Three Gray Dots

by K. L Randis

  The doors started to close and I slid an elbow between them to prop them open. “You’re right, Meg.” I nodded through the tears sitting in the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been too scared to tell him because I don’t want to lose him. I can’t.”

  “You can’t lose what was never yours,” Meg said.

  I let the words sink in, lowering my head to my feet. I had been so focused on what I thought Jackson needed from me, it never crossed my mind that maybe he would have wanted a voice in the matter.

  “I’ll tell him after the race, it’s only a few days away and he’s so excited for it. I promise, you don’t want to take that away from him.”

  Meg sighed, but nodded. “He’s been working hard training you.”

  “Will you still be there?” I asked.

  Looking up at the ceiling, she pivoted her right foot into the floor in frustration, putting out a pretend cigarette. “At the Boston?”

  “Yeah, will you still be there?”

  “Of course I will,” Meg said, annoyed at the question. “That’s what you do for the people you love. You show up, even when it’s hard. Even when you don’t think they deserve you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Boston Marathon

  April 15th, 2013

  The 117th Boston Marathon started out like any other. Originally inspired by the success of the first marathon competition in the 1896 Olympics, waves of runners lined up on Patriot’s Day to push the limits of their legs and their hearts to cross the finish line on Boylston Street.

  I was no exception.

  Wave three runners sprawled the streets, stretching and psyching each other up before the 10:40 a.m. start time. There were just about nine thousand entrants, moving around in a sea of spandex and blue bibs that we were given out as our wave color.

  The weather was storybook perfect, hovering in the low 50’s at its peak and not a rain cloud in sight. I had trained in rain, cold, and sand to help me fuel through the elements.

  Jackson and I drove up a day earlier, crashing at a hotel just outside of Hopkinton, Massachusetts. I had insisted on separate hotel rooms, not wanting to risk anything that might distract me from the race.

  “It’s only twenty-six miles, Pip,” Jackson said, shoveling a mouth full of granola in his mouth race morning.

  “Wrong,” I answered. “It’s twenty-six point two miles exactly.”

  “Well, you’re exactly ready then.”

  “I don’t feel ready, I feel like something is off.”

  “Morning-of jitters, I’ll be right near Copley square to watch you cross the finish line. Can’t wait for you to win this thing.”

  I puffed through my teeth. “I’d be happy to cross the finish line at all, we don’t need to get all fancy and throw around words like winner or anything.”

  “When you cross the finish line, no matter how many people will be before or after you, it will make you a winner. Don’t undermine that. You’re ready.”

  I was ready because the sneakers I trained in for months prior were the perfect level of broken-in. They hugged my feet like armor. Jackson helped me carb-load the night before at dinner, indulging in fatty proteins and pasta. I had two Gu packs ready to fuel me every ten miles or so during the race if I needed them. I had studied the route countless times, over and over again until I could almost see myself crossing the finish line in my mind by what streets to take.

  I was ready.

  In retrospect, I don’t think anyone was ready for the Boston City Marathon that year.

  Almost two hours into my run, after adrenaline had freshly steamed off after the initial start of my wave, I knew that I was nowhere close to being the winner of the Boston. My legs were turbines, though, churning me through mile after mile. Grateful for the intensive training sessions I originally cursed Jackson for, I refused to acknowledge the slight sputtering of my legs every few hundred feet after the first hour passed.

  My face must have shown my frustration, because off to the left I heard a very familiar voice shouting my name over the chorus of other supporters.

  “Pip! Pippa! TAKE YOUR GU PACK! PIP!”

  I scanned the crowd, careful not to ambush the runners streaming ahead of me.

  “DAMN IT PIP, TAKE YOUR GU PACK!”

  Searching one last time, I finally saw Dylan’s face among the bystanders.

  “I KNOW YOU!” he screamed. “DON’T HOLD OUT! TAKE IT!”

