Clint pulled the half dozen blankets on his bed over himself even tighter in the hopes it would stop his shivering at least until the next round of sweating hit him. He'd had the flu before but never this bad. He probably should have stayed in bed all day, but there was no way he was missing his only daughter's graduation from college. Even in the heated auditorium, he sat there with a blanket wrapped around him as he tried to keep his teeth from chattering so loudly that no one else could hear the graduates speak. He endured for Kara's sake. Four and a half long, hard years of pre-med undergrad work at The University of Washington in Seattle had paid off as today she was graduating with highest honors and on her way to the UW's school of medicine in the Fall. Having her stay home with them at least for now gave him the feeling he could hold on to his baby girl a little while longer and that thought was a great comfort to a dad who'd just turned 56.
He'd wanted to go out and celebrate with Kara and his wife of 28 years, Cecily or just "Cec" to her friends, but he was just so damn sick there was no way he could do it. Besides, it was the middle of Winter and it cold as hell outside and raining like a banshee. He glanced over at the nightstand and in between the bottle of Nyquil and the box of TheraFlu he saw the digital readout from the clock. Much to his chagrin it was only a few minutes past nine. He needed to sleep but sleep just wouldn't come.
Moments later, he thought he heard the doorbell ring. He wasn't sure if he was hearing things or not, but he was in no mood for company no matter who it was. He pulled one of the spare pillows over his ears to drown out the noise. As the bell rang a second time, he noticed what looked like a flashing strobe light through the curtains in his otherwise pitch black room. "Jesus! Who in the hell is that at this hour on a night like this?" he mused out loud.
When the doorbell rang a third time, Clint knew whoever was there wasn't going away. He forced himself to sit up, wrapped as many blankets as he could hold onto around himself, and staggered toward the front door. As he approached, the bell kept ringing which was followed by knocking and muffled voices. Shivering, he arrived at the door and peeked through the tiny hole to see what in God's name was going on. He saw two young police officers at the door and a patrol car in his driveway. He was wondering if the neighbors called the cops again because his dog, Misty, was barking. He hadn't her but then again he was pretty much out of it. He let go of the blankets enough to unlatch the lock and open the door. As he did, the dark-haired male officer said, "Mr. Pierce?"
"Yes. Come inside. It's cold as hell out there. Please, come in. Sorry for the blankets but I've got the flu and I feel like shit."
The male officer waited for his female partner to step through the door before entering himself. He shut the door behind them both, removed his hat, and said, "Mr. Pierce. Are you the husband of Cecily Pierce and the father of Kara Pierce?"
Clint's head was foggy and he already felt nauseous. This question itself caused an immediate, involuntary reaction. He let it fly into a nearby bowl in the foyer. The blonde female officer moved to steady him and put her hand on his back. "Mr. Pierce. I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said, "but there's been a terrible accident."
That was just over two years ago. The police called his bother-in-law, Jeff, at his request to go identify the bodies. He'd never shirked responsibility in his adult life but he was so ill he couldn't leave the house and the thought of seeing them like that was more than he could bear. When Jeff and his sister Allie arrived at the house around midnight, Allie was crying. Her tears confirmed what he already knew. Both of the women he loved the most in life were gone. Both Cecily and Kara had died instantly, their lives taken in a the blink of an eye by a drunk driver who was later sentenced to five years in prison but recently released after serving just 18 months.
He'd been unable to go back to work after that and with the help of his attorney, he sold all three of the printing shops he owned in the Seattle metropolitan area. With the money he made from the sale plus the half million from the life insurance policy he'd taken out on Cec 25 years ago, he had more than enough money to live on comfortably for the rest of his life. "The rest of my life," he mused out loud to himself. "What
life
?"
The only thing that kept Clint from going crazy was his training regimen. He'd served five years in the Marine Corps as a commissioned officer after graduating from The Naval Academy and he'd never stopped working out. He alternated between lifting and running every other day while taking Sundays off altogether. It was something he'd done since he was in high school. Okay, he didn't always take Sundays off. During the short summers, he'd mow their substantial-sized yard each week but that wasn't an actual workout in his mind. Now 58, Clint could still easily bench over 350lbs and although his three-mile run time had fallen off from his sub-18 minute days on active duty, he could still turn in a very respectable 20:00 minutes flat if he put his mind to it. Only the grey hairs which had turned his thick, dark hair to mostly salt in the "salt and pepper" look he sported in a close-cropped style gave away any hint of his true age. Even then, most people took him for around 45 and were shocked when they learned they were off by more than a decade. That gave him precious little consolation as he powered through one of the hardest chest workouts he'd done in years as though he could push away the grief by pushing up a heavy barbell.
When he left the gym, he decided to have breakfast for dinner, something he and the girls used to do every now and then. "The girls." He'd only let himself cry twice since that night and as he blinked back a tear he vowed not to let there be third. As he pulled into the Denny's where they all used to go, he felt that now-familiar lump in his throat that appeared when he thought about them. He was determined not to let memories keep him from living his life even as he thought again to himself, "What life? This kind of life
isn't
life. It's just...
existing
." But like any good Marine, he soldiered on because giving up wasn't an option. It wasn't in his DNA.
He'd been sitting there staring at his food for what was probably ten minutes even though he had no idea how long it actually was before the voice registered. "Are you okay? Mister? Are you all right?"
He flinched slightly as her voice startled him back to reality. He turned to see a young, disheveled woman about Kara's age in the booth across from his. She had large, beautiful "doe" eyes and smooth skin. Her eyes reminded him of the actress who played Debra Morgan on the hit TV show
Dexter
. Beyond that however, she presented a rough exterior. Her nose was swollen and too large for her thin face, her hair was greasy and matted down, and she was wearing a pair of mismatched sweats with a huge hole in the right leg. He'd caught a brief glimpse of her teeth and his heart went out to her as he realized she was probably too poor to afford orthodontic care let alone something like a rhinoplasty. Still, she seemed genuinely concerned and that, plus the warmth she exuded, somehow made him feel good for the first time in two years.
"I'm okay. Yes. Thank you. I was just thinking. That's all."
"I didn't mean to stare. It's just that well, you sat there for like ten minutes and never moved. I only saw you blink a few times. It's really none of my business but I guess you kind of remind me of my dad a little bit. I mean the way he looked when my mom was still alive. Before he started drinking..." She stopped mid-sentence then added, "I'm sorry for bothering you."
