Curved Horizon

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Curved Horizon Page 23

by Taylor Brooke


  Daisy whirled on her. She felt fangs pop through her gums. The ornament sailing toward the floor shattered, and out came this Daisy—dark and terrible and brutal. “He was this close six years ago.” She pinched her fingers together and shoved them in Karman’s face. “This close, Karman. I almost lost him. And if Shannon doesn’t make it out of that room…”

  The fangs retracted. Her shattered bits stayed shattered.

  “If he dies…” Daisy choked out, trying with all her might to keep from crying. She couldn’t make the rest of what she wanted to say take form. It was an unspoken truth, a visit from an old enemy.

  If Shannon died today, Aiden did too.

  “No one’s dying,” Karman snapped. Her nostrils flared—red around the edges like her cheeks and eyes—weathered from the storm raging inside her. Daisy forgot what Shannon was to Karman, and guilt ate at her. “But someone needs to talk to him. He won’t respond to his brother, to me, to the nurses. I’m glad they didn’t have to call security, but I’d almost rather see him freak out—”

  “I promise, you wouldn’t.” Daisy side-stepped Karman and walked into the waiting room. A nurse, arms crossed over her chest, offered a somber smile. She’d been staring at Aiden, all soot and no flame, just charred remains.

  Daisy looked from the nurse to Marcus, who also looked at Aiden out of the corner of his eye. His glasses sat atop a magazine in the chair next to him. Karman fell into the empty seat next to Marcus.

  Aiden sat apart, in a corner next to a potted tree. He had his knees pulled to his chest, the hood of his jacket stretched over his head, and his face buried in his legs. Daisy saw the quake in his shoulders, the white-knuckled hold he had on himself.

  She knew that look. If he let go, everything inside him would spill out.

  “Hey,” she said. He didn’t move. She kicked a chair aside and slid down the wall, taking a seat on the carpeted floor in the opposite corner. “Come here.”

  After a long minute or two, his arms uncurled, his feet slid off the chair, and he slithered to the floor.

  Everyone in the waiting room held their breath, even the strangers.

  Aiden crawled on his hands and knees until he was between Daisy’s legs, hiding against her chest, with hi face shielded by his hood and her hands as she wrapped around him.

  “On three,” she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  “You have to,” she said.

  He leaned against her. She felt him exhale.

  “One, two, three.” She inhaled. He followed, inhaling along with her.

  “One, two, three.” She exhaled. He exhaled.

  It went on. Daisy breathing; Aiden breathing. A football game played on the television; someone turned the page in a magazine. One, two, three. Marcus whispered Karman, look. One, two, three. A door opened and closed; shoes squeaked on linoleum. One, two, three.

  “He’s gonna die, Daisy.” Aiden’s voice, like the wings of a bird, or the last leaf falling off a dead tree, or that coffee cup shattering, or like Aiden’s voice from years ago, saying I want to die, Daisy.

  “No, he’s not,” she said against the top of his head, holding him tight against her. “Breathe, okay?”

  Aiden took a breath.

  Daisy couldn’t breathe. Don’t you take yourself from me, Aiden, don’t you dare. She held on tighter. “No, he’s not,” she said again, mostly to herself.

  Along the far wall, an older woman watched them. She looked at Marcus, who nodded to her and chewed on his lip, and then at Karman, who had tears dripping down her cheeks.

  A nurse in the hallway said, “Dr. Cavanaugh, they’re in the waiting room…”

  “I know,” Chelsea snapped.

  Aiden stopped breathing.

  Chelsea had tossed the bloody smock in the designated bin. She’d taken off her gloves.

  “Stitch him up,” she’d said, gesturing at Shannon’s wounded abdomen.

  His heart monitor had blipped and beeped and clicked.

  “Good job, Doctor,” the anesthesiologist had said. “We’ll get him into recovery.”

  She played those three words again and again in different orders.

  Good job, Doctor. Doctor, good job. Job good, Doctor. Good doctor job.

  Chelsea had touched Shannon’s forehead with two fingers and watched his breath fog the mask over his mouth. “You’re not goin’ anywhere today. Not while I’m still around, Detective.”

