I Never Stopped

by Elizabeth Mitchell

  Sloane felt a push she hadn't experienced when melding with someone. With no soul there to share the body with, she'd expected sliding in would be easy. Then she felt it: Cecelia had come back to fight. She must have been in The Gray–not gone–the entire time.

  Panicked, disjointed thoughts bounced around Sloane. Cecelia wished she could move on but wanted to come back too. Sloane decided to push once more. If there was any resistance, then Cecelia was meant to stay. With a relieved sigh, Sloane felt Cecelia's hold melt and slip away. Sloane imagined dancing with Francesca again, feeling her skin. Lyrics from The Monologue Bombs echoed in her head like a soundtrack to the moment. "The memory of your skin, I block it out. It comes back in. Laughter sang. Luna shone. We were home."

  A scream rippled inside as Sloane claimed Cecelia's body. The pain became vocal, and for the first time in over a year, someone besides Molly could hear Sloane.

  32

  Francesca

  Francesca's low back throbbed from sitting on the flat-cushioned chair for over an hour. She chose the one closest to the door so that she could rush to the bathroom quickly.

  Surrounded by Cecelia's family, she wouldn't dare complain or move; she barely allowed herself to shift. Francesca tried to bring no attention to herself. Mama occasionally came to squeeze her hand or rub circles on her back. But more often than not, she was a flurry of activity, doing whatever she could to make Alma's life easier.

  After everything she'd put Cecelia through, it was a surprise Alma and Tony allowed her to wait at all. Their shower of just-starting-something sparklers had been snuffed out in an instant. Francesca felt weak for entertaining the thought, but why her?

  Cecelia had kicked and shoved, waited patiently, and held on as she helped crack Francesca's wall. In the end, her perseverance had gotten her a dance, a half-kiss, and a promise of more to come.

  Any moment, Alma and Tony would come back, and they'd all leave. Or it could be hours more. The doctor didn't have any straight answers there. Answers about everything else, sure. Whether they should kill Cecelia or not, definitely. But when it came to the length of time it would take for her body to stop working, he had nothing.

  A scream echoed down the hall, followed by shouts, alerts, color codes.

  Like tense animals, Cecelia's family and close friends rushed towards the noise, Francesca at the head of the pack. When the hoard of nervousness stopped in the hallway in front of her room, the chatter quieted to church whispers. They were only able to peek inside the door. Two nurses had hooked Cecelia to machines she hadn't needed hours ago.

  Alma cried out, "Cecelia's alive."

  In any other circumstance, loud cheering would have followed. Instead, whispers turned to silence as family and friends took to prayer. The wailing would wait until questions were answered. A bystander-like syndrome took hold of the group as they all stood expecting the others to ask those questions.

  "How?" Francesca would not be a bystander.

  "They're looking into it. But she screamed, then said, 'Slow'. The doctors were in there by then, so we don't know what's going on. I want to yell at them, make them tell me something, anything! But if they need space to work, they'll have it. Which is why we should go back to the waiting room," Alma responded.

  Francesca felt raw. "I can't believe she's alive!"

  Mama sidled up beside her and held her hand. She'd become Francesca's strength. Alma would need her the moment they dispersed, but her solidarity meant everything.

  "The doctors can't either. Let's wait in the waiting room again. We shouldn't crowd them." Tony became the voice of reason no one wanted.

  Francesca stared straight ahead at the ugly strip of yellow along the walls. Frantic nurses pushing hospital beds of bloodied patients and doctors running into the hallways for those who couldn't wait filled her head. Sloane hadn't made it long enough to be one of those; Cecelia had.

  In the waiting room, she sat in the same painful chair and watched Cecelia's family mill about. The clock by the twelve-inch screen television was stuck at 3:12. Francesca wished she could reach that high; she'd take it down and bring it to someone. But who? Nurses wouldn't care, and doctors had better things to do. She'd only seen two receptionists–both perpetually on the phone–barely having a moment to help in-person grieving families.

