Shadowed Flame

by RJ Blain

  With luck and some divine intervention, I’d be back to normal in a few months. Well, as close to normal as I got. The vision tests flummoxed Dr. Simmons, making me laugh—and cough—as he tried to figure out clever ways to confirm my vision hadn’t been impaired by my healing concussion.

  The real problems all involved my lungs; it was a miracle they still functioned at all. Three days in a machine designed to purify my respiratory system had helped, but Dr. Simmons was a good doctor.

  He told me the truth.

  I had lived, but it’d only be a matter of time before the chemicals I had breathed would come back to haunt me. While asthma wasn’t a certainty, it was a likelihood. Cancer would also be highly probable. How the cancer would manifest would remain a mystery until it showed up.

  More likely than not, my lungs would never fully recover.

  At least my feet had healed while I had been sedated, and while they were tender, I could walk without much discomfort.

  Dad showed up in time to hear Dr. Simmons give me the rundown of the things I wouldn’t be able to do for the next few months while I recovered. Running and heavy physical exertion topped the list. Standing frozen in the doorway, Dad stared at me with his eyes wide, his face pale, and shaking so hard Sam took his jacket out of his hands so he wouldn’t drop it.

  “Mr. Evans.” Dr. Simmons rose from the stool next to my bed to shake hands with my father. “She came out of sedation with no problems, her breathing has stabilized, and her blood oxygen levels are low but acceptable. We kept her sedated longer than necessary to err on the side of caution, but so far, so good. You’ll be taking her home tonight. You will need to acquire a few pieces of equipment for her care at home, mostly for emergency situations. While she’s through the worst of it, there’s always a risk of complications developing.”

  Dad’s expression went carefully blank, and I realized he was relying on his negotiation skills to get through the conversation. Before he could start asking a million questions, I needed to stop him somehow.

  Why did so many problems have to be solved with talking? My throat still hurt, and the last thing I wanted to do was say anything at all. “In English, he means I need to keep oxygen or something around in case my lungs file their pink slips.” I would also get several inhalers for emergencies as well as a list of prescriptions a mile long.

  Some of them served one purpose: to lower the risk of developing cancers and lung diseases.

  Dr. Simmons hadn’t sounded too hopeful about their effectiveness.

  Still, a five percent increase in my chances of dodging a terminal bullet was worth it to me, even if it meant I’d potentially suffer from dizzy spells and God-only-knew what else.

  I figured I’d tell Dad about all that later. Much later, maybe after I developed whatever demonic cancer had surely invaded my lungs from breathing in so many chemicals and smoke. Maybe I’d hold on long enough for Dad to die of old age first.

  Not likely.

  Dad’s gaze snapped to me, and he stepped to the side of my bed, bending down to cup my face in his hands. He kissed my forehead and sighed.

  Relief had a sound, and I heard it in the way his breath left his body. When he inhaled, the wavering I heard was the only sign of the tears he held back, probably for my sake.

  “I thought you were dead. When Annamarie called…”

  I didn’t know what to say. Every thought that popped into my head was a lie, and I couldn’t bring myself to say anything at all. Instead of coping with the quick, painless death, he’d have to watch my health deteriorate while I tried my best to pretend nothing was wrong.

  Dr. Simmons cleared his throat. “Her long-term prognosis isn’t bad, which is something. It could be far worse.”

  Dad’s hold on me tightened before he released me and turned to face my doctor. “Define ‘isn’t bad.’”

  “She won’t be running in any races any time soon, but there’s a chance for a full recovery. This isn’t a guarantee, just a chance, Mr. Evans. If her recovery falls in line with other severe smoke inhalation cases, however, the development of asthma is extremely likely. Cancers are a high possibility, as are other respiratory illnesses. Frankly, it’s a miracle she suffered through only one mild infection after her arrival.”

  Dad turned and sat on the edge of my bed, and I sighed at the purposeful way he kept between me and my doctor. I wanted to throw something at Dr. Simmons for revealing the consequences of the explosion.

