by Meli Raine
She has to reach out for me.
Any other path isn’t authentic.
And doesn’t help her.
After a minute, I realize my breath has changed. A new pattern has emerged. I’m breathing with her. I open my eyes to confirm it.
Our chests are in sync.
And one single tear rolls down her cheek. It makes a prism, reflecting the blues and purples and browns and yellows of her cheekbone, her jawline, her neck, as it meanders from her emotional core down to the heat of her skin, buried in the folds of her body.
And still she breathes on.
It’s something.
It’s hope.
I’ll take it.
My damn phone buzzes. I ignore it.
I want to touch her. I want to reach for her hand. The connection is what I need. I think she needs it, too. Every night before bed my mind fills with live electricity, finally settling down abruptly, my subconscious delivering me into slumber like a light switch being flipped off.
I do not dream.
For that, I am grateful.
I will, though. Soon. I know how this goes.
The nightmares emerge when you’ve healed to the point where you can find a rope to pull yourself up just enough out of the abyss to begin to see a crack of light.
Paradox, right?
No one ever said reality was easy.
The short female doctor comes in, makes eye contact with me, then looks at the football field of chocolates on Lindsay’s bed with a raised eyebrow.
Her eyes flit from Lindsay’s face to mine. Her mouth sets with a grim determination.
“Can I have one, Lindsay?” she asks.
Lindsay nods.
I jolt.
The doctor shrugs, plucks a candy from the box, right smack in the center, and makes notes on a chart. Her throat spasms as she chews and she gives me a grateful look.
“Those are amazing.”
“Her favorite. Your favorite,” I stress, looking at Lindsay as I stand, the bed moving slightly as my weight comes off it.
No reaction.
“Can we talk for a moment in the hall?” the doctor asks.
I leave with her. She pulls me aside and whispers, “I can’t give patient information, but because you have security clearance, I’ll tell you this: half the nurses hate you for bringing all this candy, because Lindsay’s parents send it to the nurses’ lounge.”
“What about the other half?”
“The what?”
“The other half of the nurses. You said half of them hate me. What about the others?”
Her eyebrow goes even higher. “They want to...” She looks away. “ -- date you.” It’s clear that “date” isn’t what they’d like to do.
I laugh. “What’s their favorite?”
“Silas,” she says, without thinking.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh!” She blushes. “You meant favorite candy.”
My turn to arch that eyebrow.
“Anyhow, Mr. Foster,” she says hurriedly. “I wanted to let you know that Lindsay does react emotionally after your visits.”
I nod, looking back at her room. Lindsay’s eyes are closed, her breathing even.
“Any idea when she can leave the hospital?”
“I can’t share that information.”
I nod. The tiny rectangular window in the metal door to her room has wire mesh between two panes of glass, criss-crossing my view of her.
Do I go back in? Do I just leave? What do I do next? How do I achieve an optimal outcome?
Through the window, I see Lindsay open her eyes and look to the left, then right.
She leans down, uses her good hand, grabs one of the chocolates --
And pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly, eyes closed. I shake my head slowly as I walk away.
Victory comes in so many forms.
Lindsay
“Oh, my God, girl, someone loves you dearly. Are those chocolate creams?” Myles, my nighttime nurse’s assistant, picks up one and sniffs it. It’s eight p.m. and two different nurses have tried to get me to eat another maple cream, but I can’t. Not in front of them.
They left the giant box on my bed tray, though. I’ve had three so far.
Fucking Drew. I don’t want to like them. I don’t want to want them. I don’t want to have volition.
“Maple cream!” Myles squeals. He’s this big Jamaican dude with the best accent and a thousand-watt smile that makes his crazy dreadlocks seem even bigger. His eyes are the color of whiskey, startlingly mellow on his face, with long lashes and a slanted look that makes him seem so chill all the time. So comfortable in his own skin.
Of all the nurse’s assistants, he’s the most gentle, fussing over my arm in the blood pressure cuff, or carefully moving my IV lines so the veins don’t hurt.
I haven’t even been here for four days, but he’s my favorite.
“You know it’s my mission to make you eat one of these in front of me, right? Life’s too short to be stubborn about chocolate. Who brought you these? Your parents? Do they own a candy empire?” he teases, knowing damn well who my parents are. The entire staff had to be vetted.
I just look at Myles, who grabs three creams and crams them into his mouth.
And smiles.
I know what he’s trying to do. He chews and makes a note on a little electronic device, then does all the basics, checking my blood pressure, my temperature, my pulse oxygen, and he offers to walk me to the bathroom.
I shake my head.
Myles pulls a chair next to the bed and reaches for my hand. He catches my eyes. His mouth sets with determination. I’m about to get lectured.
Damn it.
“Listen, Lindsay. I know from your chart and the news and a lot of whispered rumors that what you went through was a crime against humanity. I won’t rehash it, because I see your heart rate climbing already.”
Instinct makes me look at my monitor. He’s right.
“And it’s none of my business -- ”
Right again.
“But -- ”
Here it comes.
