The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits Page 22

  He has etched through the vinyl screen.

  I lean beside him, as if offering him a drink. Instead, I flick a catch on my right hand’s ring, releasing a tiny syringe with a super dose of Propofol, an instant knockout drug.

  He leaps up, perplexed at our duplicity. Still, I’m able to stab him in the neck—

  But at the same time, he follows through on his involuntary reflex to fight back, punching me in the gut.

  I gasp as I drop into the chair beside him. Though out of breath, I’m able to prop him up without drawing the attention of the others.

  I stare down at my abdomen. Blood is seeping through my wound. Thank goodness my dress is the same color.

  I’m even more thankful when the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac. A moment after, it rolls to a stop. Abu flings open the cabin door and twenty infantrymen rush in to escort our guests out at gunpoint.

  But by the time they get to Javed and me, I’ve already passed out.

  25

  I’m Sorry

  Performed by Brenda Lee. Written by Dub Allbritten and Ronnie Self.

  In July 1960, the song made it to #1 on the Billboard “Hot 100 Singles” U.S. chart. At the time, Ms. Lee was only fifteen. Her album was released after a debate as to whether someone so young should be singing about unrequited love.

  There is no ‘sorry’ in relationships? Pshaw!

  Here are the top three no-no’s for couples in love. And since, as we all know, actions speak louder than words, here are the best ways to make amends:

  No-No Number One: You never say, “I love you.”

  Atonement: Say it loud, proud, and often. Not only that, back it up with a random act of adoration!

  No-No Number Two: You never take your beloved’s drama or trauma seriously.

  Atonement: Feel his or her pain. By acknowledging your beloved’s fear factors, you become her/his super hero.

  No-No Number Three: Don’t lie—because you’ll always get caught.

  Atonement: Hmmm. This is a hard one because it deals with trust—or in your loved one’s case, the lack thereof.

  To resume the lifetime of love you anticipated, devote your waking hours to proving that from now on you’ll always live up to your word. Otherwise, you’ll spend your sleeping hours with one eye propped open in fear of a bang with a frying pan.

  Jack and I drive home in a silence so heavy that I can barely breathe. From the way Jack’s chest is heaving, I guess he feels the same way.

  He’s been radio silent since I woke up from my emergency surgery at Camp Bondsteel. The great news: the docs there did a great job of patching me up.

  Even better news: the whole time I was out, I had no visitors from the Other Side.

  George landed back at LAX’s private terminal before dawn. It’s early Saturday morning, so the children should sleep for several more hours. Good, because we’re both exhausted. I won’t be surprised if we don’t wake up until Sunday afternoon.

  More than likely in separate beds again.

  When we get home, Jack trudges up the stairs behind me. Surprisingly, when I turn into the master bedroom, he follows, closing the door behind us.

  From the stony frown on his face, it looks as if we’re going to have it out here and now.

  He seems to be searching for the right words. They come in the form of a question: “Tell me the truth, Donna: did you think it was me you pushed over the banister in the EEOB?”

  “No, of course not! I knew…alright, I was told that…that it would be Eric.”

  “By whom?”

  Okay, then, this is our moment of truth: “Carl warned me.”

  Shock blanches all color from Jack’s face. “You saw Carl—at the EEOB? He’s alive?”

  “No.” My eyes close as if weighted by my words. Eventually, I mutter, “Like the Reaper, he came to me while I was in a coma—at the same time Nurse Nancy came at you with a syringe! That was when my monitor started beeping like it was the end of the world. My world. Our world.”

  Jack’s eyes open wide. Incredulously, he murmurs, “So, you saw that too?” He eases himself down onto the bed. “If that’s true, I guess I should thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say grudgingly.

  “So, why didn’t you mention Carl before now?”

  “Would you have believed me?” I retort.

  My hope that my tone convinces Jack to let the topic drop is dashed when he asks, “How did Carl know that Eric would look like me?”

  “I don’t know! How do the Departed know anything? Maybe they freely roam the space-time continuum.” Frustrated, I throw up my hands. “Look, I’m no scientist, and I'm no psychic. But there’s no denying that my near-death experience blessed us with some important information throughout this mission.”

  He stews on that. Finally: “What were Carl’s exact words?”

  I wince. “You won’t like it. He told me that I’d have to kill you—and that, by doing so, I’d kill Eric.”

  “And you believed him?” Is it disbelief or rage that is causing Jack to shake?

  “Yes!” I plop down beside him. “You see, under the circumstances, he had to tell me the truth because we…well, we had a deal. I lived up to my end of it, so he had to as well.”

  “Talk about a Faustian bargain.” Jack scrutinizes me closely. “What did you have to give up in return?”

  “My life.” I take his hand. “For yours.”

  “Why, that son of a bitch!” he murmurs.

  “Don’t you get it, Jack? Carl knew I’d choose your life over mine. He gave up even more, just to see me—and to warn us about Eric.” I feel my eyes clouding with tears. Exhausted, I close them.

  After a million seconds of silence, Jack whispers, “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you.”

