by Nancy Allan
I lifted my arm and squinted at the wristband. “It’s all right here, “ I told her, wondering how they got the information. “ It says Ashla Cameron, May 3rd, I live in Seattle, and I’m thinking that today was a mess.”
The nurse threw her head back and laughed. “Well, aren’t you the smart one!”
“The band doesn’t say which hospital I’m in.”
“Vancouver General. They brought you by helicopter. Doc says you have a concussion, so stay still. Don’t move around. Don’t get up. If you need anything,” the nurse flipped me a buzzer that was tied to the side rail, “call.”
“Can you find out how the other skier is?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” And she was gone. Painkillers would have also been nice, unless I was already on them.
I thought of my friends. Tara would have waited for me at the bottom of the run. Celeste and Brenna would have saved a table for us at Starbucks. What did they do when I didn’t show? Had they become worried and called the ski patrol? Maybe that was how the hospital had gotten my information.
I thought of my parents. Had someone called them? I groaned as I pictured them taking that call and their shock, considering I had told them I was staying at Tara’s, a mile from home. Instead, here I was, over a hundred miles north, in Canada, no less! Worse, I had gone skiing when they’d told me we couldn’t afford that anymore. And then, for toppers . . . I was in the hospital ringing up a big bill. To make everything worse, there was the guy I piled into. I moaned aloud. I would give anything to turn this day back . . . to start it over!
I must have drifted to sleep because time passed. When I saw the curtain part again, none other than my parents slipped inside. Uh-oh, now I’d have to answer for my misdemeanors.
Their faces were pinched with concern. Mom wiped her eyes with a damp tissue. “Ashla,” she whispered, “How badly are you hurt?” She leaned over and gently kissed my cheek, her striking green eyes inches from my matching set, her gold auburn hair bursting from her scalp like a curly mop. I was my mother’s clone. Each of us had a wild mane of hair that defied a brush, large green eyes that missed nothing, milk white skin smattered with a few annoying freckles, and a small, overly sensitive nose that could smell dirty socks across the room. I had a large mouth with orthodontic perfect teeth, which Dad calls my five thousand dollar, heart-stopping smile.
Mom and I both have small ears that look odd, but hear everything. Often taken for sisters, our slim bodies are constantly in motion. Neither of us can stay still. My being in bed and being told not to move, and her trying to stand quietly next to me was a challenge for both of us.
I felt Dad take my hand, his thumb rubbing my fingers. His dark hair was on end. His tanned face was pale. “How’re you doing, Ashla?”
“I’ll be fine, Dad, really.”
Mom examined me as mothers do, missing nothing. “The doctor says you have a concussion.” Her fingers went to the side of my head. “They closed the gash on your head, but they shaved off some of your hair to do it.”
“Shaved?” My hand flew to my head. A bandage. I felt all around my head. Aside from the bandaged area, all my hair was there. “Did they shave much off? Can you see? Am I going to be bald, or what?”
Mom shook her head. “No bald spots and no fresh blood, although you have an ugly purple plum sticking out of the gash on your forehead. They put ointment on it. It’s enough to make a person lose their lunch.”
Forgetting the clothes peg on my finger, I reached for mom’s arm. The oxygen sensor went flying. “Don’t worry, Mom, I do everything fast. Remember? I’ll be fine in a few days.”
Dad grunted and retrieved the sensor. “Don’t think so, Ashla. A concussion is serious. It can have long term affects.” He glanced away . . . his discomfort obvious. Then he asked: “What the heck happened up there anyway?”
I swallowed hard, knowing that he had avoided asking the obvious—like ‘What the H were you doing skiing in Whistler!’
I almost made the mistake of shaking my head. “I hit a guy who was standing at the bottom of a jump. Couldn’t see him ‘till it was too late.”
Dad scratched his head. That was my clue. He did that when he was unhappy about something. “That guy was Justin Ledger,” he said with a pointed look. “Apparently the ski patrol closed the run right behind him. They actually talked to him and told him conditions on the run were becoming dangerous. Technically, Ledger was the last person to go down before the closure.” Dad looked at me purposefully. “Ashla, you skied a closed run.”
