“Thank you,” I say with relief and shove my suitcase behind her desk. I grasp the visitor’s pass and make my way toward the elevator. The farther I walk inside the hospital, the more poignant the sterile scent is. My stomach churns and I grow nauseous. Simultaneously, my ankle begins to ache and I'm reminded of a different time in this exact hospital. A time when I was the patient, crying uncontrollably when the doctor informed me dancing was forever out of the picture.
My dreams shattered.
My destiny destroyed.
A cruel twist in my fate.
I drill the button to the fourth floor repeatedly, willing the elevator to move faster. A panic attack is brewing inside me just as the doors slide open, and I gasp for air, my hands pressed to my chest as I try to calm myself. When the vertigo passes, I allow myself a few calming breaths before I walk into my father’s room.
My mom sits with her back facing the door, and I take the moment to look at my dad. A tube is down his throat and he is connected to a few machines. He looks frail, nothing like the father I left behind.
I was always Daddy's little girl, or at least up until the accident. After that I didn’t want to be anything. Afterward, it felt as if I didn’t belong anymore; as though my parents were complete strangers. The pride and joy that shone through their eyes had vanished.
When I broke my ankle, all the years of training went down the drain, and my mother and I found ourselves with nothing in common. My whole life, my mother worked vigorously to make me a better dancer. To train harder, be better, then anyone else. A better version of her. She had me in the studio until dinnertime six days a week, and then all of a sudden that was not part of my life anymore. And once I was damaged goods, she was gone.
For years, all I had with my dad was one hour a day. One hour each day when it was just him and I, watching whatever game was on the television. I cherished those sixty minutes. Even he was lost after the accident. He tried to do what was right, but it only hurt our relationship more.
I was lost after I broke my ankle. For months I lay in the hospital bed depressed and alone. But he helped me find a way out. Recovery was grueling, but I learned not to quit, and started putting my broken pieces back together all alone. I enrolled in UCLA, moved out to Los Angeles, where I graduated college, accepted a job offer in Chicago and never looked back.
Tears well in my eyes and my vision blurs as the memories flow through my mind. I swallow every painful emotion and take a step through the door. Clearing my throat, I walk further into the room. My father’s hand is ice cold when I grasp it, and a tear drops down my cheek as I close my eyes.
"I'm surprised you're here so soon." My mother’s voice pierces the silence.
“Hello, Mother."
I find the courage to look over at her. Darlene is sitting in the recliner with a Pointe magazine resting on her lap. Her shoulders are back and as always, her posture is perfect. Her blonde hair is tied in a low bun like it had always been every day of her life. Without pulling her gaze away from the article, she speaks. "You've gained weight."
"It's been eight years, Mother. Of course, I've gained weight."
She slowly closes the magazine and looks up at me fully. Her green eyes are full of disapproval when they meet mine. “It's sloppy weight, Leslie. You've let yourself go. Clearly."
"Mom." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "It's Christmas Eve. I’ve been traveling for what feels like a lifetime to get here. My father, your husband, is lying on a bed with tubes down his throat and the first thing out of your mouth is a snide remark about my weight?" I shake my head and run my hand through my long brown locks. "You haven't seen me in eight years and this is how you’re going to greet me?"
"Don't cry, Leslie. It will give you wrinkles. Besides, you're the one who left and never looked back. After all my hard work the least you could have done was maintain an appropriate weight. Don’t think a man is going to love the extra love handles."
"Mom." My voice is louder than acceptable for a hospital. “I’m not fat. I do spinning and yoga; I eat healthy and I stay active. Occasionally, I enjoy a bacon cheeseburger with fries, and tequila is my best friend. I also believe if I eat a pint of ice cream and no one is watching the calories don’t exist. So please get off my back.”
My mother is just being . . . Darlene. If I’m not rail thin with my ribcage visible, she considers me fat. This is how she shows she cares. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
"Don't you dare make this about you. Your father is lying there completely helpless." I sigh dramatically and grit my teeth so I don’t lose it.
A nurse, no taller than five feet with jet-black hair walks in, her eyes scan the room. "Is everything okay?" she asks with a hint of concern in her voice. I know she overheard me and my mother.
I swallow back the anger toward my mother. I never learn with her. “I’m sorry. I’m his daughter. I just arrived. Do you have an update?"
She moves to my dad’s bedside and peers up at the screens before checking his chart. "I’m sorry, unfortunately it will be best if you talk to one of his doctors so they can answer any questions you may have. I'll have a resident come in here and talk to you." She gives me a kind smile.
"Thank you." I glance down at my father and hold his hand tighter.
The nurse walks toward the door and stops. “Also,” she adds and I look over at her, “we can only have one family member spend the night in the room."
"I understand,” my mother replies.
When she is out of the room, I turn to face my mother. “After we speak to the doctor why don't you head home? I can stay here with him.”
"You must have lost your mind.” Her voice is condescending. “I'm not leaving his side. Besides, I don't drive anymore."
“Okay…” This is news to me. “How did you get here?”