  Carl’s face appears in my mind. It is how I remember him best: handsome, with a teasing twinkle in his eye, and a sly smile on his face. My eyes open wide when I hear his voice clearly in my ear:

  The letter I left for you—in your recipe book… It explained why I went deep cover. And how I’d never have deserted you—

  His voice fades along with his image—

  —and how I loved you, always.

  Again, he is gone.

  My eyes open as I bolt up. “Oh, my God! I forgot!”

  Jack’s forehead folds in concern. “What now?”

  “Carl said he left me a letter in one of my old recipe books! It would explain…why he left when he did.” I slap the bed, frustrated. “Damn it! When I was finally ready to move, I dumped a lot of things—including my mother’s old recipe books. It’s long gone by now.”

  “No, they're not. Your Aunt Phyllis has those books.”

  “What? ...What is she doing with them?”

  “She saw you toss out a box containing a bunch of old mementos. She felt you might want them someday.”

  “Talk about prescient!” I say, laughing. “Wait—how did you know she had it?”

  “I was in charge of vetting you for Acme. As part of the process, I interviewed her.”

  I frown. “She never said anything about that!”

  “She didn’t know me at the time. And besides, I was in disguise and I used a standard ploy: that I was investigating the possibility that your father was the beneficiary of a deceased friend’s estate, but that I needed proof that he was the legitimate heir.”

  “My father did inherit something from someone, but he’d long since died. It came to me instead.” I frown. “So, the money wasn’t part of someone’s legacy?”

  Jack shakes his head.

  “Then where did it come from? Acme?”

  “Um…me.” His face turns bright red.

  “Why? You didn’t even know me then.”

  “Because I…well, the more I knew about you, the more I cared for you.”

  “As far back as then,” I murmur. “Did you find the letter?”

  He nods.

  “What did Carl write?” I ask excitedly. />
  “If you’re asking me if he came clean about becoming a double-agent to a consortium funding international terrorism, Hmmm, let me think,” he quips sarcastically. “Gee, nope, nothing like that.”

  “Please, don’t use that tone with me,” I warn him. “Tell me, Jack: considering all we’ve been through together these past three years, why didn’t you mention the letter to me?” Suddenly, it hits me. “Don’t tell me you’re still jealous of Carl!” I can’t help but laugh.

  “Frankly, I forgot about it,” Jack mutters coldly. “Cut me some slack here, Donna. I almost lost you! And now that I have you back, I have to wrap my head around the idea that you interacted with our deceased enemies.”

  “Some of those souls were our friends too.”

  “Carl’s new address may be Hell, but he’s still the smug, conniving asshole he’s always been,” Jack counters. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be there in the first place. Am I right?”

  I shrug because he has a point.

  “What if Carl had been lying, Donna? What if you’d killed me and not Eric?”

  My eyes tear up at the thought. “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. The act would have haunted me the rest of my life.”

  For some reason, that brings a smile to his face. “No. I would have haunted you until your dying day.”

  I snort at the thought.

  Hearing me, he laughs outright.

  Now, I’m laughing as well. In fact, we’re laughing so hard that tears are running down our faces.

  I stop first. Or at least I think I have. In fact, Jack isn’t laughing.

  He’s choking back his tears.

  Shocked, I shift closer to wipe one away.

  He takes my hand and holds it against his face. He turns his head to kiss my palm.

  Déjà vu surges over me. Why? ...

  Then I remember. “Carl did that too, when we said goodbye,” I murmur sadly.

  He accepts this revelation with a resigned nod. “I’ve been in many a situation where I should have contemplated the Afterlife. But to be honest with you, I hadn’t. I guess I felt that, in our field, it’s always around the corner, so why not live life as if every day matters? And then you came into my life. The last thing I could think of was you leaving me.” Jack looks down at my palm. He turns it over and stares at my wedding band. Rubbing it with his finger, he says, “I have no right to resent the fact that you made your peace with him.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes. You were right. Carl knew you’d sacrifice your life to save mine.” Jack sighs. “He needed closure with you.”

  “I wish I could say his unselfish act put him in a better place…but it didn’t.” I sigh deeply at the thought of Carl’s fate.

  “He wanted it so badly that he accepted that infernal bargain with Lucifer—Satan, the Devil, or whatever else you want to call him,” Jack replies. “And in trusting Carl’s clue, not only did you save our lives and that of the President and many others, you proved your faith in the love you once shared with him. Wherever he is, he now realizes that.”

  “I guess you’re right… No—I know you’re right.” For the first time since returning to the living, serenity eases into my heart. “Jack, thank you for trying to understand.”

  He shrugs absently. “I think it was Bertrand Russell who said, ‘Fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people are so full of doubts.’ Frankly, I’m doing my best to be considered the latter”— Jack points to me—“at least, to the woman I love.” He looks down at my hand, which he still holds tightly. “Donna, I couldn’t imagine my world without you. You made me whole in a way I never could have been had I not met you.”

  “Funny,” I murmur. “Valentina said that about us.”

  His jaw drops when he hears this. “Well, she was certainly right about that.”

  I reach over to hold his hand. I love this man with my whole being.

  Jack wipes a tear from my cheek. Suddenly, he laughs. “Hey, just think—you beat the Reaper! Frankly, if you hadn’t, I’ve no doubt you would have given the Devil his due.”

