STEPPING  UP

PART SEVEN:

"No," Steve said, leaning his temple wearily against the passenger

window of Holli's car.

"What do you mean 'no'? You said you'd go to St. Clair after the

funeral."

"Did not. You said."

"But you didn't say no then."

"I'm saying it now, Holli."

"You can't."

"I am."

"Give me one good reason."

"Insurance."

"Insurance?"

"Yep. As in crappy. Holli, I'm a free-lance photographer. My insurance

barely covers splinter removal. I just can't afford the tests they'd run on

me in some ER."

"But, Steve."

"No, Holli. Even if I do have some sort of concussion, what are they going

to do? Tell me to take ibuprofen and rest. That's what. And that'd be after

x-rays and MRIs and CATs and all, all expensive. You know that."

"But you could be...bleeding...or...."

"No 'ors', Holli. What I need is a good nap. Can we please just go back to

the B&B?"  He looked at her, eyes pleading.

She sighed. It made her really uncomfortable for him not to get checked out.

"What if...?"

"If I pass out and you can't wake me up, or blood starts spurting out my

ears, THEN you can call 911."

"You drive me crazy."

He smiled. "Home?"

"Damn!" she spat, backing out of the parking place by the funeral home.

"You letting me keep you from the burial?"

"Whose? Yours?"

"I'm not dead yet."

"Glad you added the 'yet'. You keep this up and you may end up with a

violet tucked in your arm yourself."

"Am I?"

"Dead?"

"Keeping you from the burial?"

"No. It was hard enough seeing her in that box. I didn't really want to

watch her go into the ground."

"You sure?"

"God, Steve, yes, I'm sure." Her eyes began to well with tears. "Losing her

was one of the biggest deals of my life. And now you...you won't take care

of yourself."

"I've got you for that now, don't I?"

"But you won't let me, Steve. You won't let me!"

"I let you wash me yesterday, didn't I? Twice."

In spite of herself, she smiled slightly at the memory.

"Now what I need is for you to just let me sleep a bit. Can we manage that?"

"What if you don't wake up?"

"I promise. I'll wake up."

She chewed her lip. "You drive me crazy."

"You already said that."

"Needed to be said twice," she muttered as she pulled the car to a stop

behind her house.

Steve made no move to get out of the car. She walked around to his side

and said, "If you can't get out, Mr. Moran, I'm getting back in and taking

you straight to St. Clair."

He blew out a long breath and pulled on the door handle, his eyes measuring

the distance to the back steps. Steps. Argh! And inside...more steps up to his

room.

She stood there, arms folded, face grim, watching him get slowly, awkwardly

out of the car then brace himself against it with one hand. "Can't stand on

your own, eh?"

"Can, too." He removed the hand and wobbled a bit.

"You like to lean on me a bit?"

"Wouldn't mind."

"You fall over, I'm calling the paramedics."

"I'm not going to fall over."

"Prove it."

He did. With some support from her, he made it not only to the back steps

but up them, through the kitchen, and down the long hall. By then he was

ready for the floor to open and swallow him. He eyed Tara's long, velvet

davenport in the front parlor across from the steps. "Could I...just...sit

there a minute, you think?"

"Thought you wanted to go to bed."

"I do," he sighed, "but I need to rest a sec before that next flight of stairs."

"You need to go to the hospital. That's what you need."

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."  He settled on the couch, his left leg straight

out.

"Leg won't bend?"

"It'll bend. Just hurts to do it."

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. "You are a mess."

"I love you, too," he grinned.

"Look, Steve, you just sit there and I'll go round up some of those blue

gel packs from the freezer. You know, the ones that stay soft. That'll work

better under your head than a regular lumpy ice pack."

"Sounds good," he agreed, leaning back into the embroidered pillows.

She was gone less than two minutes but when she came back into the

parlor he'd slumped over on his right side atop the couch. "Steve?"

She said his name, squatting beside him. "Did you go to sleep already?"

He didn't answer and a deep line formed between her eyes. "Steve?

How'm I supposed to know if you're asleep or unconscious, huh? Can

you tell me that?" 

He was silent, his lips slightly parted. "DAMN it, Steve!" she blurted

rather loudly. "You ARE driving me crazy!"

She lifted his legs, swiveling them onto the couch so he was lying full out

atop it. Then she moved pillows around, tossing extras onto a nearby chair,

plumping a fat one under his head and then sliding in two gel packs wrapped

in a kitchen towel. She knelt, blinking back fresh tears. "You listen to me,

Steve Moran. If you don't wake up I'm never going to talk to you again!"

Unable to hold her emotions in check any longer, she began a strange,

hiccupping mixture of laughing and crying at what she'd just said. Her

hands were still chilled from holding the gel packs and she cupped them

around his cheeks. His head turned slightly and he murmured, "Cold."

"You're not dead?"

"Not."

"You sleeping?"

"Sleep. Yes."

"You want me just to leave you here?"

"No steps. Here."