“I came in the ambulance. I had Nora’s youngest son drive the car over. It’s in the garage.”
Brushing my hand through my hair, I look back at my father. How did this happen? My hand remains gripping his until a doctor walks into the room. His dark blue scrubs are hidden under his white lab coat. He is younger than I would have expected. There is no peppering in his short brown hair. His smile is bright and wide when he approaches.
“Good evening, I’m Dr. Perkins. I understand you want an update on your father?”
I nod, unable to speak as the fear of what he is about to say consumes me.
“Your father suffered a STEMI heart attack, which means his carotid artery is completely blocked and a large part of his heart can’t receive blood. At the moment he is stable and we have him on blood thinners. Tomorrow morning we will prep him for surgery. We’ll know more then.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
I stare back at my father while my mother talks briefly to the doctor. My father is young, in his early fifties, and he’s always been healthy and active. How did he get to this stage? I realize then that it must have been well over three months since I last spoke to him. A new wave of tears crash over me and I bite back a sob. I can’t stay here. I can’t watch him like this. Turning to my mother, I wipe the tears from my eyes.
“Since, only one of us can stay, I think it’s best I head home. Can I have the keys, please?” My voice cracks.
Darlene digs in her purse and hands me the keys to the Volvo. “It’s on level two in the parking deck,” she says without looking at me.
“Please call me if you need anything or if his stats change.” I walk out of the room before she has a chance to respond.
The drive home is painless, the noise of the rubber tires rolling against the asphalt is soothing. My tears have subsided but the ache in my chest has intensified. I can’t help but think that if I had called my father more often he wouldn’t be in this situation. I know my thinking is unreasonable but the guilt eats me up.
The highway is clear, so I make it to my old neighborhood within thirty minutes. Heavy clouds are high in the sky, making the moon less
visible. Snow threatens to fall due to the higher elevation.
“A white Christmas,” I mutter as I pull onto my street. The block is dark, and the lamppost lights are dim, not offering much visibility. A few houses are decorated with twinkly lights and all of them look just as I remember, three-bedroom, center hall colonial with a two-car garage. Gripping the wheel, I turn into my parents’ driveway and open the garage door. My head remains facing forward and I force my eyes to look anywhere but toward Ethan’s home. Quickly, I turn off the car, close the garage door, and head inside the house, hoping no one spots me.
Once inside, I take my time walking from room to room. Not a single thing has changed since the last time I was here. Pictures of me performing are still scattered throughout the house. My mother was once very proud of her legacy.
My ankle throbs as I stop at the framed acceptance letter from Julliard. My hands gently run along the glass as I read the letter. It was everything I ever wanted, my get out of Prescott ticket. Lifting the frame off the nail in the wall, I walk over to the kitchen and place it in the pantry. There is no need to showcase that anymore.
A migraine begins to form in the back of my neck and I close the pantry door behind me and go in search of some ibuprofen. I feel lost and alone. But most of all I feel helpless. I ran away from home. I ran away from a life I didn’t want anymore. Being back here awakens so many emotions I can’t deal with all at once.
Needing something stronger to knock some sense into me, I head over to the wet bar adjacent to the kitchen and find a bottle of tequila. With eager hands I twist off the top and chug on the light amber liquid.
The warmth of the agave alcohol swims through my body. I make my way up the stairs toward my bedroom. My hand laces around the bottle, giving me the courage I lack to enter my bedroom.
I don’t flick the light on, nor do I look at my belongings. There is no need to look at the dresser that is pushed against one wall, my bookcase, or the cut outs I had pinned on my memory board. I know it’s filled with pictures and other small trinkets I left behind. Instead, I sit on the bed and take another swig of tequila, remembering all the times Ethan climbed through my bedroom window.
3
PAST
When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. I had awoken in a panic, worried that my mother would barge into my room and see a boy sleeping on my rug. But as I sprang from the mattress, I realized he was no longer there. I ran to the window and lifted it open. There was no sign of Ethan. At first, I thought I imagined the entire thing. That it was lack of sleep mixed with a wild dream.
I spent the day convinced that it was all a dream, until that night a soft rock tapped against my bedroom window. I was sitting on my bed, re-reading the same paragraph in the most recent Harry Potter book over and over. I couldn’t focus. My eyes kept looking at the glass waiting for something to change. When the rock hit the glass, I nearly screamed. I hopped off the bed and opened the window, only to be greeted by his infectious smile. My heart did something it had never done before. I felt dizzy and my hands began to sweat.
“Hey,” he whispered, and my stomach twisted at the sound of his voice.
I could see the family room light was still on from the way it lit up my back yard, which meant my father was still watching TV. “Shh.” I motioned for him to come up.
Like he had done the night before, he ran, jumped on the railing of the deck, and pulled himself up on the extended room over the den.
Running to my bedroom door, I closed it and pulled my chair against it. It wasn’t locked but it would warn us if my mother decided to come in.
“Hey,” Ethan whispered. His hand brushed his soft brown hair away from his eyes. With the bedroom light on I could finally see his face. He was older than me, maybe by a year or so. I was turning ten at the end of August. His eyes were a mix of green and hazel swirled together in perfect harmony. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.