  Now, she walked down the hall, keeping everything in her stomach from rising into her throat. Her hands shook with the nervousness she’d stilled in the operating room; the panic after seeing Shannon rushed down the hall on a gurney resurfaced. She felt as if she was wearing her skin inside out, as if every particle of air scraped her.

  She walked into the waiting room. A spot of red marred her pants. She swallowed hard.

  Everything stopped: the clock on the wall, four sets of lungs, five if she included herself.

  “He’s in recovery,” Chelsea looked at Karman, because looking at Daisy and Aiden huddled in the corner would make her cry, and she couldn’t. This was her job. “I removed the bullet in pieces, four of them to be exact. We had a minor scare, but everything’s fine now. He’s stable, we’ve got him in his own room, and he’ll be healed up good as new in a few weeks.”

  Karman clutched a hand to her chest. Her face crumbled. Everything inside Karman that had kept her calm fell by her feet. She cried, horribly and honestly, speaking rushed prayers in Spanish while Marcus reached for her.

  Chelsea finally looked at Daisy.

  She had her eyes closed and her arms still locked around Aiden. Elation rose through every rasped inhale and ragged exhale. His whole body shook. She caught his eye when he glanced at her from where his face was hidden under Daisy’s chin.

  Vulnerability did not look the same on Aiden Maar as it did on everyone else. Fire was fire, whether it exploded in the sky in an array of colors or danced atop a candle. People knew what it was when they looked at it. But Aiden was not the same, and Chelsea didn’t know if he would be.

  She saw vulnerability, like an animal with its foot caught in the teeth of a rusty trap. He was contemplating chewing his own leg off and limping away or allowing someone to set him free. Chelsea knew that look. She’d worn it before.

  “Where is he?” Aiden said.

  The quiet ruptured around his voice. Even Daisy looked surprised.

  “I’ll take you to him,” Chelsea said. She saw herself prying apart the trap and a wolf springing free in unkempt, natural ferocity.

  A nurse behind her protested. “Doctor, the patient can’t have visitors yet—”

  “Enough,” Chelsea growled over her shoulder. “Tell the staff to move a cot into room 23B, understood?”

  Daisy said Aiden’s name very quietly, as if she hadn’t meant to. Chelsea walked toward them as Aiden and Daisy untangled. She extended her hand. He took it without looking at her and stood up. He didn’t let go of her fingertips.

  “I’ve got him,” Chelsea said to Daisy and pulled on Aiden’s hand until he started walking.

  They went from waiting room to hallway, from hallway to room 23B. Chelsea knew Daisy was behind them, keeping her distance, but all her attention was on the hand that squeezed her fingertips. From the tremble of Aiden’s mouth, she could tell he’d been crying and was still ready to rip something apart. Anything.

  “He’s in there,” Chelsea said. “He’ll have a mask over his face.” She placed a bent knuckle under Aiden’s chin and lifted until he looked her in the eye. “He’ll be asleep for another hour or so and he won’t look good. You hear me? He’s not goin’ to look like himself yet. He lost a lot of blood; his body’s recovering. You won’t go home if I tell you to leave, so I had them bring a bed in for you. If you get hungry, text me.”

  Aiden swallowed. He searche
d her face; his caramel eyes darted back and forth. Finally, after his lips peeled apart and he inhaled a long, deep breath, he said, “Thank you.”

  “Go on.” She gestured at the door. “I’ll check on him in a while. Go.”

  Aiden went, hesitantly, but he went. When the door to room 23B closed, Chelsea almost fell to her knees. Almost. She made it as far as the RN station and into the empty bathroom before she had to grab for the porcelain sink to stay upright.

  Hot, big, ugly tears came quickly. They swam up her throat, wrapped around her lungs, and squeezed until she sobbed. Her legs shook as she lowered herself to the floor, finally able to cry and cry and cry.

  Because Shannon Wurther almost died. Almost.

  The bathroom door opened. Chelsea knew who it was before she looked up and accepted the embrace before it came. Daisy knelt beside her, and her arms coiled over Chelsea’s shoulders.