She sat back on her heels. At least he wasn't unconscious. His brain

didn't seem to have suddenly exploded or anything. But he lay there

on his back with his hands resting on his tummy exactly as Tara had

lain in her coffin. She couldn't stand him looking like that, so she

picked up his right hand and lay it on the edge of the couch where it

promptly slid off and dangled limply toward the floor. Sitting over on

her right hip, she held his hand between both of her own. "You have

to be all right. You know that, don't you? You can't come in here and

fill my heart and not be all right."

She began to cry again, but quietly, her shoulders shaking slightly.

She cried for Tara, for the irretrievable loss of that. And she cried

for herself as she looked at Steve through tear-blurred eyes, for the

horrid possibility of loss that had become more than she could bear.

She wasn't sure he really...really...knew, knew that she could not

bear the loss of him.  If he did, he'd have let her take him to the

hospital. Wouldn't he?

Had it just been day before yesterday when he'd arrived so grumpily

at her door? That wasn't possible. No, it must have been last year some

time. He was, she knew, like dye poured into her waters. He had changed

the color of her existence and she could never be plain water again. Not

even if he were no longer there. "Oh, God...Steve."  She leaned forward,

laying her cheek on his chest, finding comfort in the steady beats of his

heart.

Then she felt his arm on her back and he murmured dreamily, "Love you."

She closed her eyes and remained like that for a long while, until her muscles

began to cramp. Reluctantly, she sat up, his arm sliding off her back. Then

she moved a bit more to her right and took off his shoes, setting them neatly

side by side at the end of the couch. Men's shoes...side by side. She liked the

sight of them.

Quickly, she ran upstairs and changed out of her dark suit into shorts and

a summery blouse. He hadn't moved when she came back down. Looking

at the wing-backed chair Tara liked to sit in when she was in this room,

she said, "He's going to be all right." She smiled at the chair. "You like

him, don't you? I know you liked his violets." 

She shook her head rather violently. "Holli Tittswell, you are talking to

dead people. You Bruce Willis or somethin'?" Then she chuckled. "Nope,

Bruce WAS the dead people. Man, Holli, you ARE crazy."

"Crazy," Steve slurred from the couch, not really awake.

She knelt beside him again. "It's your fault, you know."

He opened his eyelids just a slit. "Me?"

"Yes, I'm crazy because of you. I'm talking to dead people now."

"Not dead."

"Not you."

"You glad?"

"Glad?"

"Not dead, me not dead?"

"Very glad. But you scared me plenty, Mister."

"Kiss."

"Kiss you?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"Because not dead. Because...love."

"Oh...that. Well, then...." And she kissed him very, very softly.

"More."

"You said your lips were the only thing that wasn't hurt. I don't want to

take any chances with them."

"Can."

"Can?"

"Take chance. More."

So she did. The whole falling in love with a guy from New York City was

her taking an enormous chance. She was well aware of that.

When she pulled back, he turned, a sharp pain going through his knee.

"Let me take another look at that," she said firmly, sliding up his loose

pants leg. "Man, Steve, I think you may have sprained it or pulled a

ligament or something. Don't think you're going to be going up and down

any paper streets for a bit."

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked.

She fetched her cell from her purse and he dialed a New York number.

"Harold," he said, "look, I've had a bit of an accident and am not up for

doing the stairs for a few days. All right with you if I extend my stay here

a week or so? Just no way I can do this. Got a bum leg. What? Yeah, you

think so? That'll work? Yeah, I understand. I can manage that. Yes. Sure,

it's not gonna be on your dollar. Right. Just so's the deadline's ok. Good.

I'll let you know. Yes. Thanks, Harold."

"Who was that?"

"Harold Myers, the guy who hired me to photograph the steps. Says it's

ok time-wise to stay extra, but he's not paying for it 'til I'm out taking his

pictures again. Guess that's fair."

"Steve," she said softly, "you know I want you here as long as you can.

I don't need you to pay for your room. I just want...you."

"It gives me...us...more time, "he replied. "That's gotta be a good thing,

right?"

"Then what?"

"We'll figure something out. I know we will. We have to." His life was in

New York, had always been in New York. He...was...a New Yorker. Could

he ask her to leave Pittsburgh, leave her family, leave the bed and breakfast

now that it was hers? Would she if he did? What did New York hold for

her? He sank back into the pillow, closing his eyes. "We'll figure something

out," he sighed, "...something." Damn, but his head hurt!

"You want some ibuprofen?"

"Thanks," he murmured. It was too hard to think clearly now and there was

so much that required his thinking. Tara, he thought, you were right that

falling in love is easy. It's the living love that's hard. What am I going to do?

What...can...I do?

As clearly as though she had spoken from her chair, the thought came to him:

You are going to take it one day at a time. That's all anyone can do. One day

at a time. And you'll see. You'll see how it will work out.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For the ibuprofen?" Holli asked, holding out a hand with the pills.

"I was talking to Tara," he smiled.

"You, too?"

"Does that make us both crazy?"

"I'm crazy in love with you."

"Good," he said. "That makes two of us."

"You're in love with you?"

He chuckled. "I used to be. Now I'm in love with you."

"What did Tara say?"

"She said she liked the idea of that."

"She always was a good aunt," Holli smiled.

"Still is," Steve replied, looking at the chair.

ON TO PART 8

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