Falling From Grace (Grace Series)

by S. L. Naeole

  I could hear the random sounds of a police radio, and the different conversations occurring around me, and I knew he was right. But why was he here? He had made it a point to avoid me in school. Everything that he had said to me about no one being able to hurt me anymore had been a lie. He had promised that I’d never be hurt or made a fool of again; simply believing that had made me one, and proved him to be a liar. The acknowledgement of that caused me to stiffen, and in that moment I felt all of the pain that had been blocked from my mind. I opened my eyes. I screamed.

  ”Grace?” a strained voice cried. Dad! “Grace, it’s okay, honey, the ambulance will be here very soon. Just hold on, okay?”

  He squeezed me, and I could have sworn that even my hair hurt when he did that. I moaned, gritting my teeth, trying to keep from screaming again because his reaction wasn’t making me feel any better.

  I started to focus on the chaos that surrounded me then. It felt like I was in a Christmas light bulb. Everything outside of a small peripheral area was dark, but immediately around me, it was bright, with flickering blue and red lights. I could see several police officers directly in front of me standing near something on the ground that looked like some abstract art piece, beautiful in its deformity. Next to it was my book bag, positioned almost intentionally to demonstrate the contrasting textures of hard and soft, metal and cloth, warm and cold.

  There was a third police officer standing to the left of me. He was speaking with someone I couldn’t see. A spotlight that had been directed towards me was blinding his face to me. His? How was I so sure that this person was a he?

  It came before I even realized it—the need to be certain. Robert?

  And then the figure turned away from the officer and walked towards me, bending down out of the light so I could see his face. I felt my heart lurch forward, like it wanted to jump out of my chest and into his. And damnit, that hurt! I grimaced, and the concern on his face became the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Genuine emotion, real, and right in front of me; his steel eyes were no more.

  “I’m here, Gee,” he said softly, reaching out to hold my left hand.

  I looked at it, cradled in his, and then looked back up at him, confused. The wound that had been on my knuckle was gone, the nails on my fingers were all there. You did this?

  He nodded his head, covering my hand with his, as if to hide it from my view. You were bleeding very heavily, your heartbeat was very weak. I had to stop your internal bleeding…and some of your other injuries healed as a result.

  Internal bleeding? Other injuries? Healed? If I was healed, why in the world was I in so much pain?

  You’re not healed completely. You have more damage than I could treat before the police arrived. Your right arm is broken in two places, and your wrist is shattered. Your left thigh was impaled by part of the handlebars on the bike, but it missed the bone--your right leg is broken in three places. You had tears in your liver and spleen. There’s going to be some very nasty bruises on your face, but I was able to get the asphalt out, and I think I made your nose straighter.

  I wasn’t about to ask him how he had done these things, or why. I was just thankful he was here.

  Dad, unaware of the unspoken conversation occurring between the two of us, grabbed my hand out of Robert’s and started telling me what happened, his voice tormented and shaky. “You were hit by a car, Grace. A hit and run from what the police know so far. If Robert here hadn’t been riding his bike down this way, I don’t know what-” his voice broke, and he took a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. “Robert here found you and called 911.”

  “He saved my life,” I whispered.

  My dad, unable to hold back his emotions, nodded and started crying over me, sobbing like a grown man would in the presence of other grown men: reserved and silent with only singular tears and raspy, shaking breaths. I looked at the police officers surrounding us, their faces anxious, impatient to start asking me questions about what had happened, what I remembered.

  The pain in my leg was beginning to increase, and I squirmed from the pressure of it as it crawled up to my abdomen. Where was that ambulance? I was looking very forward to being a pain-killer junkie with the way my body was feeling at the moment.

  I removed my hand from Dad’s grip, and reached for Robert—I completely ignored the grunt of displeasure from Dad—believing he would be able to help ease my pain, if only through the comfort of being able to touch him. Why had he begun to mean so much to me in such a short span of time? Why could he affect me the way no one else could? Even Graham?