  “He almost died,” Chelsea said, because if the words didn’t take form they would haunt her. “He went into cardiac arrest; he almost didn’t make it. I had to get the bullet out with my hands, I had to—”

  “You saved him, Chelsea.” Daisy stroked Chelsea’s hair and held on. “He’s fine; you said it yourself. He’s in recovery.”

  “He died with my hands on him. He died right there in front of me.” Everything was fuzzy and terrible and ablaze. “If they hadn’t got him back, if the paddles hadn’t worked—I don’t, I’m…”

  “They did get him back,” Daisy whispered, holding on and holding on, “you did get him back.”

  Steady those hands, Doctor!

  Chelsea felt for one of Daisy’s wrists and held on to it. She let her other hand clutch Daisy’s black shirt.

  “He’s alive. You saved his life. It’s okay.” She cooed and patted and hugged. “You’re okay, he’s okay.” She kissed Chelsea’s temple.

  How long had Daisy been doing this? How many times had Daisy sat on the floor with someone she cared about while they fell apart?

  The thought flittered behind Chelsea’s meltdown. What a strong woman.

  Chelsea decided to let herself cry until she couldn’t, and Daisy stayed through all of it, through every sob and hiccup and sniffle and choke, sitting on the floor of a hospital bathroom with her arms around Chelsea’s shoulders and her palms against Chelsea’s wet cheeks and her body pressed as close as could be.

  “He’s alive.” Chelsea nodded against Daisy’s collarbone.

  “Because of you,” Daisy whispered.

  27

  Shannon didn’t realize he’d died until he began to wake up. His thoughts flipped inside out like laundry messed up in the dryer, or a button inverted on a coat. He decided to breathe, and felt heat on his chin and mouth and nose. He decided to remember and watched everything flash by that had flashed by before. “Before” was sometime during the surgery, but he couldn’t tell if that was hours ago or days ago, only that it was before.

  The flashes weren’t flashes at all, but he’d heard your life will flash before your eyes so many times that it seemed to fit. All his memories had turned into lapses, light that looked like water pouring the wrong way out of a cracked vase: his mother and father laughing in the living room in Milford; Aiden’s hand under his against the wall the night they met; fourteen-year-old Chelsea licking honey off a spoon in her kitchen while they pretended to study for exams; his wrist snapping when he fell off a skateboard the first time; Aiden saying his name and saying his name and saying his name. Karman shoving her open hand at him when they met at the station years ago; Aiden smiling against the lip of his coffee mug this morning when Shannon left for work.

  He opened his eyes.

  At first everything stayed dark, but, after he blinked, he saw the outline of the ceiling, heard the monitor beeping steadily next to him, and felt the weight of the mask strapped to his face. He sent thoughts to his wrists. Move. They didn’t. He sent thoughts to his mouth. Open. It didn’t. Finally his limbs caught up, and he was clawing at the mask, tearing it away, and inhaling stale hospital air.

  Under the anesthesia there was pain. It bit him gently, like a cat trying to get his attention, warning him that in time it would be much, much worse. For now, though, he was comfortable. That tangible soreness prompted him to turn his head, and he found a familiar pair of eyes gazing back at him.

  Aiden sat on the edge of the cot with his elbows against the top of his thighs and his face turned toward Shannon. The darkness made it easy for Aiden to hide the redness that stained his eyes, the salt on his cheeks, and shake in his fingertips, but Shannon knew they were there.

  He opened his mouth to say Aiden, but it hurt too much to talk. Instead he scratched the sheets on his bed and reached, hoping Aiden would understand and reach back.

  Aiden watched for too long. His chest rose and fell; his mouth pressed into a tight, white line. He shifted once, twice, and then stood up, grabbed the cot, and rolled it until it was against Shannon’s hospital bed. Aiden lay on his side, and, now that he was close, Shannon saw the raw reality of what had happened to Aiden Maar during Shannon’s before.

  Aiden’s hard edges were cracked glass. His eyes were the tips of incense sticks, almost burnt out. He hesitated, but touched the back of Shannon’s hand with two fingers, then three, and then latched onto him in one swift movement from delicate to all-encompassing, cautious to desperate.

