Soulmate or not—Secret Soulmate, or not, she’s making a very clear choice on where she stands. And it’s not with her son who treats his little brother like a son of his own because their father isn’t there. It’s not with someone who is literally a piece of her, but with a man who can’t even be bothered to claim any of their little family as a piece of himself.
I stuff a handful of chips into my mouth as I let this really sink in.
“You are acting excessively weird today,” Beth says as she leans across the table. She pokes me smack in the middle of the forehead and tries to smooth out the lines there. I didn’t know my brow could even become so furrowed. I start to say something, anything to brush it off and redirect her attention, but she holds up a hand. “I’m going to be honest. And it might hurt. But it’s getting to be a little annoying.”
Well, yeah. I guess it does kind of sting a bit. It would probably sting more if I actually disagreed with her. I have been acting weird, and it has been annoying, but I guess I’ve been banking on the fact she’s had enough of her own stuff going on to not notice.
Which is shitty of me. Because assuming my best friend is too busy with her life to care about or notice an upset in mine? Well, it doesn’t really say much for my opinion of her now, does it? God, I really have been self-absorbed lately, haven’t I? I’d like to think the circumstances exonerate me from the title, but they really, really don’t.
I’m such a terrible person. Maybe I was going to hell before the whole impersonation of a youth leader thing.
“I’m sorry,” I say because I don’t know what else I can say.
“I’m going to assume, and you know how much I hate to assume anything, you’ve got something going on you can’t really talk about right now…”
Beth starts talking, and keeps talking, but I can’t focus only a single word. Because every time I blink, it’s like a flash going off, and the room around me starts to flicker from color, to black and white, and back to color, then back to gray. I blink in in rapid succession, shaking my head a little, but it doesn’t stop. If anything, the blonde leaches from her hair even faster.
“Libby!”
Beth is all of the sudden on my side of the table, off to my right and shaking me by the shoulders. I feel my eyes go wide and the color slips back into place.
“Libby, are you okay?” She shakes me again, but I still can’t make myself speak because what the hell is going on? “You’re freaking me out, Libs. Talk to me.”
I make this weird little gasping-choking sound, but get a hold of myself after a minute.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Just a little…” I trail off as the edge of my vision starts to turn gray, creating this weird tunnel effect that quickly makes me feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. I clutch my stomach with one hand and cover my mouth with the other.
“Okay, okay. Up you go.” Beth grabs my arm by the elbow and slips the strap of my bag over her shoulder.
A vague thought of how silly we must look, Beth’s tiny frame supporting my taller than average, sagging one, passes through my mind. It passes quickly though, because I’m pretty sure something is wrong. For the second time in as many months, I find myself barely able to make it to the girls’ bathroom before losing my lunch.
With Beth’s help, at least I’m able to make it into a stall this time. She holds the hair back from my face the best she can, scrambling to catch the thick curls springing from the makeshift ponytail she’s gathered. When I’m done, I rest my head against the wall. I’m afraid to open my eyes, terrified of what I may or may not see, and for a second, relish the feel of the cool metal against my skin.
“Can you make it out to my car on your own?” Beth asks, handing me a bottle of water from somewhere in my bag. “I’m going to go sign you out in the office and take you home.”
I nod, but keep my eyes closed. I don’t think I can bear seeing her with all of the color leached from her hair again. Watching it fade away once is more than enough. I briefly wonder if I could manage to get all the way to the parking lot with my eyes closed, but dismiss it as soon as I jam my knee into the toilet paper holder when I try to stand.
When I open my eyes, the stall door in front of me is as gray as ever, and even though I know that’s because it is gray, my breathing still picks up speed. The first thing I see after opening it is the shocking red of my hair in the mirror, and I cry with relief. Literally. The tears are gathering along my lash line and my nose is burning, but I only let a few sobs slip out before doing my best to pull myself back together.
