by Ella James
“Yeah. While you cook it I was thinking of going outside and checking out the bike. See if I can fix it.”
Her mouth pulls into a frown. “He shot the tire, so I bet you probably can't.”
“I don't know, I'm pretty handy with bikes.”
“I guess you would need to be.” She sits a pan on one of the stove's many eyes. “They must trust you a lot to send you out here with your hand the way it is.”
I bite the edges of my tongue, not sure how to take that. Is it a compliment? An insult? It isn't pity. That, I like. I don't want to talk about my non-existent company anymore, so I just shrug and say, “Guess so.”
We're quiet for a while. The kitchen fills with the smell of sausage.
She's pushing it around in a skillet when she turns back to look at me. “Don't go outside.”
“Why not?” I raise my brows. “Did something happen while I was out?”
“No, nothing happened. I just...I don't want to take any risks right now, when you just woke up. I mean...I feel like I just got you back.” Color stains her cheeks. “I’ll be up poop creek if something like that happens again.”
“Poop creek?” I raise my eyebrows in a skeptical way. She crosses her arms under her chest and I beat her to the punch. “Or maybe it’s that you…missed me?” I'm teasing, mostly because I don't know what else to say.
“I did.” She gives me that smile again. “You're not such bad company.”
I look down at my hand. “Even with my howling, moaning alter ego?”
She bites her lip. “That was pretty awful. Does it happen a lot?”
“It happens about once a month. Sometimes twice. It just depends.”
She pushes the sausage around, adding a dollop of butter to the pan. “What triggers it?”
“Stress. Fatigue. Maybe just the wind blows wrong. My neck's pretty fucked up— fracked up,” I say as her eyebrows arch. “So it's kind of unpredictable.”
“I could tell it was your neck. Sometimes I’d rub it just right, and you’d seem to feel better.
“Really?” That's surprising. “Who would have thought?”
“A masseuse, probably. Have you ever been to one?”
“Other than you?” I look her over. “Three. None of them helped.”
“That’s surprising,” she says.
“Maybe you’re just better. Are you licensed and shit?”
“I'm not certified in America or anything, but I trained. At the clinic.”
It hits me. “The Sister, the one I met, she trained you.”
“Yes.”
“She rubbed my neck. The security sensors went off because there's metal caging in there, so she poked around.”
She cooks some more in silence. After a spell, she looks up again. “Can I ask another question?”
“Shoot.”
“How long has it been? Since your wreck?”
“Six months-ish.”
She chews her lip again, now adding some pepper. Then she looks at me. “How are you doing, if you don't mind me asking. I mean...how do you deal with that?”
“Without wanting to blow my head off?” I give her a pointed look. “Is that the question?”
She nods. “It looks so horrible. I can't imagine how you bear it.”
“What would you do?” I ask her.
“I think I'd take the drugs. A lot of them.”
The unspoken question is obvious, so I decide to tell her why I don’t do drugs. One, she’ll probably trust me more when she hears my pathetic story. Two, I want to tell someone.
Normally, it’d be hard to talk about. But with Merri, the woman I left to die in Mexico, who thinks my name is Evan…there’s no danger. She’s going to leave my life soon anyway.
I watch as she pushes a few pieces of sausage from the pan onto a plate. She carries it to me, along with a napkin, then returns to chop the link into more pieces. Her back is to me, and she seems casual. It's like she can sense that I'm about to spill.
I enjoy a mouthful of the sausage before I ask, “Have you ever taken any narcotics? You know, Morphine or codeine? Oxycodone? Dilaudid? Stuff like that?”
She nods. “A time or two, for serious pain, like when I had my wisdom teeth cut out.”
“But not for longer than a week or so?”
“No. I've never been a drug addict, if that's what you're asking. And I haven't been in much pain either, so I guess I'm lucky in that way.”
I smirk. “Yeah.” This girl is exactly who I picture when I picture 'lucky'. “Well I was on something from the moment I had the wreck, back in November, until I woke up from my coma a couple months later.”