  Frantically, I searched for my holster. Too defeated to care that he had directly ignored me by showing up, I ripped open the top of a Gu pack and squeezed the entire contents into my mouth.

  “ATTA GIRL! GO PIP! I’LL SEE YOU AT THE FINISH!”

  Meg was at his side, screaming my name over and over.

  His words dissipated behind me. The familiar warmth of his voice and presence was a boost I didn’t think I needed. The combination of his words, the Gu pack, and water I squeezed into my mouth fully charged me for a second wind.

  Tracing the route in my head, thoughts of doubt started to creep in when a dull cramp plagued my right side. I slowed my stride like Jackson taught me, sucking in deep breaths of air through my nose and pushing them out of my mouth and through my gut. Jackson had made me drink pickle juice that morning to help combat any cramps, but it wasn’t foolproof.

  I pictured the finish line.

  At one point I tripped over my own clumsy gait, grabbing at a runner in front of me out of instinct. A balding man to my right grabbed my right wrist just as I thought I was going to go down for good, giving me just enough guidance to steady myself and keep pace.

  “Woah, darling, you’re almost there. Come on now, you’re almost there don’t give out just yet.”

  I crossed the intersection of Exeter and Boylston Streets, eyeing the finish line, my legs no longer transmitting any feeling to my brain. My second Gu pack was still in my holster, screaming at me to take it.

  That’s when I heard it.

  It was low at first, but it was distinct enough for me to hear over the roar of the bystanders losing their minds as their loved ones crossed the finish line up ahead.

  Jackson’s voice rose above the rest, and I spotted him. Holding his fist in the air, he was victoriously yelling out, making noise like the horn of a train.

  Shaking my head, I was sure my cheeks were almost touching the bottom of my eyes from smiling so hard. Sucking in a deep breath, I stretched my arm into the sky and echoed his war cry, meeting his gaze for a brief moment.

  It wasn’t a bone-rattling explosion like you might imagine— more of a muffled thud with a large plume of smoke that ran straight up the mid-level buildings surrounding us.

  The pressure cooker bomb detonated at 2:49 p.m., only several hundred feet ahead of me.

  Shrieking ensued almost immediately from an indistinct location, although between the high pitched whining consuming my ears I could only assume the wrangled and distraught faces of the people around me were emitting such a noise.

  Jackson was the only person I could spot in the crowd as I fell to the pavement, my hands covering my ears in immense pain. His silhouette was frozen in place among a sea of people flailing all around him, a hollow look in his eyes not permitting him to come to me.

  Dylan reached me first, just as I lost consciousness for the first time. I could see his lips start to move as he placed a hand behind my head to lift my bleeding head from the pavement. Struggling to keep my eyes open, I rapidly blinked to keep myself awake.

  The chaos surrounding us couldn’t hold a flame to the look in Jackson’s eyes when he walked up behind Dylan. Watching him scream to the people all around us, I noticed Jackson’s face was speckled in blood, but I didn’t see any gashes.

  It’s someone else’s.

  Dylan stood up and ran out of my view, turning to Jackson before he did so, and mouthing something to him, then pointing in my direction.

  Jackson kneeled down at my side, his hands feeling moist from the blood pooling out of my ear and underneath my
hair as he cradled me. I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them, Dylan was standing behind Jackson, his face dirty from tears that he couldn’t hold back. Jackson had two overlapping palms placed firmly on my chest, elbows locked and frozen in place, when he realized my eyes were open. He said something, but no sounds emerged. I could only see his lips spitting rapid fire. When I didn’t respond Dylan started shouting at Jackson from behind, pointing at me and running his hands through his hair.

  It was then that I saw the switch.

  Pupils dilated, the smooth curvature of Jackson’s jaw shifted upright. His eyes hollowed, a dark fog filling them. He looked off into the distance, and I saw his chest begin to heave in a quickened rhythm.

  Dylan, run.

  Hunched over with his hands on his knees, Dylan let out a long breath of air in relief.

  I was alive.

  Then, he reached out to pat Jackson on the back.

