I look down. He’s completely motionless, and my mom has his head in her lap. She’s sobbing and rubbing his quiet face. I watch, knowing it has to be too late for my dad. He is as still as Logan. No one was giving him CPR, though. Not like they were with Logan. The emergency responders load my dad in the ambulance, and I stand there. I feel dead inside. I don’t know what to do or where to go. My mom gets in the ambulance, and they close the doors behind her. This reminds me so much of the time that Matt was sick, and I had to call the ambulance for him. They let me ride with him, though. No one left me waiting in the street not knowing what to do.
Matt and Sam drag me toward a waiting police car. “Get in,” Matt says as he pushes my head down like you see the police do on cop shows. He slides in behind me and drops an arm around my shoulders pulling me into him. He looks down at me, getting in my face. “You didn’t get hit, did you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It wasn’t me. It was Logan.”
Oh my God. It was Logan. Logan got hit by the out-of-control car. He rolled over the hood and into windshield. Then he lay on the cold concrete, unmoving. Pete and Sam did CPR.
“He wasn’t breathing,” I say. I start to shiver.
“No, he wasn’t.” Matt’s hand rubs absently along my shoulder.
“Are you scared?” My voice is quivering.
“Terrified,” he admits.
“The car was going to hit my dad.”
“I know,” he grunts.
“Why did he do that?” I gnaw on my fingernail, tearing at my flesh until I feel pain.
“Why does Logan do anything?”
“I saw the look on his face.” Tears roll unheeded down my cheeks.
Matt tips my chin up. “What look?” he asks.
“I saw him make the decision to shove him out of the way.” I can’t believe he did that. Why would he do that?
“Mother fucker had better live,” Matt murmurs. “If he doesn’t, I’m going fucking kill him.”
The police officer lets us out at the Emergency Room doors. Matt takes one of my hands and Sam takes the other. I wish Pete were here. Shoot! Pete. “Did anyone call Pete?” I ask.
“Pete can’t get phone calls,” Sam reminds me.
“You’ll have to go see him.”
Sam nods.
My mom runs toward me when we walk into the waiting area. She wraps me in her arms, but I shove her back. “Where are they?”
“They’re in the ER. They said we can’t go back.” She wrings her hands together. “Logan wasn’t breathing.” She looks into my eyes, her brown eyes looking for confirmation. Of what, I don’t know.
“Was Dad?” I ask.
“Was Dad what?”
“Breathing,” I suggest.
“Yes, your dad was breathing.”
The weight doesn’t lift from my chest. Not at all.
“But Logan…” she says. “I’m afraid it’s not good, Emily.”
“I’m scared, Mom.”
Paul walks from the back of the hospital, running his hands through his hair. He tugs on the tips and then does it again. Matt and Sam approach him, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t know anything.
“Why did he do that?” Paul cries. Then the big guy crumples into a heap on the tiles. Matt goes down with him, wrapping his arms around him, and Sam squats down beside them and puts his hand on Paul’s arms. Paul’s body is wracked with sobs.
I know why he did it. He did it for me. Did my eyes silently plead with him? Did I somehow ask him without using my voice to save my dad? He read something in my eyes that made him do it? Did I beg him? Is this my fault?
Emily
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper to Paul as he leads me into the church. My legs are shaking. I’m afraid the casket will be open for everyone to view the body, so I make sure not to look in that direction.
“I don’t either,” he whispers back.
“Ditto,” Matt says from behind us. We squeeze into the pew and slide down, making room for Sam. Sam looks lost without Pete. It’s like he’s lost part of who he is with his brother gone. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder for his other half. But Pete’s not here. Pete’s still waiting for arraignment.
Tears fill my eyes when the preacher starts to talk about the loss of life and the tragedy of losing a beloved brother, son, and friend. He talks about divine will, the power of the soul, and the healing hand of faith. I’m not feeling healed. When will that start? Soon, I hope.
It has been four days since the accident. Four days to reflect on what could have been, what might have been. What was. Four days to think about all the ways I should have lived my life differently. And all the ways he could have lived his differently, too.
My dad reaches from behind me and squeezes my shoulder tightly. He’s more likely to touch me now than he used to be. He’s more likely to show affection and tell me he loves me. It’s like he realizes everything that has been lost, and he doesn’t want to miss a day or a word or anything important again. My mom didn’t come. She’s busy taking care of important business, she said.
The preacher drones on, and I tune him out until Matt takes my hand and squeezes it tightly as the casket is carried from the building. We’re not going to the graveside service. It’s enough that we’re paying our respects here. We file out of the church, and I look into a wounded mother’s eyes. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say.
“Thank you,” she replies. But it’s by rote. She’s dead behind the eyes, and I wonder if she’ll ever find that piece of herself that she lost with her son. Ricardo Santiago was driving the car that night. He was an eighteen-year-old boy who was on his way home from the library. He was on the street and didn’t see the black ice that turned the road into a skating rink. He didn’t see it until he lost control of the car. He hit Logan dead-on, and the car clipped my dad’s leg. Dad’s on crutches with a bad sprain, but he’ll heal. Ricardo died on impact when his car careened into a parked car.