“That man loves you. I happened to be working the floor when you were brought in, and one of my friends worked on your man when they brought him in. He’s got a set of bruised organs like an apple got thrown in a clothes dryer.” Myles makes a low whistling sound that makes my stomach clench.
“He’s the kind of man who isn’t going away. You understand that? Men like that don’t give up. Not ever. There’s something in you he loves dearly. He’s not going away.”
I can’t look at Myles anymore, so I turn away. He drops my hand.
“Sorry if I crossed a line. But he calls the nurses’ station every day, checks in with your security team, and I think that if we had a spare room on the floor he’d find a way to live here. You got yourself a good one. Know that.”
I lift my hand and nudge the box of candy toward Myles without looking at him.
“You want me to to take this to the nurses’ station?”
I nod.
He does, without another word.
I breathe slowly, counting to twenty, trying to wash his words out of my mind. He’s right. But it doesn’t matter. Drew’s devotion doesn’t matter. Drew’s persistence doesn’t matter.
None of it actually, materially matters.
Because whatever he sees in me that he loves so dearly – it’s not there.
It can’t be there.
If it’s there, then I have to feel again.
And I’m not putting myself through that pain. I know how this works.
Once I start feeling again, I can’t stop.
And that’s its own form of torture.
I’m naked. Daddy’s announcing his run for the presidency and the audience is filled with a thousand people who look like John, Stellan and Blaine. They’re all holding red, blue and purple balloons. They’re clapping. Grinning,
And chanting my name.
“Lind-say! L
ind-say!” they shout, the chorus louder and louder as someone nudges me to step on stage. I’m wearing stiletto heels. My calves scream, my thighs shake, and my breasts bounce as I’m shoved, hard, toward Daddy. He’s standing at a podium in the middle of the stage, klieg lights blasting from above, and he has an angry, frozen smile on his face.
“Go out there, Lindsay! You’re embarrassing us!” Mom hisses. I’m on my hands and knees and can hear her from behind me. The room gets cold, a swift gust coming from the crowd. I look up, and all the faces are covered by a gray mist that swirls, turning into demon faces that fade and form, morphing as an ill wind blows.
“Go!”Mom shouts. I turn to look at her, my nude ass pointing her way, and all I see is Nolan Corning.
His face splits into an evil grin.
And then he’s on top of me.
The crowd goes wild. “Lind-say! Lind-say!” they chant. They start to clap as I struggle to get away from Corning, but he’s attached to me, like his skin is made of tape. He’s an icicle, jamming at me from every angle, my skin pierced by his cold, cold body. My heart skips beats, my knees weaken, and I hunch over, curled into a ball, waiting for it to end.
Just make it end.
Then he snarls and all the cold turns to hot flesh and fur. I try to crawl away and a putrid scent fills my nose. I gag. I put one hand forward and move with him on top of me. The crowd goes silent and as I look out, opening my mouth to scream for help, I see the auditorium is empty.
The brutal nighttime sky is above us, clouds covering the moon like congressional staffers burying a scandal, and I’m shivering, my body torn, my mouth bruised by some demon that kisses me until I can’t breathe. My throat spasms. My lungs are seared shut.
Stellan appears, the high school version, then Blaine. He’s wearing the suit he wore when we went to homecoming in high school, and he hands me a corsage, clipping the silver elastic band around my wrist.
I look down.
It’s a dead rat.
I scream, but the sound just goes backwards, as if my own cry tries to escape from my toes but can’t. Oh, God, the pain the pain the endless pain. Where’s Daddy? Where’s Mom?
And then relief. I’m alone, in a river of blood, on a scarred wooden stage with the stars above. The cloying trickle of red helps me to stop shivering. I look over my shoulder for the source.
Stellan, John, Blaine, Tara, Mandy, Jenna and Nolan Corning are piled in a heap, eyes dead, bodies draining.
And when I look to my right, the auditorium seats are back. A single spotlight shines on me, showing my nude body, showing the flow of all my enemies’ blood.
A lone person is in the audience.
Drew.
He claps silently.
And whispers --
“Lindsay!” Myles shakes me, touching my face with a wet washcloth. I’m clawing my face, and my wrist burns. Someone’s pinning down my bad arm and my shoulder burns. “Lindsay, honey, it’s just a dream. Just a bad dream,” he soothes.
“Drew,” I rasp, my voice sounding like rusty guitar strings being plucked by claws. My eyes stay closed and I breathe through my nose, the sound like a train coming over and over again through a tunnel. Myles’ hands are warm and big. He’s worried. I don’t have to open my eyes to tell.
The fluorescent lights are on above me and as I open my eyes I squint, closing my eyes against the assault. When I open them, I see Silas in the tiny rectangular window of my hospital room, looking in.
Somber.
Worried.
Then he picks up his phone.
I know who he’s calling.
And if I could speak to him, I’d ask Drew one question. One.
What was he about to say?
Chapter 13
Drew
I’m alone in a chair, with thousands of similar chairs surrounding me, the cavernous space filled with a fine mist that tastes like oranges and pixie dust dancing on my teeth. I’m naked, then clothed, a flash of outfits passing over my body like an old-fashioned Rolodex being flipped.
