“Help me!” My voice echoed. “Please stop this. Please.”
I stared at the white walls and ceiling and heard nothing in response. It was as if I’d fallen into the antithesis of a black hole. A white vacuum. All alone.
And I knew it would only get worse.
37
Two voicemails and six fucking text messages, and still Ivy had not responded. Cristina wiped her tired eyes, knowing her frustration about not being able to reach Ivy was self-induced. A lack of sleep on top of experiencing one of the most freakish days of her life had drained her body to the point of nearly falling asleep while sitting up in the waiting area outside of the psychiatric ward at the hospital.
She tried to stretch, but quickly felt a twinge at her side. A deep inhale. Crap! Shouldn’t have done that. Shallow breaths, just as the nurse had explained over and over again.
She pulled a Funyon from the crinkly bag and chomped into it. The sound echoed off the bare, white walls. She couldn’t believe how depressing the area was. All white. The only color coming from a fake plant that was coated with dust. That hardly counted. Wouldn’t hospital officials want to add vibrant colors, paintings, pictures, something to give people who were dealing with mental health issues a little reason to cheer up? Damn, the suits had no fucking clue.
She crunched into another Funyon, lifting the cheap cell phone she’d just purchased at the drugstore down the street to eye level. Still no response from her supposedly overly responsible boss. Where the hell was Ivy anyway? Wasn’t she always the one preaching to stay in contact and not fall off the grid for too long? It was the middle of the day, and Ivy was doing what? Shagging Saul over his lunch break? Or maybe signing papers to finally secure office space for ECHO? Not wanting to get a visual of Ivy shagging anyone, Cristina put her money on the office space. She hadn’t yet seen the new digs—what would hopefully be the new digs—but Ivy and Zahera both had said the space had a lot of potential. Potential. Was that code for cheap and needing a ton of work? She’d have to make a trip down there to check it out for herself.
The double doors to the ward banged open. Leo had a hand to his face. His eyes were red.
“What are you still doing here?” he said, inhaling while looking away.
He seemed embarrassed by his show of emotion.
She set down her Funyons and carefully lifted her body out of the chair. “I just wanted to stick around and make sure everything is okay with Nikki.”
“You’re a good friend.” His tear-filled eyes met hers, then shifted to the fake plant.
“Pfft. I doubt Nikki would say that. She was cussing me out even after Claude got shot and we hitched a ride back into town.”
He turned to her. “She’s sick, Cristina. Real sick.”
“Like a disease?” she asked.
“Well, yes. For starters, she’s clinically addicted to heroin and cocaine. That much is certain. There might be other drugs. She’s not sharing a great deal right now. Not with me anyway.” He licked his lips as he took in a lungful of air.
She couldn’t help but notice the way his chest expanded in his T-shirt.
Stop looking at Leo as a sex object and focus on what matters, Cristina.
“Do you want a Funyon?” She turned to grab the half-empty bag, but it felt like a skewer had ripped through her flesh. “Ahh.” She grabbed her side, tried to will away any tears.
“Are you okay?” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing. I guess I won’t be competing in the triathlon this summer.”
“Seriously? I was thinking about giving it a shot. The one in Austin, right?”
She’d totally been joking, but he didn’t get it. She let it ride. “Yep, that’s the one. Tell me more about Nikki’s condition.”
He plopped down in a chair, leaned his elbows on his knees, then rubbed his hands together. Wincing a bit, she slowly took the seat next to him. She could see stress marks at his temples. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. But she wasn’t going to pry. He’d talk when he was ready. Two nurses walked by, jabbering away about the latest Hollywood gossip. Maybe they didn’t know who Leo was. He snickered, then looked at Cristina.
“Nikki’s been sick for a while.”
She nodded.
“Even before Mom and Dad had their accident, she had issues.”
Don’t we all, she thought. But Nikki’s sounded severe. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just want her to get the help she needs.”
“I need to tell someone.” He clasped his hands against his face, as if he were about to start praying. “Most of my so-called friends are on the West Coast. They’re so wrapped up in their own little superficial worlds, they can’t deal with real life. And it doesn’t get much more real than having your parents die and then having to take care of your little sister.”
He was unloading. She sensed that he’d been needing to do this for a long time. He moved his hand to the edge of the chip bag. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Oh no, go right ahead.” That was when she smelled her death breath. She tried covering her mouth, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. It was as if the oppressive smell was seeping through her pores. Why had she chosen Funyons?
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, chomping on a Funyon. He was staring at her hand.
“No, it’s just that my breath…well, it’s pretty nasty.”
“Good. We’ll be nasty together.” He held the bag in her direction, and she plucked another Funyon and tossed it in her mouth. They shared a smile.
“You’d never see Nikki eating these,” he said.
“Why not?”
His face went blank. “She’s got anorexia.”
“Oh, I would have never guessed. She has a healthy body.”
His eyes got wide for a second. “Not if you ask her. Her brain doesn’t see what you and I see. She finds fault with everything about her body. She’s never satisfied. But that’s not all. She’s also bulimic.”
She tilted her head and frowned. “But how can you have both?”
