Moonlit

by Jadie Jones

  “But Hopewell, he was right there. He was hurt, but he was alive,” I answer, distracted as a tinge of orange burns away the green that I’m imagining in Dana’s hand. “Did I hit my head?”

  “That’s an understatement. You had very serious swelling on your brain,” the doctor says.

  “I’m seeing things. Weird colors. In strange places.”

  “With the trauma you sustained to your brain, I have no doubt that you’ll be seeing halos or have other abnormalities with your vision for at least the next few weeks. And you should prepare yourself to accept that some of it may be permanent. You’re a very lucky girl.”

  “Yeah, I was sure we were goners,” I said, shivering under a pile of faded blue blankets.

  “What about Hopewell? Did someone hurt him? What do you remember?” Dana pleads.

  “We crashed—” Another jolt sizzles through me like I grabbed an electric fence. “A jump. It was a bad distance. A bad take off. Hopewell clipped the jump and fell. I guess that’s the last thing I remember.” Not a complete lie, but not the whole truth either. The air around me relaxes.

  “That makes sense,” the doctor muses.

  “It does?”

  “If you suffered a concussion in the fall, and then went to sleep in Dana’s office, you may have lapsed into a coma. Which is likely why you slept through the fire. Sleeping after any kind of head trauma is never a good idea,” he lectures.

  “I’ll try to remember that next time,” I answer dryly.

  “That can’t be right. How did she get herself back to the office if she broke her legs when she fell?”

  “Dana, we don’t know what to attribute to the fall and what happened when the roof collapsed.” He keeps his voice kind and objective.

  “The roof collapsed?” I gasp, the air leaving my lungs in a painful rush. Their faces turn back to me. New tears leak from Dana’s puffy eyes.

  “Tanzy, just relax.” The doctor gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve been unconscious for over a week. We’re just glad you’re talking. Don’t stress yourself over what you can’t remember. You know who you are and that’s a great start.”

  As he lets his hand drop the back of his fingers barely brush the tops of mine. The contact of skin on skin lasts less than a second, but it sends a surge of electricity through my sore body. My eyes swell in their sockets and my pulse surges beneath my skin.

  “Who are you?” I ask, more sternly than I mean to.

  He smiles anyway, locking his eyes on mine. “I’m Ryan.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No. I’ve got a long way to go before I’m a doctor. I’m shadowing Dr. Andrews as a student intern. I want to specialize in neurosurgery, and he’s the best.”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “Through the holidays. Dr. Andrews says the ER is always crazy during the holidays, so it would be a good time for him to have an extra pair of hands because the hospital staff gets spread so thin. Normally interns aren’t allowed to do anything by themselves except grab coffee for the doctors. But he’s been so busy that he has me check on his patients when he’s in the operating room for long stretches of time. Consider me a glorified messenger. I can’t wait to tell him that you’re conscious. He’s not going to believe it. He was sure we’d be spending Christmas with you.”

  “How long am I going to be here?” My clenched hands go cold and clammy.

  “It all depends on your progress. Dr. Andrews said that he has never seen anything like you. The game plan for now is to take it one day at a time. But I do know that the best thing you can do is rest.”

  “I feel really groggy.” The admission makes it all the more true. I lean back against my flimsy pillow, my head too heavy to hold up any longer.

  “I know you just came to but you should try to get some rest. I’ll let Dr. Andrews know you’re awake. He’ll want to see you as soon as he’s out of surgery. And he’s probably going to run a lot of tests.” He turns for the door.

  “Will you come back with him?” I can’t believe I just asked that out loud.

  “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Tanzy,” he grins. “Dr. Andrews assigned me to you for the duration of my stay here. You can call the nurses’ station any time, day or night, and have me paged. Or Dr. Andrews. He is the head of neurosurgery here. Consider us on speed dial.”

  “I have the head of neurosurgery on speed dial? That’s probably not a good sign.”