  Would you believe I ask myself the same questions? He grabbed my hand, held it once more between his and the pain lifted away from my body, like the removal of a suffocating blanket. I sighed.

  How did you find me?

  His face suddenly became pinched. I could see the memory in his head, hear it as though it were my own. He had heard me call out for help. He had heard it from very far away, and his face was riddled with confusion. He could hear my cry for help, but he couldn’t hear my thoughts—he could sense that I wasn’t nearby.

  And…he was with someone else. He tried to distort the vision now, making everything fuzzy, as his voice told her of an urgent thing he just realized he had to do. He told her he’d call her later that evening. She made a pouty, whiny sound, but relented. She reached for his hand, and he held it, then kissed it. “Thank you for understanding, Erica,” his voice said, his tone admiring, almost reverent.

  I removed my hand from his, cutting off the vision I knew I could only see because we were touching. The pain slowly started returning, but it was coupled with a different kind of pain. One I was all too familiar with. But before it could take hold of me again, he placed his hands on my face, holding me immobile, and looked into my eyes.

  He was in the parking lot, calling a cab for Erica on his cell phone, and then he was on his motorcycle, racing towards the sound of my thoughts. He was panicked, his palms sweaty for the first time in…centuries? He listened for my whimpers, my moans when my thoughts became too cloudy from pain. He found me, sprawled on the pavement, lying on my chest. He could only see my back at first. My right arm was twisted out behind me, my shoulder dislocated. The mangled remains of my bicycle lay partially between my feet.

  He jumped off of his bike, letting it fall to the ground behind him as he rushed towards me, stopping as the smell of blood slapped him in the face. He uttered a foreign word I couldn’t recognize, and then knelt in front of me, running his hands down my left side, looking at me.

  But what I saw through his eyes wasn’t me. At least, it wasn’t me with skin. He was looking beneath it, looking at the shattered bones, the shards of which had pierced my lungs. He was looking at the torn internal organs that were leaking fluids into my body, slowly draining away the life force within me. He was looking at my heart, watching its beat slow down as it struggled to keep up.

  He knew I was in a terrible amount of pain, and reached for my hand. He was taking the pain away from me, easing the stress and strain on my heart so he could further assess the damage done to my body. He looked at my face, into my eyes, and I smiled. A great glow from within him seemed to blind my vision of everything. It gave off an incredible heat, and I was afraid that if it continued, I’d burst into flames.

  He placed his free hand onto my abdomen, breathing slowly, concentrating. He could feel bones mending, tears closing, blood absorbing. He looked at my leg wound where the handlebar of the bicycle was protruding. He wanted to remove it. He fought with himself over it. A battle of good angel vs. better angel raged forth on his shoulder. The angel won.

  He left it, took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911. He knelt there with me as he explained where we were, listened to the dispatcher who told him that the police would be on their way, and then hung up to call my dad. He could see my dad’s face in my thoughts, see the last images I had had of him. He had called 911 to save my life, but he had called my dad to sa
ve him.

  Slowly, Robert removed his hands from my face, and reached again for my hand. I let him hold it. Once again, I was in awe. Whatever his reasons for being with Erica tonight, they weren’t more important than finding me and saving my family. I didn’t know why, but for right now, that was more than anything I could have ever asked for from him.

  “Grace, the ambulance is coming,” Dad said softly, looking at the approaching red flashing lights.

  In a blur of activity, I was examined, rolled to one side then the other as I was placed on some incredibly uncomfortable board; my neck was cocooned in a brace, an IV was shoved into my arm, and when I was asked if I was in any pain, I answered yes, because that wonderful voice that was in my head offering me words of comfort told me to. I was hoisted up onto a gurney and then rolled into the back of the ambulance where the paramedic whose nametag read Foley began his barrage of questioning about my injuries, where and what hurt, how much I weighed, how old I was, and so on.

