You & Me at the End of the World

by Brianna Bourne

  Steadiness returns to my legs. With each step, I feel magic swirling around me. The blades of grass lengthen, stretching out, waving softly at my ankles.

  I think about Flower Magic, about how alive I felt when I was hunched over my little fifth-grader desk.

  I can make my flowers real now. With each step toward the moon, buds bloom from the ground. They unfurl into pristine snowflakes, each as big as my hand, frozen in their own icy ecosystems. The snowflakes aren’t white. They’re magenta, searing turquoise, Prussian blue. More stems push up from the earth, and this time the buds burst into sparks, crackling at my ankles like fireworks.

  The yard shifts around me as I walk, the very dimensions of the night opening up. The world breathes and steps aside for my imagination.

  I tip my chin up and raise my eyes to the sky, just like Starburst.

  I lift off the ground.

  My bare feet dangle below me. They’re gnarled and swollen and stained with bruises. My hair goes weightless as it fans out around me.

  Floating here above my yard, I laugh at how absurd it is. I’m flying.

  I rise and see nothing but darkness beyond the borders of my yard. I’m not in Houston anymore. The darkness starts to press in from every side, and the spot of color and light that is my yard shrinks as if I’m inside a deflating balloon.

  Instead of fighting the darkness, I just concentrate on keeping the ever-shrinking orb I’m in as bright and colorful as I can.

  I think about David Lee Sloth. My grandma. My dad. Astrid. My mom.

  The darkness presses in closer, aching to blend me into its blackness. Into nothing.

  A terrifying cold sweeps through my body. I tell my lungs to breathe, but they won’t cooperate. I gasp for air, my head throbbing and my chest burning.

  Is this what the end feels like?

  My last thoughts are of Leo. How he looked when I let him in the bookstore, with his lopsided smile and all that excitement.

  What would our days have been like if he could have stayed? If it was only the bright, lovely things and none of the darkness?

  In my last seconds, I imagine it. Hours and hours of a life together, just me and him. I’ve got a million words to describe it all.

  I hold it with me for a moment, and then I say goodbye. I have to let go of it. That life was just a daydream, not something I’ll ever get to live.

  I lean back and let my arms fall open

  and everything ends.

  It’s one in the morning when I lurch to a halt outside the hospital entrance, swaying like a drunk in the yellow square of light in front of the automatic doors. My ribs are really hurting now, so much that my chest feels like one big achy bruise. Asher reaches out to steady me.

  “What’s up?” he asks, his voice slow and steady like it always is, even when he’s not stoned.

  “I just realized that I don’t exactly have a plan.”

  “Since when do you ever have a plan, dude?”

  “Eh … that’s fair. Let me think.”

  We could use some help. If I get caught, they’ll whisk me straight up to my room and I won’t be able to find out if Hannah’s condition has changed.

  So I tell Asher where to find the family waiting room for the ICU, and then I wait in the shadows next to his car, trying not to puke.

  It’s only when I see Astrid charging out of the front doors of the hospital in her overalls and combat boots with steam coming out of her ears that I think maybe it wasn’t the best plan.

  Asher’s trailing sheepishly behind her as she makes her way through the dark parking lot. She plows up to me like a fiery little dragon.

  “What the bloody hell were you thinking?” she hisses, eyes wild.

  “I just—”

  “You just woke up from a coma, you twit!” She whirls. “And you!” She pokes at Asher’s chest.

  I suppress a laugh at the way Asher’s eyes go round at this tiny little British person giving him hell. He’s gone furiously pink under his freckles. Their size difference is comical.

  “How long was he at that party?” Astrid demands. “You should have thrown him over your big, brutish shoulder and hauled him right back here, you pillock!”

  “Pillock?” Asher repeats, bewildered and glancing at me for help. I shrug. I don’t know what that means either.

  Before she can eat him alive, I step forward.

  “I got freaked out, Astrid,” I say. “I thought if I went to the party, I’d just—be able to not think about her for a few minutes. It didn’t work.”