  News of a tornado in Kansas crackled over the Loreti family. Francesca almost laughed. They were certainly not in Kansas. A scarecrow and tin man didn't break out into song, nor did she see any lollipop kids. No good witch showed up to help them make their way to safety either. They were in the eye of the tornado, swirling violently with the cow.

  When the doctor came out, the room became a collectively held breath. "She's been sedated. We're going to do some tests and watch her tonight. We don't know what happened, how she… Honestly, it's a goddamned miracle. So let us figure out what we can, and you can come back tomorrow. Smaller groups, please–only two at a time."

  Though they all nodded and thanked him, no one stood to leave.

  Francesca made the second round because she had time before work. At 8:10 am, she stood outside of Cecelia's door. Alma and Tony were already there, waiting.

  A different doctor–female with laugh lines around her doe eyes–strode up to them. "Alright, two at a time."

  Francesca watched through wavy glass as the Loreti's flanked Cecelia and began talking to her. Unconscious, she didn't answer. Squiggles were happening on the screens of machines they hadn't bothered putting in her room before; that felt positive.

  Ten minutes may as well have been ten hours. So, after ten hours, Tony came out and tagged Francesca as if they were in a relay race.

  Frail, Cecelia hardly looked like herself. She'd paled to Francesca's coloring, and her sweaty hair had matted against her head.

  Alma couldn't let go of her hand, so Francesca felt awkward showing any sign of friendly affection towards Cecelia. Still, she couldn't help but move the hair from her forehead and cheek. "There, that's better." She leaned back and held her other hand.

  Cecelia cracked her dark, heavy lashes to reveal her hazelnut eyes, but a shock followed. Her right iris had become an emerald. Francesca didn't shout out, though the inclination was there; Alma didn't seem alarmed. Francesca knew little about comas and even less about essentially coming back from the dead. Who was she to say eyes shouldn't change colors? A weak smile graced Cecelia's face and her lips crooked to the right. As Cecelia focused on Francesca, her eyes lit up. She'd never looked at her like that before, no one had, except Sloane.

  Even in a moment like her friend waking up from a coma, she couldn't shake Sloane from her thoughts. Francesca chastised herself for the umpteenth time. The last year seemed like a roller coaster on a track of disappointments in herself.

  Attempting to trace Francesca's palm, Cecelia's hand shook from exertion. "Sloane," she said.

  Francesca's chair shook.

  "I'm Sloane," she croaked and slipped back into a drug-addled sleep.

  Alma stood up quickly. "What did she say? It sounded like she said–" Francesca's heart flew into her throat as she waited for Alma to make sense of it. "–I'm slow. Why would she say that? And in English?" Alma asked, bewildered.

  Not exhaling with relief, Francesca replied, "I'm not sure. Maybe you should ask the doctor. I hate to run, especially after that! But I can't be late again. Just because Lia loves me doesn't mean she won't fire me. I'm so glad I was able to see Cecelia, and she could see me before she took another nap. We are all so lucky." It all sounded so insincere and not enough, but there weren't words.

  "That we are, dear." Alma squeezed her hand. "If you want to come back tonight, not a lot of people were planning to be here. They're coming during lunch breaks and after school."

  "I'd like that." Francesca turned to Cecelia and kissed her on the cheek shakily. "I'll be back tonight. Just rest up. I'll tell you some funny stories when I come."

  Numb, she left the hospital to sell pastries and not think
about Sloane.

  Lia smiled and hugged her when she arrived, even though her shift had started 30 minutes before. "How is she? How are you? How's Alma? And Tony? I'm going before your lunch."

  "Uh…" Too many questions, too many words. "She's conscious on and off, but alive. It's a true miracle. And I think the whole lot of us are raw. I'd imagine you feel that way too."

  "Too right! I think I'll close up early."

  * * *

  Restless, Lia closed up an hour later with a promise to pay Francesca for the day.

  "Take sweets! I made enough for the late morning crowd, so get what you want. Tomorrow's 'Yesterday's Treats' will be a larger selection than ever! Go, do something for yourself–breathe, meditate, drink, or go back to the hospital. Enjoy today! Miracles don't happen often. Alonzo is picking me up so we can go soon."