I vaguely remember seeing Ricardo’s mother at the hospital after the accident. I remember how they told her about his almost-instant death there in the waiting room. I remember thinking it could have been us, receiving that news. Our news didn’t come until hours later. And it wasn’t good.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say to the next person in line, and I shake his hand. Ricardo’s entire family is here. He had three brothers and two sisters. His father is a wealthy attorney in the city. I remember reading that much in the paper.
Matt and Paul have been shadowing me ever since this happened. They won’t leave my side. When I sleep, one of them throws a blanket over me. When I wake up, one of them reminds me to eat. When I go to the bathroom, one of them stands outside the bathroom door.
There’s one thing I am very certain about: my life is not complete without Logan.
Logan
There’s not a place on my body that doesn’t hurt. I wiggle my toe and try to lift my hand, but I can’t. I blink my eyes open and stare straight ahead. It hurts too fucking much to look left or right. Shapes move in front of my face, but they’re too blurry. I can’t make them out. I close my eyes again and drift back into the darkness. I welcome it because where there is darkness there is no pain.
Emily
Someone shakes my arm. “Em,” a soft voice says. Then more insistently, “Emily!”
I brush the noise away like cobwebs from my face, but it doesn’t stop.
“Emily, wake the fuck up.”
I blink my eyes open to find Matt in front of me. “He’s awake,” he says. He’s grinning.
I brush my hair back from my forehead. “What?” I still can’t think.
“He just moved, Em,” Matt says. He’s nearly giddy. He pulls the blanket off me and takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. “Go talk to him. I need to call Paul.”
The boys have been taking turns staying with me at the hospital. Only two people can be in the room at a time, and I won’t leave. Paul, Matt, and Sam don’t s
eem to mind. They take turns going home, taking care of Hayley, and one of them is always with me.
I walk slowly to the edge of the bed and look down at Logan’s prone form. “He’s not awake,” I say over my shoulder. But Matt is gone. I look down, and I see the tiniest flutter of Logan’s lashes. “Logan!” I cry. It’s stupid, I know, since he can’t hear me.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and take his hand in mine. I saw his eyelids move. I look down, and his toe wiggles. His eyes are closed, though, and he’s still. Too still.
A doctor runs into the room and lifts Logan’s eyelids, shining a light in his face. He flinches. I see it.
“Is he going to wake up?” I ask. I hold my breath, waiting for the answer.
The doctor’s mouth pinches into a thin line. “Maybe.”
Maybe. That’s the only word I need to hear for hope to bloom within me. I step back, out of the doctor’s way. The nurse takes me by the shoulders and pushes me gently to the edge of the room.
Matt walks in again. “I called Paul and Sam. They’re on the way.”
I nod. I can’t take my eyes off Logan. He moved. I never thought I would see him move again.
Logan suffered a terrible head injury. He had to have surgery to relieve the pressure in his brain, and he had some internal injuries, as well. He lost his spleen, and his right leg is broken. They set it, and he’s in a cast. Bruises cover most of his body.
I look at Matt, and his eyes are filled with the same hope mine are. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I ask.
He nods and pulls me into his chest. “Of course, he is,” he breathes. He bends his head and sniffs me. Then he whispers dramatically, “Now that he’s waking up, do you think you could take a fucking shower? You stink.”
I shove back from him. “I do not.”
“You look like shit, Em,” he jokes. He tousles my hair, and I don’t care. I do look like shit. I lift my arm and smell myself. And I stink. I can’t see Logan like this.
A few minutes later, Paul and Sam walk into the room. Paul is carrying the canvas bag that has my belongings in it.
“Thank God,” Matt teases. He turns me toward the bathroom and points. “Go shower. You can’t have him waking up to you looking like that.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Sam sniffs me as I walk by him and holds his nose.
“I don’t smell that bad,” I grouse.
He grimaces. “You kind of do.”
“Fine!” I say. “I’ll shower.” I point my finger at the three of them. “Then I’ll make you all sorry.”
“I’ll be sorry if you don’t shower,” Paul mumbles. But he’s smiling.
I go into the bathroom and avail myself of the tiny shower in Logan’s room. I don’t need much, but I do need to wash off the funk accumulated by waiting in a hospital for four days. I get dressed quickly and brush out my hair. I return to find the three brothers looking down at Logan. Matt’s mouth is moving in prayer, but I can’t quite hear him.
“You can’t pray without me,” I protest. I step forward and put myself in their circle, and Matt prays for Logan. And so do I.
Logan
A strong grip jerks me from the darkness as someone tugs on my toe. Fingertips slide up my heel, and I rock my foot, trying to knock them off. Paul used to pop my toes when we were small. He would grab my ankle and hold me still while he pulled on my toes until they popped. It didn’t hurt, but it was damn annoying. And it’s just about as annoying now. I really like the darkness. There’s no pain in the darkness.
There’s a twinge in my arm, and I start to float. The pain recedes, and I feel like someone has untethered me. I blink my eyes open to see how far I’ve floated, and I see Emily. I open my mouth to tell her how fucking happy I am to see her. She’s blurry, but I blink and blink and blink until she comes into focus. I try to speak, but I can’t. My throat is dry, and there’s no sound coming out. But then I remember that I’m deaf. I can’t hear my own voice. Not much of it anyway, and especially not without my hearing aids. My hearing aids must be gone.