“That’s what I asked when Mom and Dad told me.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Almost three years, I think.” He sighed. “That was a hell of a time. I’d just made the transition out to LA, and when I flew home for the first time, I expected… I don’t know. I guess I expected a ticker-tape parade or something.” He tried to chuckle, but it wasn’t convincing.
“That’s when they told you about her eating disorders?”
“Oh yeah. That and a whole lot more.”
She gave him a quick once-over. It was as if he was cut from granite. His prominent jawline, his six-pack abs that rippled against his T-shirt, even his forearms and hands. And then there were his magnetic, brown eyes. Every ounce of him was desirable. Yet she was more drawn to him by what he was sharing, his vulnerability.
He took in another full breath and continued. “To get Nikki to admit she had any problem at all, Mom felt compelled to admit her own issues. She’d had the same eating disorders, dealing with them since just after Nikki was born.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, what a complete mess. But I was just glad Mom had the guts to say something finally. She and Nikki both went into treatment. But how they each dealt with it was completely opposite.”
It seemed like she was hearing things that she shouldn’t. But Leo apparently had no one else to talk to, so she sat there and took it all in. “What happened?”
“So much shit, I can’t even explain it all. Our whole family imploded. Nikki was off the rails, man. Mom was okay. She had her challenges, but she pushed through it, stuck with the plan they gave her. Nikki was like a wild animal. Always rebelling. Always pushing back, blaming everyone else for her shit. It was pathetic and sad at the same time.”
The muscles in his jaw clenched. He was hurting. She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, rub his back. He might need it, but she could already feel
a magnetism with Leo. No, the last thing she should do was touch him. If she did, she’d never be able to focus on what he was saying, to be a friend.
“Did she ever get past it?”
“Kind of. We finally found this rehab facility in Southern California. Right near LA, the world capital for people who look like they have their shit together but they really don’t.” He looked into Cristina’s eyes for an extra second, then glanced over at a vending machine. “Anyway, she didn’t run away. There was this one doctor who really connected with her, and he finally got to the heart of her issues. She was diagnosed as bipolar. Can you believe that shit?”
Cristina looked away as thoughts of her mother came to mind. While her mom’s drug and alcohol binges had always created the most drama, Cristina, more than anyone, could see there were underlying mental health issues. At one point, she had done some online research. Mom was the poster child for bipolar disorder.
On one end were the excessive highs, making grandiose and unrealistic plans. “Cristina, by this time next year, I’m going to be the CEO of my own corporation, pulling in six figures, living in a McMansion with my own butler.” She’d said that when a neighbor complimented her home-baked apple pie.
Not an hour later, Mom would be whimpering because she’d run out of cigarettes. From there, a simple TV commercial might send her spiraling into a deep depression. On more than one occasion, she talked about going to the pawn shop, buying a gun, and just blowing her brains out.
At times, the mood swings would include violence, lashing out at Cristina or whoever was in her reach—a neighbor, the postman, some guy walking down the street. Her mom would go from sleeping for three days straight, to not being able to fall asleep for just as long. Looking back, it all made sense why her mom used alcohol and drugs to soothe her pain, to help her get through the next few hours.
Cristina once approached her mom about what she’d learned. She’d sat her down on the couch, brought up a mental health website on her phone, and tried to logically walk through the symptoms of bipolar disorder. The discussion lasted no more than thirty seconds. Her mom yelled and screamed, then went straight for the booze. She downed an entire liter of vodka like it was water. After she was shit-faced, she took Cristina by the shoulders and told her that she was the worst daughter any mom could have.
The memory of that episode still felt like a punch to the kidney. It had crushed her. Even though so much had happened since then—much worse things—and even though her mom was sick and had never gotten help, maybe she’d finally have her issues addressed while she was incarcerated.
But what was the likelihood of anyone being fixed while in prison? The last she’d heard, her mom was due for sentencing next week for her manslaughter charge. Cristina didn’t know for certain because she’d yet to visit her since she’d been arrested.
He put his hand on top of hers. She looked up with tears in her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did I say something that upset you?”
She tried to get it together. “It’s nothing. Just some old memories. But that’s behind me.”
He nodded, then appeared to notice his hand still touching hers. He tried pulling away, but Cristina clutched his hand. “This doctor who helped Nikki…I know I’m probably grasping at something that’s not possible, but do you think he could help my mother?”
“Your mom’s got similar issues?”
If she went unplugged on her life, she’d turn into a hot mess. She couldn’t go there, not outwardly, and not with the Latin Zac Efron. She gave a slow nod.
“Dr. Delmar Amaya. He was a helluva guy. He has ties back to the San Antonio area. That was one of the ways he and Nikki connected.”
“That’s cool.” She tried to think through how she could get this doctor to see her mom in prison. Maybe Ivy would have some thoughts, or even Stan.
“Now that I think about it, I’m not sure he’s even practicing anymore. It’s a bit of a blur, but before the crash, I think Mom told me about some type of tragedy he’d experienced. Not sure what it was though. After the crash, a lot of my memories don’t really connect anymore. That probably sounds strange.”
She took in a fortifying breath, then reached for the bag of Funyons. “Want another one?”
He took one out and threw it in his mouth. “Do you want me to try to reach him?”