  “Depends on how you look at it. Better than a mortician.” His pager beeps on his hip. He glances down at the message and ducks out without saying goodbye.

  “That guy has a sick sense of humor,” I muse aloud.

  “He’s been really nice,” Dana says.

  “Dana, why don’t you go home and get some sleep. It sounds like I’m going to be here for a while so think of something creative to tell my mother,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  “She thinks you’re in Florida with Kate checking out colleges.”

  “Colleges? But . . .”

  “Don’t worry. She bought it. I wasn’t sure how she would . . . We’re making sure she doesn’t find out about any of this,” she explains. “I’m just glad you’re eighteen. They’ve asked questions about your mom. I told them she’s on a six-month mission trip in Uganda and is impossible to reach. So do me a solid and stick with that story.”

  “Uganda? You’re fast on your feet.” I make an attempt to laugh but it comes out more like a cough.

  She shrugs and rubs her red eyes.

  “Go home, Dana. I’ll be fine. And I think you might look worse than me.”

  She raises an eyebrow in mock offense and then gives me a grateful smile. “I think I’ll take you up on that. I need to see what’s going on at Wildwood anyway.”

  “Will you thank everyone for me? This is really too much,” I say, waving at the homemade signs with my good hand.

  “You got it.” She gives me one last half smile before she leaves.

  I sigh and look myself over. My neck is braced. My left arm is in a cast from my knuckles to my shoulder, and both of my legs are in casts. Do I have one of those marks too? I nervously turn over my right hand. Nothing. I try to check my left hand, but I can’t rotate my arm enough to get a good look.

  A quiet knock makes me look up. A woman I’ve never met waves at me from the doorway. Her pristine business attire rules out that she’s from Wildwood. Maybe she’s with the billing department. I’m sure none of this is cheap. A reddish gold hoof print shimmers in her palm.

  “Go away already,” I cry out and rub my eyes with my good hand.

  “I’m sorry, would you rather be alone?” she asks. Her lyrical voice is as much of a shock as the green of her eyes, which are the same color as spring leaves in a thunderstorm. A lock of honey blond hair falls in front of her face. She reaches up to brush it behind a small ear.

  “No, it’s not you. It’s a long story.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re finally awake.” Her southern accent makes her words long and soft.

  “Are you with billing?” I ask. I can’t imagine even how much this is going to cost.

  “Oh, no,” she laughs. “I’m Vanessa Andrews. My husband is Dr. Andrews, one of your doctors. When he’s on the night shift I sometimes get a little spooked in our house, so I come here and read to the long-term patients. Studies show it helps with recovery.”

  “Did you read to me?”

  “I did. Mostly trash. You know, tabloids, gossip magazines.”

  “I don’t really keep up with that stuff.” My well-practiced tendency to keep people at arm’s length responds before I can stop it. Her pretty face falls and she clutches a tabloid magazine to her chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just been a bad day. Well, kind of a good day, I guess. I mean, I woke up, right? But bad, too. It’s hard to explain,” I flounder.

  “No, I completely understand. Yes, you’re awake and alive. But now you have to deal with everything,” she
says solemnly as she moves to the side of my bed. “Life is not for the faint of heart,” she adds with a wink.

  I stifle a gasp at my father’s familiar words, something he used to say to me any time I complained. I barely know Dr. Andrews’s wife, but immediately I have to stop myself from trying to give her a one-armed hug. “That’s really nice of you to spend time with people you don’t know.”

  “Well, it’s selfish, too.” She sits lightly on my bed. “Everyone’s been very interested in your case. It’s all my husband talks about when he gets home. So I thought I’d come see what all the fuss was about.”

  “Why is it so interesting?”

