by C.L. Bevill
* * *
When I came to consciousness again, I had a vague recollection of shadowy dreams and a chill that permeated every inch of my body. But I wasn’t cold anymore. I opened my eyes and saw daylight again. I knew I must have slept through an entire day. The room was still, and there was a little snore from the bed to my right. I moved my arm and became aware of the IV taped to the back of my wrist. A drip bag of a clear solution was hanging from the headboard.
I knew that I was feeling better. It was a thousand times better. It was the difference between day and night, between the brightest light imaginable and the darkest black of the deepest cave. I blinked my eyes a few times, and everything stayed the same.
I stretched experimentally. Everything still hurt, but it was a dull ache that wasn’t as cutting. My shoulder was taped up so securely I could hardly move it. I could also feel the swath of bandages across my back. An oversized pajama top that buttoned in the front confused me until I realized that the pair must have found some new clothing for me. Men’s pajamas in a red and green plaid hung loosely on me. Apparently, the stores were open down here, too.
My mouth was like a bag of cotton balls, and I saw a glass of water sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. I moved a little and heard a grunt next to me. That brought my head around instantly. I saw Kara in the other queen-sized bed, wrapped around two pillows with her head under another one. She was snoring softly. Next to me with his shoulder and leg nestled against mine was Zach. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but his hand rested on my good shoulder and his head with closed eyes faced me.
That was weird. It wasn’t at the top of the really weird list, but it was weird. I took the moment to ignore my dry mouth and studied him. He was in his early twenties. His face was exotically pretty. Sculpted cheekbones and a finely shaped physique that said he liked to stay fit. My father had a saying for that type of person. Too pretty for his own good. At the time, I wondered who ever thought that being too pretty was bad. Now it didn’t seem to matter.
I inched away, silently damning the sore muscles and the pull of flesh that was only starting to heal. Zach’s hand slid to the sheets, and he made a muffled noise and rolled the other way, showing an expanse of tanned abdomen as his t-shirt rode up. I swung my legs to the floor and trembled with the effort. Then I took a sip of the water. Pleased with my effort, I drank some more. I waited to see if anything would happen. It didn’t, so I finished the glass.
Then I slowly stood up. It was difficult. Everything was shaking, quaking, or threatening to turn to rubber. I took three steps before I remembered the IV bag. I stepped back and got the bag and then took it with me to the single chair that was sitting beside the sliding glass doors. The doors overlooked the Pacific Ocean. It was a mellow day. The sun was shining brightly. The waves were crashing against the rocks. The wind was briskly blowing the grasses to the south.
It felt so good to sit there. I put the IV bag on the table next to the chair and curled my feet under me. I sat slightly sideways so there was no pressure on my back, and my bad shoulder was carefully guarded. I folded my hands across my lap and enjoyed the sunshine streaming in on my face.
The mental fog was gone. I realized it in an instant. The shock was gone. Thrown violently out on its head by a traumatic experience or by the wish fulfillment that had plagued me for never-ending days? I wasn’t certain of that answer.
I looked back at the beds and sighed with relief. There were other people. There were only a few so far, but they were real, and if they were real, then I hadn’t lost my mind as I had feared so desperately. Unlike that other poor soul who had built a bonfire, I was not crazy.
Then something else happened.
Zach must have sensed something because he suddenly scrambled in the bed and sat up straight. His eyes settled on the empty part of the bed and immediately went from there to the door. The door was still blocked by the other chair in the room. Then his eyes came to rest on me. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
“Are you…” he said, and his voice held a slight tone of panic. He stopped and then added, “…all right?”
“I’m better,” I said, and the words sounded lame even to me. “The antibiotics must have done the trick. Thank you. Thank you both.”
Zach’s eyes were burning with unnamable emotion. It reminded me so briefly of the other man’s frantic eyes that I looked away. “Thank God,” he muttered quietly.
Kara rolled to her side, and the pillow on her head fell to the floor. “Great. Can you all shut up and let a middle-aged broad get her beauty sleep?”
I bit my lip.
Zach leaped to his feet and said, “You’ve got to be hungry, so I’ll make soup.” He put his shoes on, unblocked the door, and left without another word.
Kara didn’t close her eyes again. Finally, she said, “I’m glad you’re better, Sophie. It was touch and go for a while.”
I agreed privately, but I didn’t say anything. I was thinking about the look in Zach’s eyes. I knew it then, but it would be months before I would admit anything to myself.