Beth drops me off, saying she’ll bring my car by later and with a promise of being sure to tell Taryn I’m so sorry I had to miss the prom committee’s weekly meeting. I’m so unsettled I barely manage the sarcastic laughter I know she expects.
I’m fine for the first hour. Well, if fine can be characterized by a tremendous amount of unease and worry and staring at my reflection in the mirror to make sure my hair stays as red as ever. I swear, it’s like every time I blink my entire body freezes up with fear.
By the time 2:30 rolls around, my mind’s made up. It’s Wednesday, and I don’t have an appointment, but there’s not a chance in the world I’m going to feel better until I see Andrew. Or at least … I don’t know, make sure he’s okay? Talk to him? Oh God, are they allowed phone calls in there? Could I have given him my number weeks ago?
Let’s be honest, though. He wouldn’t have called even if I had.
I stop short of the front door, bag in hand and reaching for my keys. Keys. To the car that’s not even here. Crap.
I run to the kitchen and nearly bash my forehead into the window over the sink when I go to look out at the driveway. Thank God. Looks like my parents carpooled to work today. I hate driving my dad’s old Bronco—I think it’s even louder and more crotchety than my car—but it doesn’t look like I have a choice. I swipe the keys from the bowl on the counter and am in such a hurry to leave, I come about this close to forgetting to lock the back door.
I’m stopped at an intersection when it happens again. The Bronco’s already gray interior somehow seems even grayer, the intensity of it kind of drained away in a slow, sweeping motion. The wedding garter I’ve heard more than one of his buddies give him crap about hanging from the rearview mirror, and the pale-blue ribbon laced through it that’s faded with sun exposure, fades even more and I almost have to pull over.
I’m so close though, and there’s no one else on the road, so I keep going.
Almost there, almost there.
Once again, I leave my coat in the car, but I don’t even feel the cold as I rush through the parking lot to the heavy, double doors. And I don’t feel the cold inside either. I don’t feel much of anything when I try to I think about it. In fact, I don’t even remember walking through those doors, or through the metal detector. I especially don’t remember pushing my way past an already neatly formed line at the check-in desk and sagging against its counter.
“Ma’am, there is a line. You’ll have to wait at the end of it in order to check in.”
I swallow, catching the breath I didn’t even know I was running short of, and blink hard. The color’s back, but who knows for how long? What the hell is going on?
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I—I don’t have an appointment today. There’s a… I just need—”
“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have an appointment already set there’s nothing I can do to help you.” The man behind the desk narrows his eyes at me, scanning my face closely and probably searching for signs of drug use. He motions with one hand to someone on his left, someone behind me I can’t see. “I’m going to have to ask you to step aside. If you’ll just go with Officer Madsen here.”
It briefly crosses my mind that I’m probably over-reacting. There might be absolutely nothing wrong. Maybe this is simply something that happens. For all I know, considering almost every single bit of knowledge on this whole Soulmate thing comes from a program I pi
rated from the Internet, it could very well be!
But I’m so worked up I go and make things as bad as I possibly can.
“I don’t need to go with Officer Madsen anywhere. I need to get in to see Andrew McCormack!”
It doesn’t come out as a screech, not exactly, but it’s somewhere in the same pitch frequency.
“Ma’am, Mr. McCormack isn’t available for visitors today regardless.”
I shake my head and ignore the way I start to sway in place.
“What do you mean? It’s Wednesday. He gets his visitation on Wednesdays. What…”
My hand darts out to grab the edge of the counter in front of me—I’m so dizzy I can barely stand it. So dizzy I can barely stand—and I swear, the officer actually flinches. I don’t mean to seem deranged, but I know it’s how I’m coming across.
There’s someone at my back now and I have more than a hunch it’s not the little old lady I broke in front of to get to this point. The officer behind the desk has one finger on his radio and is talking to someone, but I can’t hear him over the rush of blood pounding in my head. It’s like every heartbeat triggers a switch inside my head, somewhere behind my eyes, that turns my ability to see in color off and on.