  I sound pathetic and broken and all kinds of in love. I sway on the spot, fighting another wave of wooziness.

  Beside me, Asher is tense. He hates it when people argue. Ro and Gage argue all the time when our band is practicing—about lyrics, about tempos, about how Ro’s guitar riffs fit with Gage’s rhythms. If it gets really bad, I duck out on the pretense of getting a snack, but most of the time I wait and watch Asher. At first, he’ll just sit down on an amp and pick at his baggy jeans and stare at the floor like he’s not paying attention. But then he’ll get up, shuffle over to Ro and Gage, and suggest something that perfectly combines both of their ideas.

  People think he’s just a dumb, quiet stoner, but he’s brilliant.

  In the shadowy hospital parking lot, Astrid blows out her breath, hands still on her hips.

  “So … will you help me get back in?” I ask.

  She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You two are bloody knackering.” After another long silence, she exhales.

  “Fine. Let’s get you back to your room then, you muppet. Although I have no idea how we’re going to manage that.”

  Asher clears his throat. “Uh, maybe you could go in and get a wheelchair, then take him in in that? And if you get stopped, you could say he couldn’t sleep and you took him for a stroll?” He shrugs, looking a bit queasy, like he fully expects to get his head chomped off.

  Astrid crosses her arms. Purses her lips. “It could work.” She flicks an appraising glance over him, like she’s reevaluating him. “Well, let’s get it over with, then,” she says at last, before turning on her heel and stalking back into the hospital.

  We do get stopped coming out of the elevator on the ninth floor, but thanks to Astrid’s smooth talking, we get me back to my room without incident.

  Sneaking out of a hospital—and back in—might sound impossible, but adults are never as competent as they say they are.

  “Before you go, Astrid—will you say something to her for me? I want her to know I’m here. I won’t freak out again.”

  She huffs. “I can’t decide if you’re ridiculously romantic or just a stupid asshole.”

  “Stupid asshole,” Asher helpfully supplies, and I punch his shoulder.

  “Yes, fine, I’ll tell her,” Astrid says, stomping out the door.

  Asher helps me onto my bed.

  “Hey, Ash?” I have work to do, for Hannah, for my future, and it starts here. “I’m sorry I brushed you off before—when you said you missed me. I missed you too.”

  “It’s okay, dude. I know it’s not an easy thing to talk about. I just wanted to say it. Tell you how fucked up I would have been if you’d, like, died or something. In case you didn’t know.”

  “I’d be really fucked up if you died too,” I say. “In case you didn’t know.”

  We hug, and I finally let myself collapse onto my hospital bed.

  Asher glances nervously at the door. “I, uh, better take off. In case she comes back.”

  “Wait—are you scared of her?” I ask.

  “Um, yes. So much yes.”

  I laugh and use the heel of my hand to scrub the tears off my cheeks. “Okay. Go get some sleep.”

  “I’ll bring you lunch or something later. No school today.”

  “That sounds awesome.”

  Once I’m alone again, I stare up at the ceiling.

  On the drive here, in Asher’s car, I started reading about comas on my phone. Apparently the ch
ances of waking up gets a lot slimmer after twenty-four hours.

  Hannah’s just passed that mark.

  “Hannah, I’m here,” I whisper into the darkness. “I came back. I got scared. But I’m here now, for as long as it takes.”

  I listen hard, with my ears and my heart, but I can’t feel Hannah waking up. Astrid doesn’t come bounding back with good news.

  I’m such an idiot. Did I think she’d wake up as soon as I arrived on the scene, like I’m some kind of wholesome Prince Charming?

  “I’m here,” I whisper again, but it feels like it doesn’t matter.

  I feel so, so helpless.

  The first thing I hear is my mother’s voice.

  I feel my body moving—no, I’m being moved. Like a doll. Unfamiliar voices speak over me, but the words are muffled, like I’m hearing them through a pillow.

  I moan and try to move. Someone says, “Yes, see that? She’s definitely coming around.”

