Do Not Disturb
Page 26
“Jeremy.” I repeat it, just in case they didn’t hear it. Repeat it again, louder. And again, my strength dropping. Then I am whispering the name, and I don’t know if anyone, other than my soul, can hear it.
“Jeremy.”
CHAPTER 112
WHY DOES JEREMY love her? Why love a girl that he doesn’t really know? A girl he’s afraid to question, afraid he won’t like the answers, that his conscience will step in and pry their hands apart, will push his heart into a blender and shut the door to 6E forever. Maybe the damaged are the easiest to fall in love with. She is damaged. Damaged in a strange way that has strength—a silent, don’t-open-that-door, watch-your-back-in-the-dark strength. Her eyes sometimes glint in a way that is unnatural; her hands shake from something other than nerves. She has told him that she is dangerous, that she wants to hurt others, to kill. That alone should make him leave, should put distance between them. He should find a girl who is normal, whom he can bring home to the family and not worry about curfews or Mom’s knife drawer. But her vulnerability, her fear, her rules, her absolute adherence to isolation… she has good in her. She tries so hard, she worries so much. He wishes he could take that worry. Give her a clean life full of children and carpools and grocery lists and vacations. Wipe the stress from her eyes. It fades a bit, every time they are together. His strength reassures her, his ability to physically restrain her softens the fear that she may hurt him and allows her to drop her guard. Let him touch her. Let him distract her mind in ways that make his cock hard.
He doesn’t know why he loves her. But does anyone know why they love? We don’t love people for their traits—traits are common. We love them for their unique ability to tug at our soul, to connect to us in a way that no other person can. Love is unexplainable, unpredictable, and often unreasonable. It doesn’t make sense, and doesn’t care to explain to us its thought process.
He hears his name, a scream from her lips, and everything else stops. He tries to lift his head, tries to move, but the weight on his back is excruciating, his body pinned beneath something, most likely hundred-year-old chunks of brick and pieces of a house that was never intended to come apart. There is the feel of heat, incredible heat, and he wishes he could call her name. Wishes for something other than to struggle silently, his world dark. He feels the sharp edge of something along his cheek and tries to work it over his eyes. Tries to move in a way that will rip open the tape and give him back his sight in these last moments of life.
He fails, the sharp edge doing nothing but scratching the hell outta his face, his attempts stopping at the first bite of pain.
The heat is incredible, building. Growing. It feels like his skin is cooking, yet he can’t move, can only lie still, blind and burning.
And still her screams continue. The sound rips at his heart, and he prays that she is not in pain.
CHAPTER 113
EVERYTHING HAPPENS AT a moment when I want nothing. I want to stand by my car and scream some more. I want to run through the burning debris and find Jeremy. I don’t want to be wrapped in blankets and coddled like a victim when I am the one responsible. I don’t want valuable personnel helping me when they should be looking for him.
But shock victims are treated with warmth and reassurance, and I am lumped into that prognosis. Warmth and reassurance. I do appreciate the blankets, the ambulance way too cold, no one else seemingly mindful of the frigid air. My teeth chatter, the blanket not enough, the second and third one helping slightly. They get moved, the blankets. They get lifted and adjusted as different parts of my body are examined. I feel the sharp prick of glass being pulled out, the wet flow of blood that is promptly stemmed.
Glass. I now remember the glass. It felt like a blast of desert air, shards instead of sand, a wall of getthehellouttatheway coming too fast, too soon, my shock at the explosion leaving me vulnerable for a moment too long before reflexes kicked in and I ducked, covering my face, turning my body away from the blast. My eyes had been closed, my mouth moving in silent prayer, the sound of the explosion confusing me, a moment of absolute quiet before insanity boomed. In the brief pause of life, I had opened my eyes. Even though it exposed the most vulnerable piece of my body. But, I had to know, my curiosity sharing space with my fear.
I should have kept them closed. Now I have that image branded in my mind. The second ending of my life.