  He never saw it coming.

  The first blow to Dylan’s face was imminent and swift. They fell to my right, and it took all of my strength to turn my head to the side to watch them.

  Boulders of muscle flexed up and down as Jackson continued to deliver blows to Dylan’s face. His legs were limp beneath Jackson as he crouched above him, a slow motion assault forcing Dylan’s legs to jump in movement with every connection.

  Stop, Jackson, you’ll kill him.

  Not able to watch, I turned my head to focus on the clouds above me. I couldn’t move to help him, and a wave of exhaustion fell over me, my eyes beginning to flutter.

  There were approximately five thousand seven hundred runners who would never cross the finish line of the Boston Marathon that day.

  I was one of them.

  Chapter Ten

  There were two explosions—a little over two hundreds yards apart—just shy of the finish line. An unprecedented manhunt for the bombers ensued only three days after, shutting down the city of Watertown. That’s when police moved in on the one bomber who had been spotted hiding in a boat in someone’s backyard. Three people had died instantly from the blast that day. Several hundred others were injured, including sixteen people who lost limbs.

  Then there was me.

  The first time I opened my eyes after the bombing was almost four days later. Jackson was hunched over the bed, holding my left hand. A stream of IVs littered my hands and I could only make out shadows of the people and things around me.

  “When is she going to wake up?” I heard Jackson say. It was muffled, but the words filtered through.

  “Hard to say,” another voice followed. “We’re doing everything we can to slowly wean her off sedation to keep the swelling in her brain down. We don’t want to take any chances. This is the best course of treatment, I can assure you.”

  “The two surgeries she had, do we know if her hearing will be restored?”

  “We won’t know until she wakes up, but I’m hopeful the myringoplasty was successful. The piece of shrapnel she had lodged in the side of her head was mostly superficial and the swelling of her brain seems to have corrected itself after the ventriculostomy. The drain worked well and we can remove the bandages from her head in a day or so. The ear was concerning since her eardrum was blown out, either from the blast itself or another piece of shrapnel it’s hard to say. It’s a miracle you walked away with only a few scratches. I’m glad they figured out who the bombers were. I’ve never seen a manhunt organize like that.”

  I moaned, a dull ache radiating hard between my pupils every time I tried to keep my eyes open for longer than two seconds.

  “She’s waking up,” I heard Jackson’s voice say. “Pip? Pippa can you hear me?”

  Moaning in response, I heard the shuffling of feet and the beeping of a few machines. “We can raise her morphine drip a bit. There ya go sweetie, try and rest. I know the pain is probably intense. Pippa, can you move your hands and toes for me?”

  “Pip, I’m so glad you’re awake. I needed to tell you—”

  Darkness fell over me and I don’t know how much time passed before I opened my eyes again. Meg’s voice lulled me from my sleep, soft and concerned but full of fire.

  “You could have killed him, do you have any idea how lucky you are Dylan doesn’t remember a damn thing?” she hissed.

  “How many times can I say I’m sorry? I can’t explain what happened, I don’t even remember doing it. I really don’t, Meg.”

  “Pippa would never forgive you if he had died. Never. You have no idea what history these two have. They have—”

  “Where are they sending him next?” Jackson asked, cutting her off.

  “They did what they could in the emergency room but the best reconstructive surgeon he could find is taking him in, don’t worry about where. His nose can be rebuilt, they’ll have to get creative but they can do it. It’ll be a few weeks before he can have his next surgery.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “I was late getting to the shuttle,” Meg said mournfully. “Dylan and I thought it would be fun to see her at the beginning of the race and then meet her at the end. Once she passed us we tried to get to the finish line in time, but I had to pee and didn’t want Dylan to be late. He mentioned something about wanting to ask Pippa to try again…” Her voice trailed off, her voice cracking. “I was getting off the shuttle when I heard the blast.”

  I opened my mouth, eyes closed, trying my hardest to speak.

  “Feeee….”