  There are more noises. Rustling clothes, people breathing. Why am I getting the sense that there’s a whole audience watching me wake up?

  My body aches. I try to roll over, but I can’t. My right arm is weighing me down like an anchor.

  “Hannah?”

  It’s my mom again. She’s brushing her finger down my nose, over and over, like she used to do when I was a baby.

  “You’re okay,” she says, her tone soothing. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

  I drift off for a bit. I must go very still, because she’s saying my name again, and the urgent panic in her voice has me trying to resurface. To reassure her I’m here.

  “Hannah? Is she—”

  I’m here. Just a second.

  I fight up through the heavy urge to just sleep.

  When I blink open my eyes, I’m surprised to find that I’m not in my own bed. I’m in a bright room with white ceiling tiles.

  There are lots of people standing around me, staring down at me. My vision snags on the white lab coats first. The stethoscopes. Surgical masks hanging around necks. Okay … I’m in a hospital. That much is obvious.

  My eyes wheel around, my body moving so much slower than my mind.

  “Mama?” I croak.

  “Yes, yes, Hannah, I’m here,” she says, cupping her hand around my face and beaming love down at me.

  I feel so floaty and disconnected.

  “Hannah, oh, thank god,” she whispers.

  And then my dad is there too, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

  “Daddy,” I say, and the tenderness in his smile makes me melt.

  It feels like a dream.

  I close my eyes and drift off again. There’s more conversation between all the people in the room, and the sounds of beeping and buttons being tapped. I feel lazy, too tired to think about what’s going on and why they’re all watching me.

  “I can’t move my arm, Mama,” I mumble.

  “It’s broken, baby.”

  What?

  That sends a sparking pulse of adrenaline through me. The sleepiness scatters. Before, Mom’s voice was like an alarm you can hit snooze on. A broken arm is like hearing a doorbell ringing over and over: You have to scramble up because answering it is the only way to make it stop.

  I crane my neck. Sure enough, there’s a neon-green cast on my right arm, looming like a mountain over my chest.

  When I try to move it, there’s just a dull ache in my bones. No movement.

  I have a broken arm.

  Don’t freak out, don’t freak out—

  Oh god, I have an audition coming up. It’s been circled on my calendar for so long, the one day that I’ve been working toward for nearly my whole life, but I can’t audition with this thing on my arm.

  It takes months to recover from broken bones. Which means … I won’t be able to audition for the corps de ballet until next year.

  I almost throw up.

  What does this mean for my life?

  My mom is oblivious to my turmoil; she’s just tear-streaked and grateful. “Conrad, go get Astrid. She’ll be so happy.” Mom brushes my hair back from my face carefully. “She sat with you all night. I couldn’t get her to leave to get some sleep,” she says.

  A nurse raises the head end of my bed. They’ve just propped a pillow behind me when I hear squeaking, stomping noises. Astrid bounds into view, literally skipping in her Doc Marten boots.

  “Hey, Astrid,” I croak, with as much of a smile as I can muster.

  I should feel comforted with the three of them here, but they all look as tired and shell-shocked as I feel. It’s weird to see Astrid without her hair in one of her perfect 1940s updos—right now there are untamed tufts of frizzy red hair sticking out from under a bandanna. And my mom and dad look so … old.

  Astrid keeps squealing my name, and then she thrusts something toward me—a Mylar balloon in the shape of Elmo’s head. Get Well Soon.

  “I would have got flowers, but they aren’t allowed in the ICU, and I thought you needed something cheerful.” She keeps talking, but the words don’t go in. I’m far away, something rushing in my ears that makes it hard to hear.

  Slow down. Slow down. This is an ICU?

  “Guys,” I rasp. “What am I doing in an ICU?”

  “Hannah, you were in a car accident,” Mom says. “Don’t you remember?”

  “No,” I whisper. A car accident? How?

  “Leo was driving you home from the coffee shop—remember you asked me if he could take you home?”