Off. On. Off. On. Off. Off. Off.
“Libby?”
The tension drains from my shoulders. I can’t decide if the sound of my father’s voice, strong and clear, is a blessing or a curse. As soon as I turn to see the look on his face, the concern etched deep into his features, I decide on blessing.
He pulls me off to the side, or I assume the side. All I know is I’m no longer struggling to stand in front of a man who’s simultaneously annoyed and threatened by a seventeen-year-old girl having a panic attack. I lean against the wall and almost cry out of pure joy as his eyes go from gray, back to blue.
“Libby. Libby, baby, what are you doing here?”
What do I even say to that? I inhale and get choked up on absolutely nothing like an idiot. Dad only rubs his hand in circles over my back and looks more helpless than anything else as the tears gather along my lash line. He waits as patiently as he can for me to be able to speak, but his eyes are tight.
“You need to ask the guard behind the desk about Andrew McCormack,” I gasp out. “They—they won’t tell me anything.”
“McCormack? Baby, why do you need to find out anything about Andrew McCormack?”
I hear it in his voice. The distinct tone of disapproval, tinged with a side of overall disappointment. I don’t have time for any of what I knew would eventually be an issue right now. I don’t need to feel like this is something I let happen to me on purpose. I need answers. That’s all I need.
“Daddy… Please.”
I am not the kind of daughter who butters her father up by pulling the ‘daddy’ card. I’ve never had to be. And he knows this. His face becomes an unreadable mask that would probably scare me if I didn’t have other things to worry about, and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
He leaves me there, confident I’ll be able to stand on my own, and goes for what I hope will be answers. The nervous feeling in my stomach grows more intense when he’s back in front of me what can’t be more than thirty seconds later. He doesn’t say a word, merely turns me toward a hallway, leading me with his arm wrapped around my shoulders. I don’t talk. I’m not entirely sure I can—because really, what the hell is happening to me right now?
Before I know it, we’re exiting a door leading out to the employee parking lot. The one I park in every Friday. The one that, in the past month or so, I’ve sat in, wondering exactly where Andrew was inside the building in front of me all those times I’d been eating dinner with my father. I crawl into the passenger seat of my mother’s SUV and turn to face my dad as soon as I’ve strapped myself in.
“Dad?”
He stays silent for a moment. I don’t know if I should be worried, or scared, or angry he’s not saying anything. I settle on being quiet until he decides to speak.
“Andrew McCormack was transported to the ER at St. Mary’s Memorial right after noon earlier today.”
“Is he… Is he sick? Is he okay?”
We pass by the guard booth. NPR guard waves a hand in our direction and dad nods back. He waits until we’ve turned onto the highway before he answers.
“I’m.” He pauses to clear his throat, and that scares me more than anything. My father never has a hard time getting out whatever it is he needs to say. “I’m not sure if he’s okay, sweetie. He’s not sick, though.”
The quiet is louder than I think it’s ever been between the two of us.
And it continues until we’re parked in the emergency lot and he deposits me in a chair situated in the corner of the waiting room. He tells me to wait, he’s going to find out whatever he can.
I’ve been to the hospital exactly two times before today.
Once when I was little and my mom slammed her hand in the car door. She broke three fingers and cried the entire drive over and again as soon as they pulled out a syringe to help numb the pain. It turns out my mother was never crying because of her broken fingers, but rather over her debilitating fear of needles.
The second time, I twisted, and thought I’d broken, my ankle playing volleyball in elementary school. I don’t recall much about the pain, but the way my mom practically buried my face into the crook of her arm as we sat, waiting to be called back, is something I’ll always remember. She muttered something about germs and hating having to be around all of the sick people. Granted, I wasn’t too fond of being only three chairs away from a man coughing so hard he almost passed out either.
Yeah. I’m not a fan of hospitals. When I think of them, I usually picture people dying, or so sick they can barely breathe. Broken bones and blood. I think of pages echoing over the intercom system and the sterile, yet somehow still sickly smelling air.