Where am I? I can’t remember how I got here. But Paul and Matt and Sam are looking down at me. Sam’s crying, and Paul puts his arm around him. I can read his lips. Something about it being okay to be a pussy when your brother might die. He can cry all he wants.
Where’s Pete? He must not be here. Where is here?
The darkness beckons, and I fight against it. I push and push and push, but it takes me in its greedy grip and holds on tight.
Emily
Logan hasn’t woken up since his last round of pain medication. The doctors say that he should have more and more periods of lucidity as the days pass, but it has been hours since his lashes last fluttered. I am tired, so tired. And to think that I showered for this.
“You should take a nap,” Sam says. It’s his turn to stay with me.
“Do you think he’s ever going to wake up?” I ask.
He nods his head. “I know it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
He shrugs. “I just know.”
I wish I felt as sure about it. “Have you talked to Pete?”
He shakes his head. “They won’t let us see him. Your dad is working on it, though.”
My dad has been helping with Pete’s defense. He hired a criminal attorney and has paid for him to have the best representation. But that may or may not help him when they go to trial.
“Your dad’s a pretty cool guy,” Sam says.
I nod. “He can be. He can also be an ass.”
“He’s trying. That’s better than nothing.”
My dad is like a pit bull all of a sudden. He’s loving and affectionate and playful, and yet there’s a tiny little part of him that will fight to the death. And he’s fighting for the Reeds. He fought for Logan, bringing in the best neurologist he could find. He fought for Pete—and is still working on that—and he’s fighting for me. He comes by every day to talk. He’s on crutches, but he’s getting better. He has a lot of guilt where Logan is concerned.
Sam sits down and puts his feet up on the edge of the bed. He slumps in the chair and crosses his arms, closing his eyes. The room is dark, and no one is moving around. He’s asleep in moments. The boys are all so tired. I look down at Logan and touch my finger to his lips. He doesn’t stir. I look over at the recliner a nurse brought in just for me, and I don’t want to use it. I pull the covers back and slide into bed with Logan. Pete opens his eyes and looks at me when he feels the bed shift. He shakes his head and grins. “If you try to defile him in his sleep, I’ll have to tell him about it when he wakes up,” he teases.
I settle my head on Logan’s shoulder, careful of his wires and tubes and bruises. “Do you think he’d mind?” I ask.
Sam chuckles. “I think he’d fucking love it. Are you kidding?”
I settle against Logan’s side, relaxing as I take a deep breath. I let sleep overtake me, and I dream about Logan.
Logan
I’m walking in a field of flowers. They’re life-size and black haired with a blue streak down the side, and they reach out to caress my arm as I walk by. I grab for one, and it skitters out of my grasp, running away from me. I reach for another, and it does the same thing.
I stopped dreaming in words a long time ago. I only dream in sign language, but I hear a voice. “Logan,” it says. It’s a voice I know, and the field suddenly smells like my mom. The flowers part, and she stands there in the open space, her great, white robes billowing around her. She’s not signing to me. I can hear her voice, just like I did until I was twelve. I can hear it as clear as day.
She doesn’t approach me. She wraps her hands around her mouth and says, “Logan! It’s time to go back.” I’m supposed to come home from the park by the time the streetlights come on. If I’m not home, she’ll come and find me, and I never like it when she comes to find me. It’s embarrassing. So, I always make it home before the streetlights.
Until today, apparently.
&n
bsp; I can’t find the stoop for all the fucking wildflowers that stand in the way. If not for those, I’d have been home a long time ago. The flower closest to me crooks a petal at me and beckons me forward. It doesn’t speak. It opens its mouth, but it doesn’t have a voice. My mom does, though. She cups her hands around her mouth again. She’s growing impatient. I had better hurry.
“Logan, it’s time to go back!” she yells.
The flowers fade, sinking into the air like pretty, rainbow-hued cigarette smoke, until there is only one left. My mom yells for me again.
I blink my eyes and stare upward. There’s a dim light above me, and machines light up on my left in time with my heartbeat. I wiggle my finger. My nose is itching, and I need to scratch it, but when I try to lift my arm, it’s heavy. It’s much heavier than I can ever remember it being before. I groan, struggling with the weight of it, until I pick it up. But it’s unwieldy and it falls on my chest.
There’s a gentle hum against my throat, and I tip my head to look down at it. It’s not my blue-haired girl. I blink my eyes again. It hurts just keeping them open. I look at the form next to me again, and it’s my Emily, snuggled into my side. She’s just blond now.
Thank God. Of course she wouldn’t be anywhere else. I force my arm up and lay my hand on the side of her face. Unfortunately, I kind of tap her cheek heavily, and she startles in my arms. She sits up and looks down at me.
“Oh my God!” she says. “Are you awake?”
I try to nod, but it hurts. “I think so,” I say. But my throat is raw. She leans over and picks up a cup, lifting a straw to my mouth. I take a sip, and then she steals it from me.
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