  In truth, it was probably for the better. I wouldn’t have to gather the courage to tell him myself.

  “Okay. What happens next?”

  “You take her home. You’ll need to make arrangements for certain pieces of equipment. I’ve also taken the liberty of contacting a specialist in Manhattan to continue her care. She’ll need to have her blood oxygen levels monitored to make certain her lungs are functioning sufficiently. There will be treatments in the future to help strengthen her respiratory system. I recommend working with a nutritionist to account for her change in physical condition. Substantial weight gain is a possibility if she’s been used to an exercise regime. I’m assuming this is the case, as her good physical condition substantially helped with her survival. I have prescriptions for her. It is really important that you make sure she takes all of them at the appropriate intervals, or it could impede her recovery. There will be several inhalers she will need to keep with her at all times. The pharmacist will go over the specifics with you.”

  “She can come home? Now?”

  “She will need to come back in for check-ups, but you can take her home. I’ll authorize the discharge. I’m afraid there will be quite a bit of paperwork since we didn’t have an identification on her when she was admitted. One of the nurses will help you.” Dr. Simmons grinned, and the expression made him look ten years younger. “Bed rest for several days would be wise, preferably with supervision. Follow the directions for the inhalers carefully. If she has difficulty breathing, call an ambulance. Do not attempt to drive her in yourself. Am I understood?”

  “Understood, Dr. Simmons.” Dad hopped to his feet, caught Dr. Simmons’s hand, and pulled the startled man into a hug. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  The doctor’s laughter surprised me. “Mr. Evans, it’s me who should be thanking you. Because of you and your company, this hospital had the machines required to save her life. Without your donations of finances and equipment, I would have been making an entirely different type of call today.”

  My father was silent long after the doctor left the room.

  It took almost six hours to finalize my discharge. Sam left long enough to get the prescriptions filled, returning with a long list of things I had to do to safely take the medications.

  While Dad dealt with the paperwork, I went through my medications with Sam’s help. I was impressed by the persnickety nature of the drugs. “You’re serious? I have to do a full mouth rinse and gargle or I’ll get what?”

  “Thrush, Miss Evans.”

  “Thrush? I’ll get a bird in my mouth?”

  Sam laughed long and hard. “No. It’s an oral yeast infection. Just gargle like a good girl every time you take the medication. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m an adult, and I’m going to need adult supervision to take these pills,” I complained, prodding at the bag.

  “I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Getting Mr. Evans to go to work without you, however, will be a challenge.”

  Instead of answering, I kept digging through the bag. There were twenty different prescriptions plus three inhalers. I wrinkled my nose at the most obvious sign my already abnormal life was taking a turn for the worst.

  “There was a guy named Ryan,” I blurted.

  “Ryan?”

  “From the airport.”

  “What about him?”

  “I wanted to thank him.” Through the exhaustion, the hard work, and the challenges, he had been there. He had been there right up until my memories went completely blank.

&n
bsp; I wanted to go where he had seen his sapphire skies and capture it on film.

  “After we get you home, I’ll see what I can find for you. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Just his name,” I admitted, my face flushing. “He was past security at Terminal B.”

  “They’ve released the passenger list, so I’ll have a look and see what I can find. No promises. He could be an employee of the airport, and they haven’t released the employee list to the general public.” Sam pulled out his phone and tapped in a note. “I’ll do what I can.”

  I doubted LaGuardia allowed their employees to run around without their shirts on, but I had no intention of telling anyone I had drooled over a man’s sweaty chest and had taken photos to immortalize the moment. “Thanks. I’m going to need a new phone and laptop…”

  “Your laptop, phone, and cameras were recovered, along with your purse. I’m afraid the larger camera was broken, but the smaller one still works. Your laptop was damaged, too, but we managed to recover the hard drive. Your phone is dead, but we recovered all of your pictures.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Very. They started returning personal belongings a week ago. We got the call they had found your things yesterday morning.”