But right now? Right now I picture those broken bones being mended and put back together. I picture blood being wiped away from a face I’m starting to realize I’ve come to rely on. I picture those things, and instead of being scared, I’m so relieved and comforted by the fact he’s here. He’s in this same building somewhere, and I don’t know what happened, or how he is, but I know there are people here working their best to fix it. To make it better.
I know the people here are on his side. And, even if it’s only for a little while, that’s helping put my mind at ease more than anything else.
I don’t know how long he’s been gone, or if he’s been sitting beside me for a while and I haven’t noticed, but I jerk in surprise when my father puts an arm around my shoulders. And then I notice I’ve been staring at a spot on the wall right above some middle-aged man’s head on the opposite side of the room, and he’s more or less glaring at me. Whatever. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than his bald spot.
“He’s been moved to a room on the third floor.” He hesitates, unsure of how to proceed, or more likely unsure if he even wants to. “I’m not sure if you can get in to see him because there’ll be an officer posted at the door, but we can try. If you really want.”
I tilt my chin up and he gives a sad sort of smile as he reaches out to push my hair behind my ear. I have always appreciated my father, but maybe never as much as I do in this moment. I try to say yes, but can only nod my head repeatedly.
He keeps me close on the elevator ride up. Even though I’m feeling much steadier now, I let myself lean on him for support. For all I know, I’ll get off on the third floor and have to turn right back around to leave. I might as well soak up all available steadiness while it’s there.
Two minutes and a rather confusing series of turns later, we stop at the end of a hallway that looks exactly like all of the others. It’s all dulled colors and dim lighting, but I know we’re in the right place. There’s a female guard posted outside one of the doors at the opposite end, and even though I doubt they’ll actually let me in to see him, I keep walking. My pace quickens and my hand leav
es its place on my father’s elbow as I pull ahead of him.
I stop a few feet in front of her and have no idea what to say, or think, or do with my hands. There are no pockets in the dress I’m wearing, but I ball the material where they would be into my fists and wait. I recognize her face when she looks up at me. Actually, I recognize the emerald ring on her finger first, but the soft look on her face, as kind as it was when I practically bounced off the wall and into her, I remember that as well.
The thing I appreciate the most? The way she doesn’t wait for me to say anything. She simply dips her chin toward her chest and takes a step to the side.
“Thank you,” I whisper and then push open the door.
Chapter Ten
The room is dark. Darker than the hallway, even with the small overhead lamp situated in one corner, and it takes my eyes time to adjust. The curtains are drawn, but it takes me a second longer than it should to connect them with the lack of light. Mostly because the window is on the other side of the hospital bed, where Andrew is laid out. He somehow looks both too large for the small frame and so much smaller than usual.
There’s nothing between us now. Only a few dozen feet and a room full of empty air. But I can’t make myself move. I can’t make myself do anything but stare at his sleeping form and actually, physically ache for a reason I’m not quite able to put my finger on. Or maybe I don’t want to. Ignorance is bliss and all … even though this is not, by any means, bliss. And ignorance, with all of its unanswered questions, is starting to drive me up the wall.
Without the fear of being caught, I can look at him freely now. Really look at him. As in, with conscious effort, instead of wandering off into daydream territory only to feel like an idiot when he catches me staring.
He seems paler here. I’m sure it’s a combination of the lighting and, well, the unconsciousness, but I still don’t like it. I’m also pretty sure he’s still at least a dozen shades darker than I am.
His feet are near the very edge of the bed, less than an inch from dangling over the edge, and swathed in what I assume is a standard white hospital blanket. The blanket molds itself to his legs, and I follow their long lines upward. Even though I can’t see them, and never even saw a hint of them through his God-awful gray jumpsuit, I imagine they’re strong. Soccer players have lean, ropey muscles, don’t they? Sturdy thighs, too. Right?
What's a Soulmate? Page 10