  “I hope I never get the chance to find out. I have too much to lose.” I shudder at the thought.

  “You’ve been given a second chance. It’s God’s way of saying you’re here for a purpose.”

  Tenderly, he draws me in for a kiss.

  We both deserve more than that. I shove him onto the bed and climb onboard.

  “Wait! Donna…is it too soon for this?” The concern in his voice is touching.

  “Too soon? It was almost too late,” I remind him.

  The realization that I’m right drives his desire. Jack takes this as an invitation to strip away any and all clothing that stands between us: unzipping my dress, tossing off my heels, peeling down my panties, and flinging off my bra.

  As for my bandaged wound, he bows before it, kissing it gently.

  Oddly, it’s a turn-on. I would not have thought that possible.

  His duds take a while longer to shed, but I’m there to help. If he weren’t so hard, it would be easier to unzip his pants. Getting his T-shirt over his broad shoulders is also a struggle, but hey, I’m up for it.

  He’s up for me too.

  The collective memory of past intimacies and the shared thrills of our foreplay are the shorthand in our lovemaking. Slowly, gently, he eases into me. In no time, we find our rhythm. Urgency builds with desire. Trauma stokes our frenzy. The emotions swelling within me are matched with each of his thrusts and grunts.

  The strain on my abdomen brings both pain—and pleasure. I cry out for all the wrong reasons. But I also gasp for all the right ones.

  Our bliss comes in unison.

  It is the ultimate celebration of our souls entwined. It is every memory we’ve ever shared. It’s every surge of passion that has ever flowed between us.

  It is our undying commitment to love each other for eternity.

  By the time we pull away, we’ve found what was lost in the tragedy of these past days:

  Us.

  26

  One Way or Another

  Recorded by Blondie. Released September 1978, the song reached #24 on the greatest hits charts, spending fourteen weeks on it.

  Humans are blessed to have the intelligence to figure out solutions to many problems.

  Can we solve all the world’s ills?

  Of course not. Certain things are inevitable. As the ironic saying goes, death and taxes are two conundrums that most often come to mind.

  Okay, perhaps someday, all societies will do away with taxes. (One would hope, right?) As for death, well, that’s a long shot. Besides all the problems it would cause (overpopulation, food and water shortages, an endless healthcare crisis) would you want to live forever if you weren’t remotely near your physical and mental best?

  If you answered “Yes,” those who felt contrarily would call you selfish and unrealistic.

  If you answered “No,” your critics would assume you could not think outside the box—

  That box, of course, being your coffin.

  Until they are proven right, the no’s have it.

  One way or the other, the Grim Reaper is going to get you—

  Hopefully, later than sooner.

  Home sweet home.

  Except for the garage.

  Between our two cars is a wall of precariously stacked boxes, four bikes, three skateboards, baseball bats, tennis racquets, Lacrosse sticks, and every ball imaginable.

  It’s has become an insurmountable obstacle course.

  Like the rest of the family, I should already be at Hilldale Park, cheering on Trisha (sans helmet; okay, yes, I caved) and her soccer team in a grudge match with the Newport Beach Nymphs. Apparently, Jack didn’t have the heart to rouse me from my deep slumber. The note on his pillow read:

  My Dear Sleeping Beauty,

  Walked with the kids and Aunt Phyllis to the game. They’re hankering for a post-game pizza, so when you’re r
eady to join us, take the Donna-mobile.

  xx forever and through Infinity,

  Jack

  Despite my willowy post-coma physique, I can barely squeeze between Jack’s car and mine. I’m steps away from the driver’s door when my foot lands on something and slips out from under me—

  A skateboard sporting a leering skull-and-crossbones on a jet-black background. It’s got enough traction to ricochet off a tall plastic bin containing old toys—

  Which topples over onto a tower of boxes—

  Which lean sideways into another tower, which tilts into another—

  Only to be stopped when I leap over an old tricycle and lean against the boxes.

  When I’m convinced that they are finally braced against the wall, I sigh with relief. “This is insanity,” I mutter.

  It’s time to clean up this mess, once and for all. I look around for the ladder and find a skateboard instead.

  I pick it up: CHEEVER BING is written on the board’s underside.

  Figures.

  My first instinct is to toss it into the trash. But then I calculate the odds of Cheever falling and breaking his neck, and suddenly I realize they’re greater if the board was involved, so I toss it into my SUV. He’ll retrieve it on Monday when I go back into carpool rotation—lucky me.

  Hey, sure beats making pacts with the Devil.

  I need to sort through these boxes. To do that, I’ll need a ladder to disassemble the stacks.

  At least the ladder is where it should be: hanging on a wall with the rest of the yard and hardware tools. As per Jack’s nature, it is the one wall that doesn’t need tidying. Before he moved in with us, I’d wince when I passed this wall. Do-it-yourself projects and yard work were Carl’s release. Despite being told he had died, I set up the wall as an altar to his memory now some eight years ago.

  In hindsight, I wonder if his expertise with hatchets, hammers, saws, and chainsaws was part of his wetwork training? My guess is yes.