  I realized why Robert had told me to tell the paramedics that I had been in pain when I started to feel the pressure on my body again. He wouldn’t be able to ride with me in the ambulance: that privilege belonged to my dad.

  I’ll be right behind the ambulance. The voice in my head said, and I felt an overwhelming sense of relief at those words. I didn’t know just how desperate I had been to hear them until he had said them.

  As soon as the ambulance doors were closed and we were headed towards the hospital, Dad started the interrogation. “So, is he the friend that gave you that shirt? How’d you meet him? What’s his last name? How well do you know him?”

  I knew I had to get this out of the way as quickly as possible, so I gave him the quickest and shortest answers I could. “Yes, school, Bellegarde, well enough.”

  He had a grim line on his face and I didn’t exactly like what that meant because for some reason, I knew that it had nothing to do with my injuries or the hit and run. He had placed his elbows on his knees, one hand over the other, resting under his chin. I could hear the old cog wheels turning in his head, and wondered what it was that was causing him to look that way.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, he looked at me and sighed. “Baby, I’m very grateful for what this Robert kid did for you tonight, but there’s something about him that bothers me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of you and him-”

  “Dad, can we not talk about this right now?”

  The pain medication that they had injected into the IV was finally starting to work its magic all over my body. I felt very dizzy and lightheaded, my eyelids felt weighted down. I knew that any minute now I’d be asleep, but I needed to be sure that when I woke up, Robert would be there to answer my questions.

  “Dad. D-don’t send Robert away, okay?” I pleaded. I knew I sounded desperate, but in all reality, I was. I wasn’t sure how long this moment of friendship with Robert would last and I had to make sure that no one around me did anything to speed up this timeline. “He’s my friend, Dad, and I need him in my life right now.”

  Dad’s face didn’t seem to show any weakening in whatever opinion he had formed about Robert, but he nodded. “I owe him a great deal for what he did tonight, Grace. At the very least, I can allow him to stay with us at the hospital while you’re checked over.”

  One down. One to go.

  Robert? I send my thoughts out, directing them towards him, wondering if he could hear me over the sounds of the siren and the motorcycle combined.

  I could hear your thoughts in the middle of a rock concert, Gee. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving you. I’ll be there when you wake up. I promise.

  I sighed contentedly, and let the drugs take over my consciousness, pulling me down into the peaceful darkness.

  ADMISSION

  Some people have very vivid dreams, with bright colors, smells, tastes, and the ability to feel everything; others have dreams that are very mild and meaningless, flat, colorless. Some don’t dream at all. I used to be one of the latter. Used to because the nightmare changed all of that.

  I saw in extreme slow motion how my body bent and twisted after being hit. All sounds were magnified, intensified by the void of anything else but the vision in my dreams. I heard my bones crunching and cracking as I landed on my right side like a swan diving elephant. I could hear my screams, my moans, my grunts, and my haggard breathing. I could hear the blood bubbling up and out of me. I could hear it splash onto the asphalt. I heard the crunching of the asphalt under nice, expensive brown leather shoes, and the sounds of tires leaving me behind, the little tick-tick-tick sound of rocks that had come loose from the asphalt falling all around me.

  But I didn’t hear what hit me. I didn’t hear tires screeching, or the crash of my body against the hood or side of any vehicle. There was nothing there that would prove that I had been hit from behind by a vehicle other than the fact that I had heard it leave. It was black silence.

  And the nightmare only reinforced that fact by altering these unknown details ever so slightly so that it was always different, always unexpected, always terrifying. The only constants were the feeling of pain, abandonment…and death. Not the proverbial death of passing and release. Oh no, not for my mind. Death, the supernatural bringer of the cessation of life, had his black hand on mine, and wasn’t letting go. I won’t leave you.

  I woke up drenched in sweat.