Warmth and reassurance. My body temperature is finally starting to rise. I blink, looking into the face of the too-calm paramedic, and will her to shut the hell up. I don’t want her words. I don’t want her words unless they speak the impossible. I want her to shut up, to stop talking before I roll my broken body off of this bed and silence her myself.
“Jeremy,” I whisper.
But she doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look up. Continues moving her mouth and saying words that don’t help. Words that don’t say what I want to hear.
“Jeremy?” I speak louder, asking it as more of a question, then repeating myself. Louder, because she is raising her brow as if she doesn’t understand.
Then the woman yells, her voice too loud, not calm, and I look at her in confusion, the sound piercing through me, the combination between it and my chattering teeth too loud for reasonable thought to occur. Then more faces appear, dotting the landscape, firm hands shoving incessantly on my torso, unnecessary as I am already lying down, and a mask appears, covers my nose and mouth, stale air pushing incessantly, too cold. My entire world is too cold, too dark. I fight my eyes but they close and the last thought I hold on to is one that doesn’t make sense. Jeremy.
CHAPTER 114
I COME BACK to sanity, or my best form of it, in a hospital. I blink, my lids crusted closed, the action of them slow and painful. My room is empty, no one sitting in the chair, no nurse standing by the ready. I celebrate the silence for a moment—a chance to gather my wits before someone comes in and sees my psychological vulnerability.
I turn my head slightly, testing my range of movement. Move my arms and legs. Everything works. Some bandages, nothing major. A woman in scrubs walks by the open door, pauses, reroutes into my room when she sees me.
“Good. You’re awake.” She lifts my chart from the door, steps in with a friendly smile. “How’re you feeling?”
I shrug, not sure of the correct response. Not sure what I want. Do I want to stay here a few nights? Enjoy the experience, live up my moment in the real world? Then I remember how I got here. Jeremy. My world dulls. “I’m fine.”
“We can get you back home as soon as the doctor checks you out. But let’s get you some food; you’ve got to be starved. Are you up for a phone call?”
“A phone call?” I ask slowly.
“Your boyfriend’s been calling.” She smiles. “A lot.” She rolls a tray to my bedside, opens a low refrigerator, and pulls out some generic purple form of Jell-O. Cracks it open with easy efficiency while I stare at her, trying to move my dry lips and get out words. “We can’t share anything about your condition without your consent, so he’s pretty worried. I know he’d love to hear your voice.”
“He’s alive?”
She shoots me an odd look. “Oh yes. Would you like me to get him on the phone?”
An impatient four minutes later, my phone rings, the nurse sticking her head in. “That’s him, dear.” I reach for it with eager hands.
My throat doesn’t cooperate, my greeting coming out hushed and scratchy. “Hello?”
“Dee.”
Anger surges through me, so strong I almost come off the bed. “You piece of shit.” The nurse’s smile fades and she flees the doorway, the swing of the door so quick that I feel a breeze.
“Deanna, please.” Mike’s voice is so strained I barely recognize it.
“You told them I was your girlfriend? I will kill you. I will kill you slowly and you will regret every phone call as you bleed a painful death below me.” I hiss, meaning seeping through every word. “You made me think he was alive, you asshole. When she said—”
“Go on.” I grind the words between clenched teeth, refusing to let the happy part of my heart celebrate without justification.
“I mean—I don’t know exact details, but the scanner talk said they pulled him from the house. That he was responsive. They took him to the hospital, he’s there somewhere, the same hospital as you. They won’t tell me shit about his condition, and all I can tell from their systems is that he’s not critical. Everything statuswise is done on paper charts; they’re stuck in the fucking stone age.” He blows a hard breath into the phone.
I close my eyes, lean back on the bed. “He’s alive?”
“Yes. I swear to you he is. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be calling you. I’d be hiding under a rock somewhere drowning my regrets in tequila.”