  I swallowed. “How has Dad been?”

  “I won’t lie, Matia. We thought you were dead. I took him to his parents right after we were released from the airport. He wanted to stay, but Terminal B had gotten hit the worst and was all but gone. We didn’t have a whole lot of hope you had survived. We got lucky; we had been delayed heading to the security gate. When the bombs went off, we were on the edge of the explosion. I got him away from the smoke and outside with a little help from someone in the same situation. It took both of us, because he wanted to look for you. He fought us every step of the way.”

  That Dad and I had such similar thoughts both warmed and distressed me. “I looked for you and Dad, too.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Sam ruffled my hair and smiled at me. “Maybe you’re a full-grown woman now, but you’re still his little girl, and you’re definitely cut from the same cloth.”

  Sam was one of the few who knew I was adopted, but his words made me smile regardless. He had been with us from the very beginning, learning right along with Dad how to take care of a kid with more issues than most magazines.

  Sometimes, it was easy to forget he was our driver and occasional bodyguard and not a part of the family.

  The medications made me drowsy, and by the time Dad had finished with the discharge papers, I was asleep on my feet. I made it all the way to the car without wheezing, coughing, or falling flat on my face, which I viewed as a major victory.

  I meant to sit in the back with Dad, but he herded me to the front, laying the seat back and buckling me. My protests, which consisted of trying to bat his hands away so I could do it myself, were ignored. When I was situated to his liking, Dad kissed my forehead and sat in the back behind Sam, probably so he could keep an eye on me.

  Sam dominated the conversation on the drive home, giving my father the complete rundown on every last one of my medications. Neither seemed to want my input, so I snuggled into the leather seat and contemplated if I could actually fall asleep in a moving vehicle.

  Each time I closed my eyes, I remembered the bang of the explosions, smelled the smoke, and heard the screams. I stared out the window into the darkness, watching the highway lights go by.

  The lights had a color to them—at least, I thought they did. If they didn’t, why would their light seem so gray to me? Was the night sky truly black, or was it some shade of blue? Could a sky capable of making someone like Ryan smile ever become colorless? Was a sapphire sky pale or dark? The snow I understood; I’d gone skiing with Dad in the past. Maybe my world was limited, but spraying powder in the sunlight sparkled all the same.

  Snow was white, at least some of the time. I’d heard some folks claim snow had a blue hint to it, and I wondered how white could become blue.

  I fell asleep while wondering where I could find snow-tipped mountains with sapphire skies and woke up to Dad talking to someone on the phone. I listened, resisting the urge to stretch so I wouldn’t interrupt his conversation.

  It was about work, although I didn’t recognize the names of the men he addressed. I tried to discern what sort of account negotiations were underway. The few times Dad mentioned equipment, it was for construction, which made up almost half of the company’s holdings.

  When Dad finally hung up, I indulged in a stretch, wincing at the pop and crack in my joints. I was in my own bed, although I had no memories of reaching home. “Why aren’t you at work, Dad?”

  “You’re here, that’s why.”

  Great. Dad was in super-protective mode, not that I blamed him. I would be, too. However, super-protective mode meant misery for me; every move I made would be scrutinized, and the first time I wheezed or coughed, hell would rain down on my head.

  If Dr. Simmons was to be believed, there would be a lot of coughing and wheezing in my future. Getting Dad off to work would be my first mission. Once successful, I’d soak in the jacuzzi until I turned into a raisin.

  I yawned, groped for one of the spare pillows, and covered my head with it. “What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  “Night?”

  “Morning.”

  “Weekend?”

  “No.”

  “Go to work, Dad,” I hissed.

  “You’re here. I’m not going to work.”