  “Well, I don’t understand all the doctor lingo they use when they talk about you. But from what I’ve heard, there’s no reason you should have survived. Your heart kept failing. They shocked you multiple times and gave you doses of epinephrine, but nothing worked. You died officially. For several minutes. But Dr. Metcher wasn’t willing to give up. He gave my husband some kind of medicine from his own country. Nothing else had worked and David, my husband, he gets so emotionally involved in his patients, especially the young ones. So he was willing to try anything. And he idolizes Dr. Metcher. He’s a legend. Anyway, David said the instant the medicine entered your vein your heart restarted.”

  “What did he give me? And why don’t we have it here?”

  “No one knows. Dr. Metcher said the formula is a closely guarded secret. He wouldn’t even tell my husband what they call it. Just that it’s a kind of blood substitute, and it would help you make your own red blood cells faster.”

  “They have no idea what he gave me?” I ask slowly.

  “You were one hundred percent dead. They’d called your official time of death and everything. Since he gave it to you after you died the legal stuff gets a little gray. I wasn’t supposed to tell you any of that, actually. I don’t know what made me tell you. So please don’t say anything.” She winces.

  “I don’t think anyone would believe me if I did. Or care, since I’m alive. And I wasn’t. Wow, that’s going to take some getting used to.”

  The weight of it makes me squirm. I scan the room to distract myself. A blue square of fabric is draped over a thin box on the wall.

  “What’s that?” I ask. She clears her throat and her eyes find the floor. “It’s a mirror, isn’t it?”

  “It is. They covered it.” She makes her voice matter-of-fact.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Well, you’re still pretty bruised and swollen, but you’re a whole lot better than you were a week ago. That’s something my husband talks about too. How fast you’re recovering. Especially since you lost so much blood. He said he’s never seen a surgical site heal so quickly. I think it’s safe to say that every staff member in the hospital has checked on you out of sheer curiosity.”

  “I lost a lot of blood?” I search the back of my head with my free fingers. A fuzzy patch of new hair covers a bumpy row of staples.

  “Try all of it. There’s no reason you should be alive. They couldn’t even figure out what type you are. They tried to give you a bunch of O-negative because it’s supposed to be universal, but it didn’t do a thing to help you.”

  “So how . . . ?” I can’t bring myself to ask it out loud.

  “How are you still here?” she finishes for me. “Basically, you’re a medical miracle,” she says, her voice becoming sober. “No one should be able to live through that kind of trauma. You probably wouldn’t have if Dr. Metcher wasn’t here. He’d come to give a lecture on extreme trauma care and just happened to be in the ER when you came in. He’s a world-renowned trauma surgeon. You’re as lucky as they come.”

  “This is a strange kind of lucky.” I know I sound ungrateful. I could be dead. Should be. Was.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says and chews on her lower lip. “I’m sure it’s a lot to take in. I know you don’t know me yet, but I’m here for you,” she says and offers her hand.

  I close my free fingers around hers and give them a meager squeeze. “Thanks. Actually, I’m glad you told me.” The silence that follows makes it too easy to get lost in my own thoughts. “Can we talk about something besides me?”

  “Of course. Ask me something,” she laughs.

  “Well, how old are you?” I decide to stick with a safe topic.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “And you’re married to a brain surgeon?” I blurt. Way to go.

  “It’s true,” she shrugs. “We got married about six months ago. I guess I’d be considered a gold digger if I didn’t come with my own very healthy trust fund.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m kidding. It’s nice that you just come out and ask instead of whispering about me behind my back. We got married pretty fast, which started tons of rumors. A lot of the nurses here make me feel like a freak. Sometimes it’s really hard to be here.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” My father’s accident had started more rumors than I cared to count.

  “That’s a shame. You shouldn’t feel that way,” she frowns. “Now your ability to come back from the dead, that’s freaky. But you, my friend, are otherwise perfectly normal.” She glances at her watch.

  I don’t want her to leave, but I don’t know what else to talk about. How long has it been since I’ve talked about anything other than horses and the weather? I don’t think we have much in common. But then I realize that we do. Not a something, but a someone. Ryan. Even the thought of his name makes my cheeks warm.

  “Well, my friend, can I ask you a question?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “But you can’t say anything.”