My head was swirling as I wondered what it was Dad was really trying to tell me. I closed my eyes and heard him say, “We’ll talk about it later, Ashla.”
“What are you saying, Dad?”
He hesitated. “The resort is suggesting that you’re responsible for what happened to Ledger.”
My eyes popped open. Those words hit me like a whack in the face. No! No, no, no, that could not be. Dad was staring at me pointedly. The pounding in my head grew and I heard a sob. I don’t cry. I never cry. So, what was seeping out from under my lashes?
Mom’s fingers gently pushed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen over my good eye. She whispered, “They haven’t confirmed that, Ashla. We’ll discuss this when you’re feeling better.”
Dad retorted, “That boy could’ve died, Laine. Who knows . . . he still could. A broken bone perforated the vein in his leg.”
My eyes flew open again. “No! He can’t die.”
Mom’s eyes narrowed as they always did when she used them as an MRI to look inside my head. She said, “On the positive side, they told us that the person who used the pink sweater as a compression bandage on his leg likely saved his life. Your sweater, right Ashla?”
“He was bleeding so badly, Mom. It was terrible.”
She nodded. “You did the right thing. Anyway, he needed three pints of blood, and both his legs are broken…or worse. He’s in the OR right now.”
She straightened and glanced at my dad. I recognized the posture. Something was coming my way.
She took a big breath. “Do you know who the Ledger family is, Ashla?”
I stopped myself from shaking my pounding head. “People? Just like us?”
My father frowned, but said nothing. Mom was quick with a retort, “Nope. Wrong, Ashla. They’re not anything like us. They’re wealthy.”
Justin
CHAPTER THREE
A copper-haired beauty drifted through my dreams, her startling green eyes gazing down at me, her sweet voice saying over and over: “Rest, Justin. You’ll be okay. I won’t leave you.” I wanted to reassure her and say, I know that, but the words wouldn’t come. My lips were frozen. I tried to reach for her hand. I wanted to pull her toward me before she floated away, but my arm wouldn’t move either. And then, poof, she was gone—again.
“Justin!” A different voice. Harsh. Deep. Familiar. “Wake up, Boy!”
No thanks. I wanted to see more of the copper-haired girl and hear her soothing words.
A female voice this time. It was deep-throated and raw from years of cigarettes. “Justin! Open your eyes, for crying-out-loud. Dad and I are here, beside you. The operation is all over.”
Reluctantly, I left my dream world. The minute I did, pain struck from everywhere, especially my legs. My legs! I opened my eyes and a bleary room tilted around me. When I finally focused on my legs, I saw they were heavily bandaged and in what I would soon come to know as backslab plasters. The sight made me feel ill. An IV was stuck in the back of my hand. Somewhere beneath me was the elevated hospital bed, putting me eye level with my mother’s face. It was painted with a layer of tan makeup and framed by a short, thick mane of heavily sprayed unnaturally black hair. Earrings dangled from large lobes. Mom never went out without what she called her face. That always included hair sprayed stiff and a ton of flashy jewelry. Not even a call from the hospital emergency had prevented this.
“Thank goodness, Justin,” she said with relief. “Dad and I were worr
ied you’d never wake up. We were afraid to go home. We’ve been here all night waiting for you to come out of surgery and then out of the recovery room. You’re in intensive care now, but at least they let us in to see you. This whole experience has been exhausting.”
I glanced up at my father, tall and imposing. He wore a badly rumpled three-piece suit and was in need of a shave. He caught my eye and slid into my line of sight.
“Hey, Son. You sure had us worried for a while,” he mumbled, running a meaty hand backward over his balding head.
Pain shot up my right leg. “My legs,” I choked.
All three of us looked down. The silence was ominous.
Finally, I asked, “How bad?”