  It fell silent and I realized they knew I was awake.

  “Go get the doctor, quick,” Meg instructed.

  I heard a door open and quick footsteps running down a hallway.

  “Pip? Can you hear me lady? Can you open your eyes?”

  They fluttered trying to open, only catching the shadows of the room. I was able to determine it was evening, but otherwise couldn’t focus on one thing over another.

  “That’s okay, you can rest your eyes,” Meg said.

  “Feee…”

  “Feee? What’s Feee?” Jackson asked, his voice reappearing. “Do you need something? What is it?”

  A door opened and I heard a voice following behind Jackson’s. “Last time she was awake was a day ago, is that bad? Can she hear us you think? Do you think—”

  “Slow down, slow down. Let’s see what we have here.”

  An intrusive light was forced into my eye, a cold hand erecting my eyelid upward. I moaned, turning my head to the side in protest.

  “It’s hurting her,” Meg said.

  “It’s likely just a sensitivity to the light, but I want to make sure her eyes are dilating like they should.”

  “She should be getting better by now,” Jackson complained. “She’s been here long enough and the sedation has been weaned to the smallest amounts.”

  “She’s healing,” a calm voice said. “Everyone does it at their own pace. I know it seems like a lifetime because you’re scared but it has only been a few days. She needs to rest.”

  “Feeeeee…” I said again.

  “What’s that darling? Does something feel bad?”

  “Your feet? Do your feet hurt?” Jackson guessed.

  “That’s not what she’s saying,” I heard Meg say.

  “Fehhh,” I said louder, hoping Meg would understand.

  A familiar hand slid into mine, the outline of rings that Meg was known to wear caressing my fingers. “It’s okay, don’t you worry. Everyone is fine and we just need you to get better,” she said, addressing my worries. “Dylan is okay too, he has some surgeries to get through in the future but he’ll be just fine.”

  “What was she saying?” Jackson asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Meg said sternly. “If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you. It’s not my place.”

  “Does she need something?” a voice said, presumably the doctor.

  “Nothing you can give her,” Meg said sadly.

  I swayed in and out of consciousnesses and slept a full day more before
I was strong enough to hold my eyes open. Nurses and doctors rotated through my room taking vitals, adjusting medications and sending me down for scans. The reality of my injuries was only recognized when one nurse showed me a scan of my brain from when they had first admitted me compared to one I had done earlier that morning.

  They had been forced to drill a hole in my skull to relieve some of the pressure. They were unsure if I had lost any motor functions, if I was able to speak, or if I remembered what happened that day.

  Unfortunately, I remembered everything.

  I especially remember the first full conversation I had with Jackson after I was awake and sitting up in bed.

  “You could have killed him,” I whispered, watching him stare out of the hospital window to the people below. Most of my morning had been spent doing the same thing, before visiting hours. The view of the suburbs alive and busy in the world outside of the hospital was a comforting one. Pedestrians were pacing down the sidewalks with umbrellas above their heads. It looked like a calm ocean wave, colorfully outlining the street.

  “I know,” he said not turning around. “I can’t tell you how sorry—”

  “I’m not the one you need to be apologizing to.”

  He turned to face me and as much as I didn’t want my heart to flutter at the pained look on his face, there it was, pounding against my chest. One part of me wanted to scream in his face and push his broad shoulders out the door and out of my life forever. The memory of Jackson’s rage was haunting. The other part of me wanted to comfort him and appreciate how triggering it must have been to be in that scenario.

  “I know that, Pip. If it makes you feel any better, I really don’t think he remembers a thing. He wouldn’t even know what I was apologizing for.”

  “How would that make me feel better?” I said, my voice heightening. “So what, he can’t remember it happening so you’re going to pretend like it didn’t?”

  The majority of my anger was on myself at that point. I was culpable of the same double standard. Jackson was up on a Ferris wheel, and I was expecting him to jump off when it peaked at the top when I couldn’t even manage the strength to look down.