Her eyes bulge. “Months? When you said coma, I thought you meant like a week or two.”
I shake my head. “It was a long stretch, but I had a lot going on. I guess I was smart not to come out any sooner. If I had come back during the spinal surgeries...” I rub my neck and make a face. “By the time I got moved from one facility to another, I was like a level three on the GCS, the scale they use for people in comas.”
“So you could be roused if they, like, hurt you, but not for anything else?”
“Something like that.”
She nods and takes another bite, still standing over at the island.
“When I did come out of it, I was able to get by without too many painkillers. They had me on all kinds of other shit, but the pain was kind of manageable. And then they noticed that I couldn't use my hand.” I look down at it, at the wet bandage and the semi-curled fingers. “One of my doctors—this well-known surgeon—wanted to go into my neck again. He thought that he could fix my neck and hand.”
Her face draws up, and I kind of want to quit talking. I'm not sure if I can handle her pity. I chew another piece of sausage, and it seems like her whole body goes still as she watches me.
“I went under on a Tuesday in March. But, I guess since I had had so much anesthesia and so many drugs, somehow something was off with me. They didn't get me all the way under, and I remember the first part of the surgery.”
Her hand goes to her mouth and her green eyes widen, but she doesn't interrupt.
“The last thing I remember is when they noticed. They told me it was an hour and seventeen minutes in. They upped the juice, and I finally went out. When I woke up, my neck was in a brace and the pain...” I swallow, almost convulsively. “It was terrible. Whatever he had done had irritated things more. I'm not sure what. Nobody knows what, because there's so much back there that's messed up.” I chew on my lip, then stop because I notice it's already scabbed. I inhale. Exhale. Keep on going. I've never had to tell this to anybody. Lizzy and Suri were both there.
“I couldn't take that kind of pain, not all the time like that. So they went in again. My doctor and another dude from New York. They did a better job, and when I woke up, I was able to back down on the Dilaudid a little bit. It wasn't constant—the pain, I mean. It would get really irritated like once a week. The other times, the arm would tingle but it wouldn't hurt.
“Well I was still inpatient, in a rehab facility. And when you're inpatient, it takes a long time for doctors and nurses to make decisions for you. So if I had a flare-up on a Thursday, they'd keep me on the heavy dose of Dilaudid until maybe Tuesday—long enough so everyone signing off on things felt sure. Maybe Wednesday and Thursday would be taper-down days. And then maybe I'd have another attack on Friday.”
Her eyebrows arch. “So you were on something all the time.”
I nod. “Yeah. I never had a week without a pain attack, so I was always on the Dilaudid. I was never really conscious. I just...” I rub my face. “I couldn't remember anything. On the days I got the most, I would just...float. And it reminded me of being in a coma again.”
I glance at Meredith. Her face is a mask of sympathy.
“Eventually they backed it down, and I went through withdrawal. I wanted to go off it, but I couldn't stand the pain without it. When I would do PT for my hand and hip—I hurt my hip, to
o—they would have to give me some more in my IV before they even wheeled me down to the PT room. It just hurt too fu— fracking much. I went home with an oral prescription for it, and I thought I could do it different than they did in rehab. I would try not to take it unless I knew it was going to have a pain attack. So I went home and I didn't take it.” I laugh. “When I wouldn't take it, I'd flip my shit. Start seeing things and hearing things. I'd get all achy like I had the flu and I’d get really sick to my stomach.
“So after a while of that, I went back to taking it. I just took it like they told me to. Every day. I couldn't drive, and I couldn't ride a bike. I didn't even have the energy to do PT. Sometimes between doses I would get edgy and my mind would do weird shit. Other times I would forget to get it refilled.