  "Thank you," Francesca said.

  Though she was grateful, a feeling of dread hovered over her. She had to fill time until she could go back to see Cecelia. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to sit in the same burgundy chair. Her back still ached.

  Tony waved Francesca in after the nurse told her to go on back. "Look who's awake and alert!" he said with pride as if it had been his accomplishment. "She started talking about being starving about an hour ago. Well, she said the word hungry, but it's a start! She's eaten everything."

  Alma corrected, "Except for the fig preserves."

  Tony laughed, and agreed, "Yes, except the preserves. I'll be back in a bit. Francesca, could I see you in the hallway for a minute?"

  When they were out of earshot, he furrowed his brow. "I thought you'd want a heads-up. They say Cecelia's got selective amnesia. She doesn't remember her childhood; she remembers who I am–Mama too, but not the other family members. She remembers some recent events, too. The doctor said the memories could come back, but it's hard to tell. She's an 'unprecedented case,' he said. So we're just waiting. But either way, she'll be different," Tony explained.

  Francesca nodded.

  “Her speech should 'normalize' soon too. Right now, she seems to have trouble with some words and her pronunciation is almost as if she doesn't know Italian. Small things seem different too. Did you see her eyes before you left? The right one turned green! The doctors are labeling it heterochromia, though they don't think that fits exactly–nothing does, they say. And if that isn't weird enough, she used to love fig preserves. She would eat anything with a fig, but just now she didn't even open the packet. Considering how inedible the rest of the food was… It was bizarre, but she's alive! Anyhow, if she doesn't recognize you, don't be upset, it may come back. At least she doesn't seem upset by people who are strangers to her, just uncomfortable."

  Francesca made a choking sound.

  She had planned on saying something, hopefully, something lovely or inspirational, but Tony cleared his throat.

  Clearly done talking about it, he said, "Give me a call when you're done visiting. I'm going to go home and change. I didn't remember to do that last night or the night before. I may have worn this for a little while now. I think I'll have a snack, too."

  "Maybe a shower and a nap too?" Francesca suggested.

  He tugged at his shirt and scrunched his face. "Yes, I think so." He hugged her tightly. "Thank you for being there for her, for our family. We're so glad you're here." Tony kissed her on the cheek.

  Her arms were still a little sore from his strength when she sat by an alert Cecelia.

  "Francesca," she said as a sigh. Tony was right; she did sound different. At least she remembered her. "I've missed you."

  "Missed me? I haven't been gone long. You, on the other hand, have been out for a while."

  In English, she said, "You have no idea."

  Francesca popped an eyebrow up. "You realize you're speaking English, right?"

  Cecelia smiled but pressed on. "It feels like it's been a year." Her mouth crooked to the right again.

  "Well, no big changes."

  Cecelia held a finger up. "Not exactly true." Her English was incredible.

  "You're right. You came back to life," Francesca joked.

  "I need to tell you something." The heart monitor beeps sped up.

  Francesca wondered if she should get the doctor or if that was an average heart rate. As an adult, shouldn't she know what a healthy heart rate is?

  "Of course, anything."

  "I'm not Cecelia. I'm Sloane."

  Francesca felt as though she'd been slapped. "That's not funny." She was stunned Cecelia would say that, especially in English. Maybe she'd lost her sense of humor. They'd have to work on that together, sooner than later.

  "I'm not joking. I'm Sloane. It's me, love."

  "Stop it, Cecelia. This is so messed up. I can't imagine what you're going through, but you don't have to take it out on me. And start speaking in Italian again, it's confusing everyone." Francesca stood to leave.

  "I'm not lying, Francesca. It's me."

  She begged, "Please stop." Still, what she said felt more right than wrong.

  "You kept a diary most of your life, but eventually you stopped because you found me. You said you didn't need to tell your secrets to a notebook anymore." Cecelia pulled herself up in the bed a little more. Her hospital gown bunched in the front, and she flattened it down.

  Francesca became an antelope.