  The hospital gown that loosely covered my body was soaked with perspiration, the sheets beneath me as well. My eyes were staring at a stained and water damaged ceiling. It was as though the moisture from my body had radiated upwards and collected there, my own personal genetic graffiti.

  I focused on the sounds around me. Beeping. The whoosh of the air conditioner. Footsteps in a hallway. Snoring? I turned towards that sound and saw Dad asleep in a chair next to the hospital bed. The lines that had been etched on his face from worry and concern for me were gone and I could see the remnants of the young man that had married my mom so many years ago.

  My eyes looked away from him, now desperate to find the face that had promised to be there, the face that had been in my nightmare: the face of death. But how could he have taken on the face of death when he had saved my life?

  I rationalized it as him representing all of the little deaths that I had suffered over the years, from the loss of my mom, to the loss of my self-esteem, the loss of my friendship and love with Graham, and even the loss of whatever type of relationship I had with him. All of them profound in how they had shaped me, shaped the way I now viewed this life that I had almost lost.

  No, he wasn’t death, but he wasn’t here either. And it hurt. It hurt so much, I felt the inward pull of my body as it tried to protect itself, but nothing could do that. The pain medication dripping into my IV line wasn’t going to protect me from this kind of pain. Nothing could, except him.

  And then, as if out of a dream, the door to my hospital room opened and he was there. The sound that came out of my throat when I saw him was resembled nothing comprehendible; it was garbled and pathetic, but it did everything to let him know that I was relieved, ecstatic, and thankful that he hadn’t chosen to leave me after all.

  I went to get something to eat. You were still asleep, and your dad was here. I didn’t think you’d wake up so soon.

  I smiled, content to feel and hear this intrusion in my mind because it meant that he really was here. I extended my left hand towards him, realizing that my right arm and hand were completely encased in plaster and immobile at my side. He looked at it, almost unsure it seemed as to whether or not he wanted to touch me. I withdrew it, not wanting him to have to do so out of fear of hurting my feelings.

  He looked over at Dad, saw that he was still asleep, and then seemed to make a decision, nodding to himself before coming to sit beside me on the hospital bed. He took my hand and placed it in one of his, while the other one reached up to cup my cheek.

  How are you feeling?

  Despite b
eing broken, bruised, and battered in a billion places, I was feeling quite great at the moment. And he knew it, too. Whether or not he knew that it was mostly due to his presence, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t stop the ever growing feeling of warmth that was filling me up just by having him by my side.

  Thank you for staying. I wanted him to know that I was truly grateful for him doing that for me. Thank you for showing me the truth about tonight. All of it. I wasn’t going to ask him about Erica. I had no right to. Not after what he had done for me.

  He looked at me, and seemed to be struggling with himself. I braced myself for whatever the outcome of this battle was.

  I would have stayed even if you hadn’t asked me to. It was…painful not being able to talk to you these past few weeks.

  I stiffened—an automatic reaction to the doubt I felt at his words. How was it painful for you? You’re the one who shut me out, Robert. You’re the one who deliberately went out of your way to ignore me. And I certainly didn’t see you suffering when you were around Becca and Erica. Especially Erica. It might have been painful for you, but it was hell for me.

  Robert looked stricken. Grace, I’m deeply sorry for being the cause of so much of your pain. When you asked me what I was, I had to pull away from you. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to tell you, that I don’t want to tell you. It was because I cannot. Your safety is far more important to me than you knowing the truth. Gee, can I--can I tell you…tell you why I was with Erica?

  I looked at him, hurt and anger burning their accusations into my face. If I could have done so, I would have folded my arms over my chest to emphasize just how upset I was. But the need to know the truth was too overwhelming. I nodded, the sadness creeping in.

  I was with her because I needed to know more about what happened with Graham to have caused him to hurt you so much. His mind is full of so many jumbled thoughts, one right after another, as though he were deliberately trying to forget something. I needed to know the truth. I already know from your own memories what happened. But what about him?