“That's what happened. I had two different strengths of Dilaudid—one was kind of a top-off dose for when my usual dose didn't deal with the pain, to help me avoid having to go to the ER for IV meds. One night I got a bad headache and I had forgotten to re-fill my regular dose. I had one more of those weaker pills left, so I took it and of course it didn't work. I should have had a few more of them to take before I took the stronger dose. I should only have taken one of the stronger dose, and I did that, but it wasn't enough since I hadn’t had enough of my regular dose. So I took another one of the strong pills. And I guess this was a really bad headache, or maybe I had just built up a tolerance to the Dilaudid...because that didn't work either. I think the problem was that I had no idea how to deal with pain. I had never had any pain management, so I couldn't take it.”
I suck on the inside of my cheeks, staring at the table because I don't want to look at her.
“I called my pain doc but I didn't get a callback right away and it was three in the morning. I got into the shower with the water on scalding and it helped for a second, but pretty soon the pain was back. I tried cutting the underside of my bicep with a razor blade just as a distraction. It didn't work, so I called the doctor again and when I didn't get him, or one of my friends, I took another Dilaudid. Which didn't work...so then I took another one. Remember this was the top-off dose. One for an emergency, in case the regular dose wasn't working. So I took...three or four. I guess I passed out. I don't know. But the friend I had called couldn't get me when she tried to call me back, so she called my doctors, and when no one could get me a few of them came over.”
The friend was Lizzy, and she still won't talk about that night. I look down, remembering how upset she was, and when I look up Merri is a few steps closer. Her eyes are wide, concerned, like it's not the past but happening right now. “What happened?” she murmurs.
I look her in the eye. “I almost died.” A morose laugh escapes my lips. “Again.
“After that I said no more Dilaudid. I had to find a way to tolerate it without. Something that wouldn't fuck me up every day and make it impossible to live.” I shrug. “So I tried a bunch of different shit, and in the end, I learned to meditate.”
Merri is frowning, shaking her head like she's protesting something unfair. “But that didn't work.”
I frown back. “What do you mean it didn't work?”
“The other day. Yesterday. You were still in so much pain.”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. But you don't see me trying to jump out any windows or light my hair on fire.”
Her lips pull together and her eyes shimmer with tears. “No, Evan,” she says thickly, “but is that the only goal?”
I blink at her. I'm so shocked by her reaction that I don't know what to say. “It only happens every few weeks.”
Her eyes widen, spilling a tear down her cheek. “And that's it? There's nothing they can do for you?”
“It might get better over time.”
“Could you try another surgery?”
“I don't think so. I don't know of a doctor who could do things differently than mine did.”
“Have you looked?”
I stand up, drumming my fingers on the table as my left arm hangs beside me: Illustration A. “No. I mean, what does it matter? It's pain, not cancer.”
“It's your quality of life. Evan, that's everything.”
My name's not Evan. I have to press my lips tightly shut to keep from saying it. With her eyes wet and her face all pinched up, it's like it's her pain and not mine. I've never felt like such a fucking fraud.
Just then, she strides to me and throws her arms around my neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I pull away from him, and I can feel myself blushing. There should be another word for this. One that more resembles burning.
With my hands dangling at my sides where they belong, I glance up at him, feeling like the old-school, mid-twentieth century definition of the histrionic woman.
I mean, it's not like we're good friends or anything. What logical reason do I have to be this worked up over Evan's quality of life?
I get the nerve to peek at him, and I confirm I'm right: He looks edgy. Uncomfortable. Like I've crossed a line.
He shifts his feet, like he wants to step away, but instead of doing that, he looks into my eyes for a few long seconds. The depth of his stare actually makes me shiver; I get the feeling he's trying to find something there. I'm doing the same thing, but whatever I see in the depths of his blue eyes feels nameless.
A second later, he thumbs a tear off my cheek, his perfect lips pressing together in a sad, resigned kind of look. “Don't cry for me, Meredith. I'm doing fine.”
I nod, feeling a glow all over my body because I'm standing so close to him.
I want to touch him. For this reason, I make myself take a small step back, tilting my head up more to meet his eyes. “I'm sorry for going all emo on you.”