  Astrid interrupts. “I cannot believe you talked to him, you sneaky minx. Did it turn into a little date or something? I cannot wait to hear all about it.”

  I’m so confused. “What do you mean Leo? Leo as in Leo Sterling?”

  My mom’s voice goes thin, hesitant. “Hannah? Do you not remember any of this?”

  I shake my head.

  It doesn’t make any sense.

  What on earth would I have been doing in a car with Leo Sterling?

  I jolt straight up in my hospital bed to the sound of Astrid shouting my name.

  She skids to a stop in the doorway of my room. I feel so rough and bleary that at first I can only blink at her, then at the clock on the wall that tells me it’s seven a.m. I’ve only had four hours of sleep since she snuck me back in after Lissa’s party.

  Astrid’s eyes are watery, like she’s been crying.

  My heart lurches into my throat.

  But instead of saying the words that I’ve been so afraid of hearing, she says—

  “She’s awake.”

  * * *

  It’s been more than an hour since Astrid dropped her earth-shattering news and bounded off down the hallway.

  I’ve been pacing around my hospital room ever since, completely destroying my hair. I can’t believe she left without telling me anything else. It’s still early, so my family’s not here yet to help me do some reconnaissance. Every time a nurse passes my door, I ask them if they know anything about Hannah. They’re sick of me. I’m sick of me.

  At first, I was just purely, outrageously happy to hear the news, but I slid down into being petrified pretty quick.

  I did the math. We got in the accident at ten on Saturday, and Hannah woke up at seven o’clock Monday morning. Thirty-three hours. That’s how long she was unconscious. What will that mean? I sprang right up after my coma, but I read so many horror stories last night about all the people who don’t, or have years of recovery to face. Some are just never the same.

  Even if Hannah is the same, will she even remember me?

  Or will she just remember Saturday, and not … everything else?

  I know Saturday has to be real, because we have bruises and police reports and medical files to prove it, but the rest of it? Days of conversations and touches and almost kisses and the way she completely changed my life? I have no idea if those things are real.

  Fuck, if she remembers the wreck, will she even want to see me? What if she hates me?

  I stifle down a yell, tugging on my hair
until it hurts.

  I’m spiraling.

  I can’t take it anymore. If Astrid isn’t going to come back and give me an update, I have to go see for myself. I’m losing my shit in here.

  I smooth my hair down and attempt to look like a normal fucking person who’s not exploding out of their skin. I stroll out of my room. I’m wearing normal clothes; aside from my medical bracelets and the fact that I’m not wearing shoes, I look more like a visitor than a patient. Thank fuck I don’t have to drag that IV stand around with me anymore—I’ve graduated to huge pain pills presented to me in little paper cups.

  The nurse on duty behind the ninth-floor desk looks up, peering at me over her glasses. “Everything okay, Leo?”

  “Yeah, um—I just heard that Hannah—the girl I was in the car accident with—is awake? Do you think I could go down and see how she’s doing?”

  The nurse points down the hall. “They just brought her up here, Romeo. Room 932.”

  My arms and legs go fizzy with a sudden, swamping wave of nervousness. She’s here.

  Her room is on the other side of the floor, past the elevators. If she’d been on this side, I would have seen her being rolled into her room.

  I count the doors as I go, my nerves vibrating. 932 is the last door on the left.

  I’m almost there when my courage falters. I tip over and a smooth, calm blue wall catches me. I close my eyes. Deep breaths.

  What if she doesn’t remember me? What if she hates me, what if she’s not okay?

  And then, because her door is propped open, I hear her voice.

  Relief hits me hard. It takes everything in me not to start crying on the spot.

  Her voice is exactly how I remember it: low and warm and raspy, reminding me of jazz singers and curling wisps of smoke and the comfort of arms around me and whiskey on the rocks.

  And someone’s answering her. A cheery, bell-like voice, saying, “I’ll go ask one of your nurses for another one. Won’t be a moment.” My brain registers that it’s an English accent, but I don’t have time to move or hide or even straighten up before Astrid comes careening out of the room.