“You’ve got enough going on in your life, Leo. Focus on Nikki.”
“I will. She’s my number one focus. But sitting around all day doing nothing, I can’t deal with that. I still have Mom’s contacts in a file somewhere. I’ll dig through them and let you know. Want to give me your number?”
She sent him a text with her temporary number. “Hopefully, I can get a hold of my boss, and I can get a real phone with my old phone number.”
“Her name’s Ivy, right?”
“Yep. She’s the one.”
“I saw her name on some headline about those kidnapped boys.”
Cristina explained how Claude was the older brother of the two younger Cooper boys and how William had hired ECHO a few days earlier.
“Holy crap. And I thought my life wasn’t easy. That grandfather must be distraught. I know he’s dealing with a lot, and he probably can’t see it right now, but it sounds like he owes Ivy a great deal for helping him locate his two grandsons.”
As the doors to the ward opened and the nurse came out to talk to Leo, Cristina’s mind switched gears to Ivy. She found Danny’s business card and started punching in his phone number. Danny’s line rang forever, and then it rolled to voicemail. No doubt he and Ivy were signing papers at that very moment.
Leo finished his conversation with the nurse and then turned back to Cristina. Hope had returned to his face. “The nurse said they were able to get Nikki into this new facility just north of here in the Hill Country. A beautiful setting overlooking a lake. And it’s been rated as one of the best in the southwest. They’re going to transfer her today. The nurse even said that when she told Nikki about it, she said she wanted to go. She wanted to get better.”
He took Cristina in his arms and hugged her tight. A moment later they separated, a little awkwardly.
“That’s great, Leo. I’m really happy for you, for Nikki.”
“Look, I need to go talk to Nikki. Let her know I’ll be here for her. But I’m going back to the house later to look for Dr. Amaya’s number. “
“Dude, don’t worry about it. You can get it to me whenever. My mom has plenty of time.”
“Actually, on the off chance he’s still practicing, maybe he can do a phone consult with Nikki. It’s worth a shot. And then he could help your mom too.”
He started walking off, but his eyes never left hers. She reached out and touched his hand until she felt his fingertips. “I’ll call you, Cristina.”
She would count on it.
38
A pungent odor invaded my senses, and my heart slammed my chest wall.
I must have fallen asleep. My eyes shot open. I was still in the machine, my legs spread wide. Everything was still white.
An intake of air. That damn smell. It was some type of ammonia. It made me want to hurl, but it also cleared my foggy mind. I was suddenly more alert than at any other time since I’d been in this room.
I blinked, looking to the ceiling. I found myself holding my breath, waiting, wondering when the next drop of water would pelt my face. Minutes passed; how many, I had no clue. Time blended in with the vast expanse of nothingness. It had no meaning. I only remembered events, but had no idea how far apart they’d occurred—the odd smell that woke me up, the water torture, the pickup truck, the prick on my shoulder.
My mind stuck on Timothy’s smile just before he pulled the tarp over my head. Actually, as smiles go, it was a poor excuse. It was more like a tug at the corner of his lips, although I hadn’t detected any muscular twitch in his face. It was if he had no facial muscles—yes, that was it. That was why all of his expressions seemed like they w
ere digitally animated or something. Still, that smile or smirk or whatever you want to call it didn’t come from happiness. Maybe it was born from gratification. At what though? That I’d relented and decided to go with him without resisting any further? That was how it seemed.
No drops of water had fallen on me since I’d woken. A breath caught in the back of my throat.
A small victory.
I felt my shoulders relax just a bit.
Then I heard a deadening thud, and I thought my lungs would collapse. A thumping bass. The sound came from everywhere. A screeching entrance of electric guitars followed closely by a voice that could only be associated with the devil. It was as if the music was a serrated knife—yes, the same kind I’d seen when I woke up at Pearl Griffin’s house—and was ripping apart my chest one inch at a time.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to breathe. My throat was constricted. I worried that oxygen wasn’t reaching my brain. Had the music somehow disabled my ability to breathe normally?
The screams of the singer came from another world. It was crazed, frantic, violent. And it was all churning in my mind, which I was losing with every pulsating beat. I couldn’t think. The blaring music was heavy metal, but beyond that, I had no idea the name of the group, the song, the singer. Hell, it could have been Tony Bennett. The volume reached a decibel level I’d never experienced. It felt like my body was rattling inside the white cage, with some brute looming over me, pounding spikes deep into my head.
I tried to yell, but I couldn’t be sure words ever crossed my lips. There was no lull in the sound, no pause in the rhythm. I was being injected with nonstop chaos. If I hadn’t been tethered to the chair, I would have crumbled to the floor, my brain slowly melting into a puddle of drool.
Would it ever stop? Who was doing this to me? They were drowning me in a quicksand of incessant noise. I was at my breaking point. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t form a coherent thought. Air flow was hardly existent. My head felt like an overinflated water balloon, the pressure against my eyeballs unbearable. They might pop out. Eyeballs dangling from muscles and ligaments while tapping the side of my cheek. I couldn’t escape the thought. With every breath, I waited to see if that would be the one that popped the cork.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 20