  "You kept those notebooks, though. All of them. Two for each year, one for school and the other for summer. The summer ones are stuffed with movie tickets and wrinkled pool passes. The school ones have photos of your friends and crushes."

  Blurred vision cleared as tears trickled down her face. "How do you know that?"

  "You know how I know. You said you'd never told anyone about your diaries because then you worried you'd have to lock them. You have all of those locks on a necklace, which is why you didn't want to lock them. You want another? How did I learn Italian? How about the first time we made love? Or how we say we love each other?"

  "Stop it."

  "No, not after everything I've done to make it back to you. The first time we made love, you wouldn't look into my eyes. You told me it was too scary, that you knew you'd fall so hard you'd never come back up for air if you did. What did I do then, Francesca?"

  Her legs gave out, and she thudded into the chair.

  "What did I do?"

  "Sloane tilted my head up and told me she'd already fallen, so she'd be down there waiting to catch me." Francesca silently sobbed.

  "You're my forever, Francesca. I fought to get here. I fought for you. I've missed you; your laugh, your smile, the freckle on the inside of your thigh, your arms around me. I got stuck because I couldn't let go. I could see you, hear you, but I couldn't touch you or talk to you. I've missed our lazy Sundays when you'd somehow convince me that trying a different craft would make me love crafting. I've even missed our arguments. I've gone over every single one. Other than that fucking woman–who still gets to me," she laughed–Cecelia laughed. "They were so stupid! We are perfect for each other, and here you are questioning that it's me! You have to see it; you know it's true. I'm Sloane! I can explain, but first, you have to believe me."

  Francesca's head spun. She looked like Cecelia but knew things only Sloane did. It had been Cecelia who'd left her house, who'd gotten in the accident. And yet, those eyes weren't Cecelia's. That smile wasn't Cecelia's.

  Francesca had gone crazy. That was it. In one conversation, one short conversation, she'd had a mental break.

  33

  Sloane

  Physical pain plagued Sloane, and it brought her immeasurable joy. Alive again! The doctors were more right than they knew when they said Cecelia was a miracle.

  Cool, thin sheets rubbed new skin as she shifted in bed. Controlling a new body felt like the time she'd unknowingly eaten a pot brownie before running a 5k. Legs had hit the pavement, arms had swung to keep the momentum, but she'd felt disconnected from her limbs. She'd only had so much control before the universe took over. The universe wasn
't helping her now.

  Hopefully, time would help connect her to her new body. She would have to thank Molly–if she ever saw her again.

  Hopefully, Molly would find someone to live in too, but without taking 'opportunities'. Sloane knew she'd melded first because in some aspects she was stronger than Molly. Though there was also a part of her that knew Molly wanted to be sure it would work.

  It would be all for naught if Francesca wouldn't believe her, though. Not running away had been a good start.

  "…Other than that fucking woman–who still gets to me. They were so stupid! We are perfect for each other, and here you are questioning that it's me! You have to see it; you know it's true. I'm Sloane! I can explain, but first, you have to believe me," she'd said. Instantly, she regretted bringing the woman up. They were past it.

  Francesca's legs were tense, deciding.

  "What else can I say? I can't do much, because Cecelia's body, now my body, is a little broken."

  "Did you–" she stopped short. "How di–" Francesca couldn't seem to let herself talk.

  A small knock on the door broke both of their concentrations.

  "Hi there," a tired nurse in pink scrubs said. "This little one says she has a present for you."

  A young bald girl sat in a pink wheelchair. She smiled. "Hi, my name is…" she paused.

  "Sarah," the nurse supplied. "Sometimes she gets tired and forgets."

  "I have selective amnesia, apparently," Sloane said wryly. "So I get it. It's nice to meet you, Sarah."

  She'd have to start speaking in Italian soon; hopefully, Francesca would help her.

  She tugged her hospital gown back a little, before she said, "I have a present. I think you will both be pleased with it."

  Francesca's snot and salt crusted face didn't change from the frozen shock that made its appearance the first time Sloane had used her real name.