I bend my head to press my brow into her knee, and gently—so gently—she sets her hand against the side of my hair.
“Just breathe.” She strokes the side of my face. “Just breathe.”
A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and it’s like my eyelids have turned into sandbags. Aaron is going to be okay. I am going to be okay. That’s all that matters.
I can breathe again. The oxygen tastes stale, but I’ll breathe it gladly.
As the ambulance bumps down the road, I feel every bruise along my body, but at this point I’m grateful. I’m alive.
I let my eyes slide shut, and the paramedic keeps stroking my face.
A rush of hot air makes me blink, and the jarring of the gurney rattles me awake as the paramedics unload me from the ambulance. They aren’t running. They’re leisurely pushing my wheely bed into the hospital.
The paramedic from before is still holding my hand.
I squeeze her fingers, and she smiles down at me.
“Thank you.”
Sound doesn’t come out. But she can read my lips even through the oxygen mask, because her eyes twinkle at me. She cups my cheek, and then she’s gone as someone wheels me down a long white hallway, the fluorescent light panels overhead zipping past in rapid motion.
My neck is itching, and I reach up to scratch and find the stiff fabric of a brace wrapped around me.
A neck brace?
You fell down the stairs, dummy.
The lights shift intensity around me, and another face appears overhead. This one is older, grayer, but no less kind.
“All right—Miss Lee, is it?” A gentle hand settles on my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. We just need to do some tests, all right? All right. We’ll check a few things, and then we can get this collar off you. I know it’s uncomfortable.”
The next hour is a blur.
Is it an hour? More? Less? I don’t know. The doctor tests my extremities and motor skills. He tests for other symptoms too, in words that I don’t recognize and couldn’t repeat even if I wanted to. But apparently he sees what he wants to see, and the stiff collar comes off.
Amazing how much easier I can breathe with it off.
Then that’s when the real pain starts. They give me some kind of pain killer, but it barely kicks in before they’re bandaging ribs and cleaning out gashes and scrapes and flashing more lights in my eyes.
I just want Aaron.
Finally, after I’m trussed up six ways from Sunday in bandages and braces, one of the nurses hands me a glass of water. It’s the best water I’ve ever tasted in spite of the fact that it’s tinged with the coppery taste of blood still on my lips.
“The man who was with me,” I manage to say, my voice shaking and trembling. “Aaron Guinness.”
The nurses raises her eyebrows.
“Where was he taken?”
The nurse smiles. “I can check.”
“Please? And—my family.”
“They’ve been called.”
I nod, and grunt as the room spins.
The nurse steps outside my room, and I can vaguely hear her typing on a keyboard.
The room smells like chemicals and unscented linens. Yes, unscented linens have a smell. The other bed in the room is empty, and the darkness outside the room windows is unsettling.
How long were we laying unconscious in the house? How long did it take for someone to find us?
Who were those people? Why were they there?
My eyes sting.
A shadow darkens my doorway. The nurse is a fast worker.
“Trisha.”
I glance over, and a sob spills out of me.
Aaron.
He’s got his arms around me before I can even say his name. Is he on the bed with me? If he isn’t, he should be, because I’m not letting go anytime soon. Nurses, doctors, they can wait their turn. I’m busy.
He holds me until I stop shaking.
It takes a long time, and I’m not ashamed of it.
I gather the fabric of his hospital gown in one hand, surprised at how much it hurts me until I realize I’m missing two fingernails.
Fabulous.
I release the fabric and look up at him in spite of how it hurts my neck and shoulders. “Are you okay?”
His right eye is swollen completely shut. His lower lip is split open.
He smirks anyway. “Couple of cracks. Lots of bruises and scrapes. Nothing broken.” His eyes darken. “You?”
“I haven’t asked them,” I say, “but even my eyebrows hurt.”
Split lip and all, Aaron kisses both my eyebrows over and over until I scoot over, and he crawls into the bed with me.
“What happened?” I whisper against his chest.
“There were people in the room,” he says.
“I think they were kickboxers.”
Aaron snickers. “Mine was a ninja.” He holds me closer. “They said you fell down the stairs.”
“Yeah.” A chill washes over me. “I—grabbed the guy’s leg. We went down together.”
“Geez, Trisha.”
“I think—I think I killed him.”
Aaron stills his hands against me for a moment, surprised, before he starts again, rubbing tender circles through the thin fabric of my hospital gown.
“You didn’t kill anyone, Trisha,” he says softly but fiercely. “The fall did.”
“Spoken like a pragmatist.”
He kisses my forehead.
“Why is it always us?” he sighs.
I snuggle deeper into his arms. “Because it’s always me. You said it. Danger magnet.”
He laughs gently. “But a cute danger magnet.”
I look up at him, gazing into his bruised, swollen face. His eyes are so beautiful, so warm, so full of life.