  “I won’t.” She gives me a funny look.

  “How old is Ryan? He’s the medical student assigned to me. He is shadowing your husband. Do you know him?” I force the words out as fast as I can, afraid I’ll lose my nerve.

  She breaks into a wide grin and clasps her hands together. Her excitement makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. A sudden jolt makes me shiver as Lucas’s scarred face haunts the edges of my mind. Why does he keep showing up in my head? He wasn’t real. I don’t think anything you think you remember from that night is real. Just forget all of it.

  I close my eyes and shake my head in hopes that any memory of him and the lasting effect he seems to have on me will fall out permanently.

  “Don’t be embarrassed!” Vanessa laughs. “If you’re going to be stuck here for a while you might as well enjoy the view.” The suggestive twinkle in her eye makes me blush.

  “So how old is he?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  “He’s twenty or twenty-one, I think. I’ll ask my husband to be sure. I do know that he thinks that Ryan is brilliant. How old are you?” she teases.

  “Eighteen,” Barely. “Not old enough.”

  “That’s not true. Age is a state of mind as far as I’m concerned. And it seems to me that you’re eighteen going on thirty. Not to mention that under those bruises I’m pretty sure you’re a knock out.” Her voice delivers the compliment plainly, as if it’s a fact.

  “I’m not so sure about that.” I paint myself to the back of the lumpy mattress and will her eyes away. I hadn’t ever thought about myself like that. She dismisses my discomfort with a wave of her hand.

  “Don’t be modest. It doesn’t do a thing for anyone,” she says.

  Easy for her to say. She belongs in a Cover Girl ad.

  “David has kind of taken Ryan under his wing, so they’ve spent a lot of time together in the past week. I can find out if he’s single,” she says and raises an eyebrow. “Or you could just come out and ask him.”

  “Yeah. I’ll do that.” Should I make my move before or after he checks my vitals? The weight of the casts and the layer of grimy film that covers my skin make me feel disgusting. I swipe at a few loose strands of hair that are stuck to the side of my face but I can’t get them to stay behind my ear.

  �
�Do you want some help?”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” I relent with a scowl. “I don’t do helpless well.” Agitation crawls across my skin like a line of ants.

  “Don’t worry about it. I think you’re as far from helpless as you can get,” she says as she leans over me. Her hair falls away from her neck, revealing huge purple bruises all along her collarbone.

  “Wow! What happened to you?” My wide eyes find her ashen face. There are yellowed places on her forearms where older marks have faded.

  She quickly sits back and crosses her arms, glancing hesitantly over them. “I don’t see anything.” Relief is plain in her voice.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them slowly. The bruises are no longer there.

  “Sorry, I’ve been seeing some pretty weird things lately. Ryan said it’s to be expected with everything I went through. I guess my eyes are still playing tricks on me,” I explain.

  “Of course. That makes sense.” She presses her lips together.

  “That’s what they tell me,” I joke. But my attempt to lighten the air in the room has made it awkward instead.

  “Well, I better get going. The hubby’s going to want dinner soon,” she says after a few seconds.

  “I hope you’ll come back soon. We can read that magazine.”

  “I will. Take care.” She barely turns around in her haste to get to the door.

  “Take care,” I echo, but I’m already alone.

  6 No one to call my own

  A week passes. My days become routine: draw some blood, run some tests, make small talk with visitors, make attempts to flirt with Ryan, hurry up and wait, check vitals, think of better things I should’ve said to Ryan instead of what I’d come up with, wonder if Vanessa is going to stop by again. I’d kill to read that trashy magazine right about now.

  Nights are long, but they’re better. Darker. They expect less from me. And I can pretend to be asleep without people prodding me to make sure I haven’t relapsed into a coma. I’ve gotten so good at faking sleep that the moment the door creaks open my eyes automatically clamp shut. But the burning smell of vodka taints the measured breath I take in and my eyes fly open.