I swallow a lump of weakness, allowing a small bit of hope to enter my heart. “Fuck you, Mike.”
“I got your money back. You can’t be pissed at me about that anymore.”
“I was only mad about the money when I thought you had stolen it. I’m over that.” The money isn’t why I’m mad. It’s the betrayal of everything. “God, I hate you.”
“He’s alive, Dee.”
I snort. “You don’t know shit. Alive doesn’t tell me if he’ll make it through the night or live to be a hundred. You want to give out my personal info? Go ahead. Marcus’s issue was with me. I deserve whatever he wanted to bring my way. But you didn’t have to mention Jeremy. You shouldn’t have fucking known about him to begin with.” I lean forward, hiss into the phone with my last bit of energy. “You crossed the line, Mike.”
There is only silence. No visual of how his face is or if there is a sag in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
I say nothing, and hang up the phone. Press the nurse call button until my finger aches and I hear the patter of white-soled shoes.
“There was another person in the explosion with me. A Jeremy Pacer. I’d like to see him.”
CHAPTER 115
MIKE IS RIGHT; Jeremy is alive. I ask the question to two different nurses, certain that someone is wrong, that God is fucking with me and someone will jump out and go aha! with a death certificate. But there is a consensus, and they agree to take me to him.
It takes time to get up the three floors to Jeremy’s floor. Not travel time, but bullshit time—they won’t move me from my bed until the doctor signs off. When the old man finally comes in, my attitude is running at full steam, complete with a small side of cheer at the fact that my man has survived. He made it through the explosion. I have no doubt, despite what I said to Mike, he will pull through intensive care. My man is strong and doesn’t give up. But I need to see him. Need to apologize. Need to take the blame and explain to him what happened. Need to tell him exactly what he is dealing with when it comes to me.
Maybe I won’t tell him exactly. Not while he is hooked up to a breathing machine and hovering on the brink of death. That might be too strong a blow. Maybe I’ll put it off a few days. Or weeks. Or just a couple of years. Just to be safe.
Shit. I’m doing it already. Justifying my way into lies. Lies by omission.
“I don’t need a wheelchair. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“Awww… we have to keep you in a wheelchair until you leave the hospital. Will someone be picking you up?” This bitch is way too cheery to be working in a place where people die. No wonder they stick her on the cupcake floor, where bumps and bruises are kissed and covered with Scooby-Doo Band-Aids and imitation Jell-O.
“I’ll get a taxi.” A taxi. Three taxis in twenty-four hours is definitely a record for me.
I don’t think SunshinePusher likes that response. There is a pause, a stumble in her step, and then the wheelchair roll powers on. Silence hangs as she tries to think of an appropriate burst of happiness to respond with. “You are so sweet, not to want to burden your friends.”
Not a bad save, though it does nothing but remind me that I have no friends. We approach a set of glass doors and I steel myself for What Is To Come.
What Is To Come ends up being the waiting room. Jeremy, apparently, is already surrounded by family and friends, the two-person limit filled in the four hours that have passed since our admission. I feel like an invalid, still in this ridiculous chair, SunshinePusher fastening a belt around me like I might go popping out. She sits next to me, opens a Woman’s Day magazine, and settles in.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
She grins happily, like a crack baby who has no sense of their affliction. “Oh, this is the best part of my job! I’m happy to help.”
You’re not helping. You’re unhelping. You and your big white smile and questions about my friends. You and your clean mind unbothered by thoughts of pain infliction. I growl under my breath, squeezing the fabric of my gown, and try to distract my mind. I glance down.
“Where are my clothes?”
She glances at me, setting down the magazine. “I think they threw them away. They had to cut them off of you. They were ruined by blood. You wouldn’t believe how much those little cuts of yours bled!” She shakes her head in dismay, then reaches over and pats my hand. Like we are friends and she has the right to touch me.
Covered in blood. Thank God I changed after getting rid of Marcus.