My parents stared at my bandaged legs, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, Dad cleared his throat. “You should probably rest now, Son. Your mother and I will stop by tomorrow.” They moved in unison toward the door and then they were gone. Would it have been over the top for them to offer up some form of, well maybe not affection, that would have been asking too much, but maybe a pat, or a hand on the shoulder, or something, considering my situation? But it just wasn’t their style. No touching.
I cursed. I should have asked them to bring me in a new cell phone as I could use a few friends right now. Especially Mole. I could use more painkillers too. I wanted to drift back to sleep where that copper-haired girl lived. I fantasized for a moment . . . recalling her from my dreams. The more I thought about her, the more I began to think that she was a little too real to be just a dream. Even with morphine running on low, I could see her face clearly . . . those unbelievable green eyes looking down on me with a troubled, worried gaze. I could feel the weight of her hand on my arm, comforting me. Yes! She had touched me! That could only mean one thing. She must have been there, right beside me. Why can’t I remember?
I glanced around and caught the attention of one of the nurses. “I need a phone and more pain killers. Phone first.”
She frowned. “This is ICU. We don’t normally offer a phone to our patients,” she looked at me for a minute, and then added, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
A few minutes later, I punched Mole’s number into a handheld portable that she had retrieved from the outer nursing station. He answered on the second ring.
“Lo,”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Man, are you okay? It’s all over King news.”
I looked at my legs and cringed. “I survived. They say that was the hard part.”
“Aw, man, you must be hurting. Sorry.”
“So, what was on the news?”
“Chopper landing on the hospital roof up in Vancouver. Shots of you and some chick being brought out on stretchers. Photos of you and her…and get this… she’s from north Seattle too.”
So, she was real . . . not a figment of my dreams. “What does she look like?”
Long pause at the other end. “You kidding?”
“Just tell me.”
“She’s kind of like all hair and eyes. Good looking, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Copper hair? Green eyes?”
Another long pause . . . “I guess. Yeah.”
My heart started racing. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Mole, this is important. I need to know.”
“What for?”
“Doesn’t matter. Did they say what happened to her?”
“Just that she’s some kind of big deal for saving your life—”
“Yes! That’s her! I knew it. And we’re practically neighbors!”
Ashla
CHAPTER FOUR
The hospital bed was crowded into the window corner of a small four-bed ward. I was aware of three other women, but because I had not been able to sit or stand, I couldn’t see them. That was about to change.
It took almost five minutes to sit up. The headache was still there but so far no vomiting, so I continued working myself upright.
“Lord knows, girl, you get A for trying,” offered the older woman next to me. “Heard them say you have a concussion.”
“Life’s going by and I’m missing out.” I replied, regretting my words when she looked sharply away. Not everyone feels the way I do, I reminded myself.
Half an hour later, my three closest friends burst into the room. “Ashla!” It was said in unison as arms flew around me. Yellow roses were pushed into my left hand and a card into my right. I was overwhelmed. “Thanks, you guys.”
“You never showed for the latte, so we got worried.” Celeste explained, putting the card on the window ledge. She dropped the roses into my glass of drinking water and positioned it next to the card. Then, she plopped onto the bed beside me, her eyes taking in my facial wounds.
Tara pulled a strand of dark hair away from her pale face. “When you didn’t show at the bottom of the run, I went over to Starbucks thinking maybe I’d somehow missed you, but Celeste and Brenna were still waiting.”
“And by then we were freaking out,” Brenna added. “We knew you were doing the West Face and maybe . . . you know . . . things didn’t go too well.”
Celeste concluded, “So we decided we better call the Ski Patrol. I gave them your name and description and they said you had been airlifted to Vancouver.” She eyed me skeptically. “When I heard that, I gave them your parent’s number. Sorry, Ashla. Hope you don’t mind. The SP wouldn’t tell me your condition, and I was so scared for you.”
I almost shrugged and stopped myself just in time. “Don’t worry. My mom and dad were going to get a call one way or another.”
