I file that away for later, because I have enough on my hands at the moment and whatever that is between the two of them is their business, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice it.
Molly is still pressed against my side and I've kept my arm around her through all of it, and now I look down at her to make sure she’s alright. She's holding herself together in the way she does, because she’s a nurse she pulls the competent professional in front of the terrified daughter and keeps it there, but I can feel what's underneath it in the tension in her body and the way she's got her hand wrapped in the fabric of my jacket.
"Hey." I duck my head to get into her eyeline. "Does your mom know yet?"
She shakes her head, and I can see the moment the implication of that lands on her. "I don’t think so, she’d be here by now. I don't want her to find out from someone else. She shouldn't have someone she doesn't know come to the door." She straightens slightly, and I watch the decision forming. "I need to be the one to tell her. I need to be there."
"Then let's go." I don't ask her if she's sure, because she said what she said and she doesn't need me second-guessing her when she's already carrying enough. I look across the room to where Levi is standing near his grandfather, and when he glances over I catch his eye and nod toward the exit. He reads it immediately, and he gives me a short nod back that says go, I've got this end of it.
I keep my arm around Molly and we walk out.
The parking lot air is cold enough that it hits us when the doors slide open, and I feel her pull in a breath that's probably partly temperature and partly trying to keep herself upright, using the unexpected coldness to let her know she’s alive. I know that trick. I've used it myself tonight.
I get her into the truck and I get in, but I don't start it right away. I just look at her for a second.
"You don't have to say anything on the way," I tell her. "You don't have to hold a conversation or explain anything or be okay. You just have to sit there and let me drive you."
She closes her eyes for a second and then opens them. "Okay."
I start the truck, and we head out.
The drive to the Harrison house takes nine minutes on the dot. Molly is quiet beside me, and I let her be quiet, and I keep one hand on the wheel and one on her knee, and she puts her hand over mine for most of the drive, not saying anything. I don't say anything, and that's what we need right now so that's what we do.
The lights are just popping on at the Harrison house when we pull up. The porch light is warming up in the setting sun, turning on so that it’ll give light through the night. I wonder if Ruby is worried about Caleb. He probably should’ve been home by now. Is she sitting there worried? Or is she sitting in there without any idea what the last hour of her husband's life has looked like, and my chest twists roughly.
We get out, and I take Molly's hand. Together, with entwined fingers, we walk to the front door.
She doesn't knock. It's her parents' house, and she lets us in, and I follow her inside. “Mom?” She questions.
I have to give it to her, her voice doesn’t tell anyone the fear she has right now.
Ruby is in the kitchen, and I hear her voice before I see her, calling out without looking up from whatever she's doing. "Molly? I thought you were — " And then she turns and sees us, and she sees Molly's face, and she sees mine. She is a perceptive woman who has been married to a law enforcement officer for many years. She knows. She knows before either of us says a single word, and the color leaves her face so fast that I take two steps toward her before I'm fully aware I'm moving.
"Ruby," I say, and I keep my voice as even as I can. "I need you to sit down for a second."
"Caleb." It's not a question. Her hand comes to her mouth.
Molly crosses to her and takes both of her hands, and she does what nurses do, which is lead someone through information without any of it being personal. She puts on that cool unaffected face, when I know she’s very affected. "Dad was in an accident today during a pursuit. He's at the hospital. He was unconscious when they brought him in, but he’s alive." She says the last part clearly, because she knows it's the part her mother needs to hear first. "He’s alive, Mom. We're going to go be with him right now."
Ruby's grip on Molly's hands tightens, and I watch her do the thing that strong people do in the first moment of hard news, which is to compress it, to take all of the fear and all of the what-ifs and push them into a box and shut the lid so that they can function. She's not unlike her daughter in that way, or her son.
"Okay," Ruby says, and she straightens. "Give me my purse."
I get her purse.
Molly gets her mom' s coat off the hook by the door and helps her into it without being asked. I watch the two of them and I feel something settle into place inside of me that I don’t want to look at right now. All I know is this is my family, and I’m going to make sure they get where they need to go.
When we walk outside onto the porch, my parents are in their driveway. “Dakota,” Dad yells. “Want us to follow you?”
“Yeah, stay on my bumper,” I answer, thankful my parents are going to be there with us.
I hold the door open and I let them go first, and when we get to the truck I open the back cab passenger door and help Ruby in, and Molly climbs in beside her, and I get in on my side and I drive them back to the hospital without saying anything unnecessary, because there is nothing necessary to say right now except through the act of doing this, of being here, of not letting them do this alone.
Ruby reaches over in the dark of the cab and puts her hand on my forearm briefly, just once, and she doesn't say anything either. She doesn't have to. It’s a thank you for coming and getting her.
I keep both hands on the wheel and I get them there.
Chapter 23