“Is that why I was brought to the hospital?”
She shakes her head. “No. Your cuts were all superficial. They could have bandaged you up in the ambulance. But you went into shock pretty quickly. They subdued you, then you woke up. Started screaming about something and thrashing around. Kept arguing with the paramedic, saying she was saying things she wasn’t.” She blushes. “You got pretty violent. Went after her. They had to sedate you.”
I sit back. Try to remember anything after the explosion, but I can’t. It is all a blur of madness, probably washed over by sedatives. I can remember the ground shaking, the house swallowing me in its razor-sharp grip of chaos. Can remember screaming for Jeremy, my world ending in that moment when I thought I caused his death. Nothing else. Nothing else but this perky bitch and finding out that Jeremy is still alive.
What is taking so long? I twist in my wheelchair, turn to look at the receptionist, but sit back quickly. I shouldn’t rush. And I shouldn’t waste time chatting up SunshinePusher. I should think. I should plan. I should organize my words in a way that softens their truth.
CHAPTER 116
I FEEL A push on my shoulder. Soft, like a gentle sway from an ocean wave, rocking me back and then returning me to my upright state. Another push. Back and forth. Then the wave gets rude and I get poked, my eyes popping open.
“Deanna,” SunshinePusher coos. “It’s time to wake up. We can go in now.”
It’s time to wake up. Like I am six years old and she is my mother. I blink at her, willing the sleep from my eyes. I can’t believe I fell asleep.
“It’s the sedatives,” she says gently. “You’ll be groggy for a few hours.”
“I’m not groggy.” The room sways before me, her face turning blurry before refocusing. I smile, through the blur, and hope that it passes muster. My vision clears and she rolls me forward.
I watch the door open and pray for strength. Pray that when I see him, that I will be cool. Smile. Isn’t that what normal women do? Smile. I watch the door open and strain forward, wishing this infuriating woman would roll me faster.
I can see little of the man I love, but he is made no less handsome by the breathing tube through his nose, bandages on his face, the IV in his arm, and blankets covering his body. Sunshine pushes me to the side of his bed, my hand stealing out and under the blankets, grabbing his carefully, unsure of his level of injuries. His eyes open, green finding me, and his mouth tugs into a smile. “Deanna.”
His voice is scratchy, weak. But his hand squeezes mine, and it is strong. I stand, pushing the wheelchair back, and send Sun
shine a pointed look. “Could we have some privacy?”
She smiles brightly. “Of course. I’ll be in the lobby. The receptionist asks that you limit this visit to thirty minutes.” I watch her, wait for the door to close behind her cupcake-covered scrubs, and turn back to him. My hand moves, shaky in its path, up his arm and down his side. “What’s hurt?”
He reaches over, pushing a button on the side of the bed that raises him slightly, his face tightening, a white flush of pain passing briefly through it. My heart seizes at the look. I caused that. I am the reason he is here.
“Nothing major.”
“You’re all bandaged up. Something major.”
He barely shrugs, the reduced movement my second clue that he is in pain. “Some internal injuries. I was caught—when the house collapsed—under part of it. I have a lot of bruising, some small burns.”
I frown. “And internal bleeding.”
“I don’t even know if I have that anymore. They took me straight into surgery. I haven’t talked to the doctor since.” He smiles. “Nothing for you to worry about.” His eyes sharpen, move to the chair. “Are you hurt?” He pushes himself up, worry making his movements too quick.
I shake my head quickly, push on his shoulders. “Lie back. Relax. I’m fine. The wheelchair is some stupid hospital policy thing.”
His eyes travel over my face. “But your face. The cuts…”
“Superficial,” I brush off. “Neosporin-worthy, nothing else.” I move closer to him, reach out and bend down. Hug his chest as gently as I can. Breathe in the scent that is not Jeremy. It is medicinal and sickly, yet I inhale as much of it as I can gather. I relax, rest my head on his chest. “Does this hurt?”