Then I’m walking barefoot on sand, dodging IEDs, running with an American flag streaming behind me.
It is riddled with bullet holes. Each hole in the sacred fabric bleeds.
Suddenly, I’m in bed – my bed – my ceiling a cloud formation, stars twinkling behind the clouds, appearing here and there as a light breeze reveals them. Lindsay’s hair hangs over my face, tickling my nose, and I’m deep inside her.
She smells like warm apple pie and sweet spun sugar, the tangy taste of her juices on my mouth. We kiss with a wet, lush openness that makes me crave her more. Being inside her isn’t enough. Rocking her to ecstasy, her body stretching out as she tips her chin up to the stars, isn’t enough.
I’ll never, ever have enough of her.
For now, though, I’m in heaven.
My hands slide up her long torso, peaches-and-cream skin that stretches until it’s marred with blood, the long lines of rib turning the color of old rust. Her ribs stand out in stark relief until my fingers strike steel.
I’m touching a xylophone.
She’s turned to metal.
Our eyes meet and she’s a robot, all glitter and automaton. My cock feels like an icicle, and then poof – she’s gone.
And I’m back in the auditorium again, clapping alone.
I look on stage and there she is, her long hair covering her face, dripping over her bare breasts like honey. She opens her mouth and sings the most haunting melody, a siren call that hypnotizes me until I can’t stop clapping, cheering, calling for her to go on and on and on.
My phone buzzes.
I pick it up and whisper, “She’s back. Lindsay is back.”
I wake up to the buzzing of my phone. Someone is calling me. This isn’t a text. I shake off the dream and answer.
“Foster,” I bark into my personal phone, then grimace. What if it’s my sister, or Monica, or --
“She’s talking.”
It’s Silas.
“She’s what?” The smell of disinfectant assaults my senses, making it hard to listen. My apartment was scrubbed clean by professionals after being cleared as a crime scene by police. The blood stains are gone, but the room feels damp and haunted. Silas and Mark offered to let me stay with them, but I’m determined not to let the past get to me.
They do not get to ruin my future, too.
“Lindsay had a nightmare and said your name.”
Five thousand electrodes charge my body and I sit up, a cold sweat suddenly exposed to air as my sheets roll off me. “She said my name?”
“I heard her, through the door. Then confirmed it with the CNA who was with her when she spoke. Lindsay spoke the word ‘Drew’ quietly, but he swears he heard it.”
I’m breathing heavily, still half in dreamland, processing Silas’ words. “I’ll be there soon.”
“No rush. She fell back asleep. But Harry and Monica have an eight a.m. meeting with the doctors and Harry wants you there.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I was as surprised as you sound.”
“Gentian?” I go back to calling him by his last name. “You sound jaded. You’re too young and green to be jaded.”
“Jade is green, sir.”
If only he could see my eye roll. I grab clean underwear and head to my bathroom, my shoulder groaning in protest, my broken finger taped and throbbing. I stay on the phone as I strip down and turn on the shower.
“It’s four a.m., sir. No need to shower and come to the hospital this early.”
“Can’t sleep. I was planning to get ready and do some work.”
Hitting someone produces paperwork.
Killing people produces mountains of it.
“Need help?”
“No. Thanks, but...stay on duty. Watch her. Make sure she’s safe. I know we’re pretty sure we got everyone involved. Corning’s in custody, we have access to John, Blaine and Stellan’s electronic records, and Anya and Jane are being investigated. Still...”
“I know. It’s always the adversary you didn’t think about who gets you in the end.”
I chuckle at hearing my own words parroted back to me.
We end the call and I step into the steamy shower, avoiding the mirror and careful with my broken finger. All I’ll see is a bruised torso, cuts everywhere, and a fading black eye. The medical staff at the hospital considered me “lucky” after I described my sequence of injuries. I’ve been through worse.
This is like running a 5K vs. a full marathon on the spectrum of injuries.
Hot needles of shower spray wake me up, washing the dream off me. What did it mean? Was it a premonition, given Gentian’s call? I don’t believe in metaphysical bullshit. Give me facts.
Evidence.
Conclusive proof.
But the dream, the call, this feeling I can’t shake all add up to something.
I have no idea what.
In a few hours, I’ll find out.
I hate conference tables.
I hate conference tables in hospitals even more.
After my parents died in a car accident while I was in Afghanistan, my sister took care of all of the basics. I flew home for the funeral, but we spent one horrible afternoon in a hospital – not this one, thank God – discussing body transport to the crematorium, final billing issues for the medical care my parents did receive, and a host of bureaucratic details that turned the shock into something halfway comforting, a strange morphing that only rigid systems can achieve.
Processes and routines matter when your world has been blown to smithereens.
And while Lindsay hasn’t died, I have a similar feeling right now as Harry and Monica file into this tiny room, followed by Dr. Higgs and the short female physician I now know is Dr. Belzan. Lindsay’s been in the hospital now for eight days.
And every one of those days, I’ve come here and tried. Silas told me the nightmares started for her a few nights ago. He told me the smile on my face was creepy. I tried to explain it away. I gave up.
She still won’t talk to me. Won’t talk to anyone.
