Three days after the incident, Byrne stood at the foot of the hospital bed, watching Victoria sleep. She looked so small beneath the covers. The doctors had removed all of the tubes. Only a single IV drip was left.
He thought about the night they had made love, how right she had felt in his arms. It seemed like so long ago.
She opened her eyes.
"Hi," Byrne offered. He hadn't told her anything of the events in North Philly. There would be time enough. "Hi."
"How are you feeling?" Byrne asked.
Victoria weakly butterflied her hands. Not good, not bad. Her color had returned. "Could I have some water, please?" she asked.
"Are you allowed?"
Victoria glared at him.
"Okay, okay," he said. He skirted the bed, lifted the glass with the straw to her mouth. She sipped, laid her head back on the pillow. Each movement caused her pain.
"Thank you." She looked at him, the question poised on her lips. Her silver eyes were touched with hazel in the early-evening light streaming through the window. He had never noticed that before. She asked. "Matisse is dead?"
Byrne wondered how much he should tell her. He knew she would learn the full truth eventually. For now he said, simply: "Yes."
Victoria nodded slightly, closed her eyes. She bowed her head for the moment. Byrne wondered what the gesture meant. He couldn't imagine that Victoria was offering a blessing for the man's soul-he couldn't imagine that anyone would-but then again he knew that Victoria Lind- strom was a better person than he could ever hope to be.
After a moment, she looked back up at him. "They say I can go home tomorrow. Will you be here?"
"I'll be here," Byrne said. He peeked into the hallway for a moment, then stepped forward, opened the mouth of the mesh bag over his shoulder. A wet snout poked through the opening; a pair of lively brown eyes peered out. "He will be, too."
Victoria smiled. She reached out. The puppy licked her hand, his tail thrashing around inside the bag. Byrne had already decided on a name for the puppy. They would call him Putin. Not for the Russian president, but rather Rasputin, because the dog had already proven himself a holy terror around Byrne's apartment. Byrne had resigned himself to buying his slippers by the case from now on.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watched Victoria as she drifted off to sleep. He watched her breathe, grateful for every rise and fall of her chest. He thought about Colleen, how resilient she was, how strong. He had learned a great deal about life from Colleen in the past few days. She had reluctantly agreed to enter a program of victim's counseling. Byrne had arranged for a counselor who was fluent in sign language. Victoria and Colleen. His sunrise and sunset. They were so much alike.
Later, Byrne looked at the window, surprised to find that it had gotten dark. He saw their reflection in the glass.
Two damaged people. Two people who found each other by touch. Together, he thought, they might make one whole person.
Maybe that was enough.