Shadow figures raced toward her from down the hall of a hospital she didn't recognize. Indistinguishable voices called out. Her nausea increased tenfold.
She shoved Scrubs off and grabbed the fallen officer's hand. "Hang in there, buddy. You're going to be all right."
#
Patrick awoke to a throbbing ache in his hand. He sat up and leaned against his toilet. Lifting his hand, he examined the large dark purple bruise that covered his knuckles, the swelling, and the tiny cuts in his skin. He shook his head and dropped his hand to his lap.
Light shone through the glazed window over the toilet, illuminating the can of Bloody Mary sitting open on the tile floor before him. He scowled at it and rubbed his eyes.
The events of the previous evening came rushing back like fall crowds at the circus. He remembered the panic in Teresa's voice as she'd called out to him. He remembered watching her blink in and out, seeing her see it as well—the panic and confusion there. And then she was gone, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out.
He'd wanted to go to her, to rush to her hospital bed, but Cho didn't know what hospital she was in. No one knew. Her placement had been kept a secret for her own protection. A secret from everyone except the Assistant DA trying to kill her. He and Cho had both immediately made calls. Cho to warn Bosco that Teresa was in danger, and him to beg Virgil to get the Feds involved—to get them to her, to protect her.
Patrick hadn't reached Virgil and none of his contacts would help. Cho had reached Bosco, who had assured them that he would take care of it. There had been an urgency in the man's voice that had almost convinced Patrick he would. Except that he couldn't.
Patrick thought of Teresa's pretty emerald eyes, of the fear he'd seen in them right before she'd vanished for good. The look there had been the exact same look he'd seen when his wife had died.
And now, he got to live his life having suffered the loss of two women he loved.
He sat up and reached for the can of Bloody Mary, still heavy still full, and stood. He stared at his shattered reflection in the vanity mirror he'd punched last night and squeezed his sore fist. Holding the can over the sink, he tipped it and watched as the red contents, so reminiscent of blood, swirled down the drain.
The sight was oddly cathartic.
He couldn't change what he'd done in the past, but he could do things differently now. Teresa was gone. But the sun was shining and he no longer felt cold. And while he hadn't been able to believe it before, he knew now that she'd been a miracle in his life. He hadn't believed in miracles until one had cussed him out for wasting his life.
Teresa. He cleared his throat.
Once the can was empty, he chucked it in the waste basket next to his vanity, and made for the kitchen. He opened his refrigerator and removed all his six packs, then took his Vodka out of the cupboard. He drained each and every can. Before the last of them were empty, a tear streamed down his cheek, and one more. He reached up with his thumb and index finger and wiped them away.
Once finished there, he went back to his living room and stared at it, the emptiness of it. Teresa was gone. He'd been here for months. Months. And this was all he had to show for it. She'd been right, he was pathetic. In the end, she'd been so sure she was there for him. To help him. He wouldn't be so ungrateful as to not accept that. He couldn't.
He moved to his couch where Zak had tossed the furniture magazine and picked it up. It's cool glossy surface trying and failing to send ice back through his soul. Even though every part of him rebelled against the idea, it was time to live. And he'd keep his promise. He'd find her brothers, and he'd make sure they were looked after.