  Despite how badly his throat hurt, Shannon managed to whisper, “I’m right here.”

  Aiden’s gaze hardened. He squeezed Shannon’s hand before sliding his palm along Shannon’s wrist and arm to shoulder and neck, and cupped his cheek. “You’re still here,” Aiden corrected harshly.

  Shannon didn’t comment on the tears that fought their way past Aiden’s long eyelashes. He just looked, because he could. He touched the hand Aiden had placed on his face and breathed deep enough to catch lingering notes of Aiden’s cologne.

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  00:00

  Chelsea didn’t bother with polite niceties. She didn’t knock or announce herself, just strolled in with Shannon’s chart clasped against her chest, wearing fresh clothes and a new application of makeup. Hours had gone by. A nurse had been in and out, checking to make sure Shannon was resting easily, but no one had told him exactly what had happened. It’d taken an entire hour of pacing and rereading Shannon’s chart for Chelsea to muster enough courage to march down the hall and into room 23B.

  What she found was half what she expected and half what she didn’t.

  Shannon was asleep with his cheek resting against the pillow and his head turned toward the cot beside his bed. Aiden watched him. His were eyes curtained, but open; his mouth was parted. Their hands were clasped on Shannon’s bed. Chelsea imagined neither one of them had let go in some time.

  She expected Shannon to be asleep, but she didn’t expect Aiden to be awake, not after what they’d been through in the last twenty-four hours.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Shannon,” Aiden whispered, jostling his hand slowly. “Your doctor’s here.”

  Shannon looked at her. A crooked smile turned his mouth upright. “Heard you might’ve saved my life, Dr. Cavanaugh.” His voice was raspy and worn.

  Chelsea wanted to do something with her hands, but her hair was pulled into a tight pony-tail, slicked and tamed. There was no reason to mess with it. Her white coat was buttoned perfectly, not giving her a reason to tamper. She tapped her fingernails against the clipboard, a fidget that would keep her calm and allow her to appear put-together.

  She wanted to crawl on top of him just to feel his heartbeat, to hug him. She wanted to cry, to ask him if he was all right, to bring him flowers and cards and assume her role as his friend. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and nodded.

  “That’s correct,” she said, trying to smile. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I was
shot.”

  “Three times,” Chelsea added, nodding. “Twice in your vest—you’ll have minor bruising from that, and once in your lower abdomen. The bullet fractured inside you. It tore through your liver, causing internal bleeding, which we had to stop. I removed the bullet in pieces, but the bleeding was severe enough to throw your heart into a minor arrest. You…”

  This part. This word. This acknowledgement.

  Flatlined.

  She looked at Aiden.

  “You’re going to be just fine now,” she concluded, because withholding one thing wasn’t lying, and she could tell Shannon the details once he was alone. “I successfully removed the bullet and I have you on antibiotics.” She tapped the chart with her index finger. “And your stitches will be ready to come out in a couple weeks.”

  All three of them knew Chelsea had omitted something. She glanced at Aiden, but he didn’t press. His gaze locked with hers and he tilted his head and slid closer to Shannon’s bed.

  “When can I get out of here?” Shannon played absently with one of Aiden’s fingers. “And can you make him leave, please? He won’t sleep. He hasn’t eaten anything.”

  “You’ll be discharged in a few days. I’ll make sure he gets something to eat, but I’m not makin’ him leave. I have to live with him after this, just like you do.” Chelsea tried on a smile. It felt good, warm and natural, especially when Aiden smiled back, a tiny twitch of his lips, but a smile all the same. “Daisy’s bringing him some clothes, too.”

  “Where’s Karman?” Shannon asked.

  Chelsea continued to drum the pen against her clipboard. “She went to pick up Fae. Marcus is back to work right now, but he said he’ll stop by once he’s off.”

  “He doesn’t have to.”

  “Also, I called Loraine.”

  Shannon’s expression dropped. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I did. She and Lloyd should be landing at the airport in a half hour. Daisy is picking them up.”

  “Chelsea.”

  “Shannon,” Chelsea sang, “don’t you worry; they brought my mother, too.”

 

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