“Leslie?” Ethan said, his eyes still glued on mine. “Are you going to scream?”
The nausea in my stomach and the rapid heartbeat in my chest made it impossible to breathe. Slowly I shook my head. “No, Ethan.” I ignored the way his name slipped from my mouth in the most perfect tone. “I thought I made you up.” I confessed.
“Are you known for making up imaginary boys who crawl in through your window?” He smiled at me, and in that moment I promised myself that I would always be funny around him so I could stare at his smile.
I scoffed and nervously began to twirl my hair. What were these thoughts that were consuming my ability to think normally? “It’s not that. When I woke up this morning, you were gone and I wasn’t sure if I dreamed up the whole thing.”
Ethan chuckled and walked around my room like he had the previous night. This time, though, the lights were on and he could actually see the things that were scattered around. He took his time looking at the pictures I had on top of my dresser, and the ballet magazines. “You like to dance?” he asked as he lifted a picture of me from my first dance recital. I was three years old. My mother said she knew I was talented and I had a bright future ahead of me from a tender age.
Marching over to him, I yanked the photo away. “I don’t like it. I live it. It’s who I am.” I said just like my mother had taught me.
“You’re a ballerina? Is that even a real thing?”
“Yes and yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling defensive.
“I’m only teasing you.” Ethan ran his hand over my white furniture. “I actually came here to thank you.”
“Oh.” I sat on my bed. He continued to pace my room, his eyes roaming over the stack of CDs and books sitting on my bookcase.
“No one has ever done something like that for me before.” He pulled his gaze away from the stacks of CDs and looked over at me. His eyes were hooded, and though I had seen a teasing glint before, this time I saw pain.
Nervously, I brushed my hair behind my ears and looked down at the carpet. “It was nothing, really.” I didn’t want to show him pity. He didn’t deserve that. “You know . . .” I paused until I found the courage to look up at him. “My window will always be open for you. If you ever need to get away, or if it gets too bad in there, you can always come here.”
“Thanks,” he whispered. “No one has ever been this nice to me before.”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Can you get some help? Maybe you and your mother can go to the cops?”
Ethan chuckled and sat next to me on my bed. My cheeks warmed from his proximity. “My name is Ethan Prescott. Like the town we live in. My father owns everything and everyone. We moved from the other side of town since my mom felt that being so close to his garage made my father worse but in reality it’s who he is. He’s a horrible man who runs this city and hits his wife. No one would ever believe us.”
“What about running away?” The second the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. If he ran away, I would never see him again.
“I’ve thought about it, but I can’t leave my mom and my brother with that monster. He would make them pay for my actions.”
“Does he hit you?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Sometimes, but I know what ticks him off so I stay away. He doesn’t touch my little brother anymore, either.” Ethan answered. “Charlie’s different from most kids. He’s special and requires more attention. I could never run away and leave him all alone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’ve been through worse, and besides, now I have you.” He looked into my eyes. “No one has ever shown me any kindness before.” He reached across and cupped my hand in his. My heartbeat intensified and the only logical explanation was that I was having a heart attack. “I owe you big.” A smile grew on his face, and I couldn’t stop my cheeks from burning. His hand felt perfect against my skin. It was warm and soft and I knew if he laced his fingers with mine it’d be a perfect match.
We sat like that for a few mi
nutes. My neighbor. My first friend. I was deep in thought when my mother tapped against my bedroom door.
“Leslie?” she said and pushed against the door, but my chair temporarily blocked her from swinging it open. “Why is your door blocked?” Ethan and I sprang to our feet.
“Oh!” My heart rate sped up and I thought I’d be sick. “One second!” I called out frantically. Turning to Ethan, I mouthed the word. “Hide.”
I cleared my throat and walked over to the door. I pushed my chair aside and pulled open the door. Darlene stood on the other side, a warm mug of tea in her hand.
“Yes?” I said.
“Why was your chair blocking the door?” Her gaze scanned the room. “Why do you look flushed? Are you not feeling well?” She reached out and rested her palm on my forehead. “You know you can’t get sick. That will ruin the schedule for this month.”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I moved to the side and she dropped her hand. “I was . . . um, I was doing a few core exercises and needed the space.”
A wide grin grew on my mother’s face. “That’s my girl, always so focused on the task at hand.”
I nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth I would confess that somewhere in my room was a boy I desperately wanted to kiss.
“Don’t stay up too late, sweetie. Tomorrow we have an early start,” she added before she turned and headed down the hallway to her bedroom.
Closing the door behind me, I pressed my body flush against it. My breathing was irregular and a bead of sweat dripped down my back. “Ethan?” I said, my voice so low I doubted he could hear me. After replacing the chair in front of the door, I stepped further into the room.
His head popped in from the window and his beautiful smile greeted me. “Coast is clear?”
I nodded. “She’s off to bed.”
“What’s the task?” he asked.
Broken Dreams (Fatal Series Book 3) Page 2