  Three things annoyed me most in the world, and Dad was going for three of three. First, I hated when Dad skipped meetings. If he missed an important meeting, I’d end up with even more work to catch up on. Second, I hated when someone watched me sleep. It was bad enough a lot of people had done nothing other than watch me sleep and monitor my vitals for a week and a half. Third, I hated feeling dependent on others for basic things, including sleeping in my own bed.

  “Do you want me to get out of this bed and chase you out the door?”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  “Go. To. Work.”

  “Matia!”

  “Work.”

  “Someone has to watch you. The doctor said so. You heard him. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “Call Grandmother. She can keep me company today, tomorrow, and however many days it is to the weekend.”

  “It’s Monday.”

  “How many days have you missed?”

  Dad didn’t reply, although I heard him huff.

  One of the more annoying additions to our apartment was the inclusion of landlines in every room. Even the bathroom had one, much to my disgust. For once, it worked in my favor. I rolled over, groping for the handset. I managed to get the receiver in the vicinity of my ear before reaching for the base.

  Speed dial was my friend, and with the press of two buttons, the phone was ringing. Sam picked up on the third tone. “Hello?”

  “Take my father to work, please. He’s in my room stalking me.”

  Laughter filled one ear while Dad’s protests filled the other.

  “I can be there in twenty minutes, Miss Evans. Will you be joining him?”

  “Wait, that’s an option?”

  “Is what an option?” Dad demanded.

  “It’s an option, and probably the one least likely to give Mr. Evans panic attacks. Don’t forget to pack your medications and inhalers.”

  “Thirty minutes,” I ordered, hanging up.

  “Thirty minutes until what?” Dad rose from the chair he had stolen from the kitchen, glaring down at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Until we go to work. I have to shower, get dressed, and pack the stupid medications. We’re going.” I flung the blankets off, decided I really didn’t want to know how I had gotten into my pajamas, and slipped out of bed.

  “You can’t go back to work yet.”

  “Sam says otherwise.”

  “Sam isn’t your father!”

  “Dad, can you
at least pretend everything is normal? Please?” I could already feel my throat itching with the need to cough, and I swallowed back the urge. “I’m okay. I feel fine.”

  It was a lie, and judging from the way Dad frowned, he knew it. My feet hurt from standing, my chest still ached in the wrong sort of way, the way that warned me breathing was a privilege I was no longer entitled to.

  “I only got you back yesterday.”

  “So trot me into work, put me on display, glow your way through your meetings, and leave me in our office while I check my email. That should keep me busy for a week. You can even come in and make certain all is well. I’ll even kidnap a few employees to fill me in on what I’ve missed so I have all the supervision you could ever want. If you leave me on bed rest, I will kill someone by the end of tomorrow. I’ll shove heads on pikes and mount them to our balcony, just you wait and see.”

  Dad stared at me, his mouth hanging open. Had I grown a second head, nose, or some other stray body part? I headed to the bathroom, careful to take my time so I wouldn’t exert myself, peeking in the mirror.

  The problem with being colorblind was the fact I had no idea how I looked. Gray was gray, and when it came to complexion, apparently there were lots of shades of healthy—and unhealthy—colors.

  “What is it?” I demanded, poking my head out of the bathroom.

  “You’re very talkative this morning.”

  Oh, right. With my dubious relationship with spoken words, I supposed my speech was enough to floor Dad. I’d have to be a lot more careful about keeping the rude things I wanted to say locked in my head instead of speaking them without care for the consequences. “Have you ever doubted my intelligence?”

  “Well, there was this one time you—”

  Several incidents came to mind, and each one was more embarrassing than the last. “Dad!”

  “Do you really want to go to work?”

  “Yes. You will be fired if you do not go in to work.”

  Dad sighed, shook his head, and stalked out of my room, throwing his hands in the air in his frustration. “You’re a mean boss. Fine. Have it your way. We’ll go to work. I will work, and you will sit on the couch and watch movies, play games, or do things unrelated to work. Got it? There will be no working. You’re supposed to be on bedrest, young lady. That does not mean go to work.”