The grave look on his face slips, and for a second I see something else—something vulnerable in his beautiful features. It's gone the next second, replaced by something stoic and untouchable.
I back away a little more and he lifts his hand, like he wants to touch me. Instead he just holds it there, palm out: the classic symbol meaning ‘stop’.
That's what you should do, dummy. Just stop this. You're living in a fantasy.
Evan seems to be searching for something to say. His eyes, on me, burn. I swallow and he tilts his head a little, looking unhappily perplexed. “I didn't deserve what you did for me, but I appreciate it.” He looks me over, head to toe. “You're a good person, Meredith Kinsey.”
Before I can respond, he lowers his hand and turns to go back to the table. He glances at me over his shoulder as he moves, and when he sits down, he bites into a piece of sausage. I move back behind the island and force myself to be calm, the way I would be if one of my children got hurt and I didn't want to alarm them. I force myself to behave calmly as I eat my own breakfast, but internally, I'm going a million miles an hour.
I feel mortified. Desperate. Hungry. The feeling is familiar, and from long ago: It reminds me of the way I felt about Sam, the assistant band director. My first full-on crush.
I pour myself a glass of water and sigh, because how typical is that? Will I always be the blushing girl with the inappropriate crush?
Well, I guess I’m not blushing anymore, that’s for sure, but this guy is still very much off limits. Not because of all the many obvious things, but because of my secret. The one he doesn't know—and I won't tell him. The one that’s the likeliest of all my baggage to reach across time and distance to end me.
What I should tell him is that I'm not the kind of person he thinks. I probably never was, but I'm definitely not now. “That's not even my name,” I murmur.
His eyebrows shoot up. “What's your name?”
I shake my head. “Kinsey wasn't ever really mine. It was the name I took on when I was adopted.”
Silence spreads its roots between us and I think about everything Evan doesn't know about me. I wonder if he'll find out when I get into the States. If his colleagues already know the most sordid part of my story. What Evan would think if he knew, too.
<
br /> He doesn't seem to care about my past, but that's probably because he only knows me as a victim.
“When do you want to get on the road?” he asks. The low rumble of his voice makes me jump.
I push my hair out of my face and try to look less spazzy. I shrug. “Tomorrow maybe? Like really early in the morning. They tend not to be out then.”
“Sure.” He stands up. All traces of his earlier moodiness are gone, and I get a pleasant vibe again—the kind of vibe that says we might be friends. “And you’re sure no one knows about this place?”
I shook my head. “Jesus was really good at tech stuff. This place is completely self-sufficient and off the grid.”
He nods. “I guess tonight we’ll just hang out? We could watch some TV…well, I guess no cable—”
“Jesus set up satellite somehow. It’s illegal,” I shrug, “but apparently no one can tell.”
“Satellite it is.” He smiles, a smile that looks real and gentle and handsome enough to bruise my heart. “I could use a night of relaxing and I have a feeling you could, too.”
He doesn't know how right he is.
I spend the next two hours soaking in my room's tub, drying my hair, trying to assemble an outfit from the clothes I find in my drawers, and pacing around the room trying to remind myself that Evan No Last Name is no one to me. We're not friends. We're not even acquaintances. The pull I feel is because I spent the last day and a half taking care of him. And...okay, also because he's extremely attractive. And nice.
And I'm lonely. I'll admit it. I'm lonely and pathetic. I feel like a spinster and I'm still not even through my 20s. I know I won't ever walk down the aisle or shop for a new house with double vanities and his and hers closets. I won't have a family or kids. At this point, I'll be lucky if I can get into the witness protection program and befriend my neighbors without worrying that one of them will kill me on behalf of the Cientos Cartel.
I took a nice life and screwed it up because I was foolish. I messed around with a married man for money.
I remind myself that even if I allowed myself to have feelings for a man again, it wouldn’t be fair to him. I would always have to end things before they went too far.