Celeste’s cornflower eyes inspected me carefully. She swiped at a runaway lock of golden hair. Dubbed The Golden Goddess, she looked like a true California girl, only she did her surfing on a snowboard. Everything about Celeste had a golden hue: her skin, hair, attitude, even her soul. A pastor’s daughter, she constantly measured what was right and what was wrong. It got interesting when things fell into a gray area. Her long time boyfriend kidded her about that, saying the scales of justice were not intended for her kind of rigorous use. He was studying for a civil engineering degree at the University of Oregon, which meant she didn’t get to see him often, but that didn’t stop other guys from dreaming.
“Saw your parents,” she added. “They told me you were coming down off Blind Jump and hit another skier.”
“Pretty much. You know what Blind Jump’s like. You can’t see a thing until seconds before you land. Well, I was airborne and getting ready for touchdown when I saw him standing right where I was going to land. What made it worse was that he actually tried to catch me.”
Brenna and Tara yanked the privacy curtain around the bed and then positioned themselves at each side of my feet. “Ooh, I could only dream of such a thing,” Brenna said, swooning. She was the softie, the romantic in our group. Her heart was big, even though she was petite. Barely five feet, she almost looked like a child, and this infuriated her. Her closet was full of five-inch heels. Her thick brown sugar locks bounced off her thin shoulders and her velvet brown eyes glowed with warmth. At the moment she was without a boyfriend, but that would change. Guys loved her.
Tara tilted her head and examined my injuries. “You going to be okay?” She was the grounded one. With long, straight black hair, hazel eyes, and Angelina Jolie lips, she was gorgeous.
“Don’t I look okay? I mean . . . considering.”
Their expressions were grim. Celeste cleared her throat, “Head bandage, facial scrapes, nasty purple bulge in your forehead, big black eye, swollen cheek. Could be worse. They could have shaved your head. Oh wait… they did.”
Brenna suggested, “Maybe lose the head bandage. I’ll bring you my Lululemon.”
“That bad, huh?”
Celeste put her arm around my shoulders. “Tell us what you need and we’ll bring it in.”
Tara changed the subject. “And by the way, you made last night’s news.”
Oh, no. I groaned. “What
did they say?”
With a planned career in broadcasting, Tara stood up, grabbed a single rose out of the water glass, and swung around to face us. She cleared her throat and spoke into the petals as the stem dripped water down her arm. “I’m live on the rooftop of the Vancouver General Hospital where a rescue helicopter is just now landing with two injured skiers from Blackcomb Mountain. Both victims are believed to be from the north Seattle area. Their condition is not yet known, but their injuries are substantial.” She popped the rose back in the glass. “They showed your school photos.”
Brenna leaned forward, hugging my blanket. “You sure can pick ‘em, Ashla. Imagine falling into the arms of the hottest senior at Mount Olympic High…” Brenna threw her head back and gazed at the ceiling. “…that hunk of a hockey player every girl dreams about,” she paused, squinting at me. “I hyperventilate just thinking about him.” She swooned and leaned so far back that she had to catch herself before she toppled off the bed. “You get the picture.”
I got the picture, all right. Justin Ledger was a big deal, not just at school, but also on the ice, and with the media. The headache suddenly got worse.
“Hey, Ashla, what’s wrong?” Tara caught my expression.
“Both his legs are broken.”
Their faces fell. Brenna finally said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Celeste nodded. “I heard that on the news. They said the broken bone in his leg perforated a major vein and that he could have bled to death. Someone on the mountain saved his life. Who was that, Ashla? You?”
I gave that some thought, remembering my Dad’s words. How could I be both the heroine who saved his life and the villain who caused his terrible injury? I sure didn’t feel much like the heroine right now.
“Hey,” Celeste rubbed my forearm, “Come back to us. You should be proud. A later broadcast said what you did was amazing considering how badly hurt you were. Think about it. You saved Justin’s life!”
I looked at each of my friends. What if I was found responsible for what happened to Justin? Who would I be then? What would happen to me? I shivered.