“I thought you were dead,” the words spill out before I can stop them. “I could hear you fighting—and then you weren’t, and I thought you were dead.”
His expression softens before he kisses my forehead again. “Ninja-man knocked me out pretty quick. I think you lasted longer with your kickboxer.”
“Kicky.”
“Kicky?”
“Kicky McKicks-a-Lot.”
He smirks. “Appropriate.”
“He was wearing cologne too.”
“Really?”
“Smelled awful.”
Aaron pulls me closer and breathes, and I press my ear against his chest, listening to the steady drub-drub-drub of his heart.
He strokes the back of my head and my neck.
“Aaron?”
“Hm?”
“Are you wearing pants?”
He chuckles. “Yes, Trisha. I’m wearing pants.”
“I don’t think I am.”
He’s laughing now. “You don’t know?”
“I was.” I set my chin on his sternum and gaze into his face. “But they took my shirt off.”
“Want me to check?” His eyes sparkle.
I swat his shoulder and lay my head down again.
“If Dad finds us like this, I’m going to be grounded.”
“Trisha, you’re 35.”
“Grounded, I say.”
He laughs and threads his fingers through my hair. “Want me to move?”
I tighten my hold on him. “Not on your life. You’re comfy.”
He says something else that doesn’t make it to my ears before my eyes have drifted shut. Wrapped in the warmth of his arms, the last thing I feel before I slid into sleep is the soft press of his lips against my temple.
Making the Right Choice
Whoever designed hospital bracelets obviously never intended patients to remove them.
What is this device of torture even made out of? Steel? Plastic? Gran’s fruitcake?
No matter how I yank on it, pull on it, chew on it, the stupid bracelet doesn’t show any signs of coming loose, and the only thing I have to show for it is a red, irritated patch on my wrist.
Fine.
I’ll just we
ar it like a weird fashion accessory. I can say it goes with my eyes, and even though it doesn’t, maybe I’ll be confident enough to start a new fad. Wearing your hospital admission bracelet with your outfit could become the next big thing, and I’ll take all the credit.
Take that, Versace.
I roll my head around my shoulders, feeling the ache and strain of every bruise and tendon. Oh, it hurts. The hospital never gave me anything stronger than acetaminophen for the pain, though, and while it took the edge off—well, it only took the edge off.
Shifting in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, I look up as Aaron sinks into the seat beside me and sets his big hand on my knee.
“Doing all right?” His eyes look tired.
“I’m okay.” I nod. “Just sore.”
“Me too.” He leans back and gazes out the atrium windows, keeping an eye out for my dad’s car.
We’ve both been discharged officially, and now all that remains is to get home and go back to bed. Aaron gazes thoughtfully at the red marks on my wrist as he gathers my hand into his. He shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls out his knife, snapping it open and cutting the bracelet off.
Show-off.
“What if I wanted to keep it?” I arch an eyebrow at him and decide that even my eyebrows hurt.
He hands it to me. “It’s still in one piece.”
I take it and peer at the writing. “You cut it right between my middle name and my last name.”
“They’re the same.” His tired eyes twinkle. “And that’s okay. You won’t need—”
Honk honk!
Dad’s old dark blue Oldsmobile pulls up to the atrium, and he waves at us.
Aaron scowls and stands up, offering me a hand. I’m about to ask him to finish his sentence when we step outside, and the wall of humidity hits us like two tons of bricks.
“What is wrong with this state?” I whine. “We’re landlocked. How can we have humidity like this?”
Aaron chuckles and holds the passenger side door open for me.
I once tried to get him to sit in the front, but he wouldn’t hear of it. According to him, he preferred having to cram himself and his even-longer-than-mine legs in Dad’s backseat that was already crammed full of yellow pads, briefcases, and sermon notes from the last twenty years of preaching.
Since then? Well, I don’t argue with him.
He’s stubborn, Aaron Guinness. I think it’s because he’s Irish.
Wincing, I pull the seat belt down and snap it in place. Dad waits until Aaron is buckled before he puts the car in drive.
“How are the two of you feeling?” His tone is full of concern, but his fingers tap on the steering wheel as he guides the behemoth of a vehicle onto the main road outside the hospital.
“Why?” I narrow my one functioning eye at him.
He sighs. “Something has come up.”
“At church?”
He nods.
I rest my head on the seat. It’s always something at church.
“That’s fine, Dad,” I say.
“Sure, sir.” Aaron says from the back seat.
Not like he’s going to argue. Not with my dad, and certainly not while he’s a passenger.
I’d say I will wait in the car, but while the weather is trying to nuke us like potatoes, it’s probably not a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “But it’s important. And it does involve you two.”
I groan. “Not another pregnancy rumor, Dad, please.”
Dad chuckles. “No, nothing like that.”
Last year, a disgruntled church member decided to make a big deal out of a conversation she’d overheard between me and Aaron, and the church rumor mill took it and went crazy. Hark! Behold! The scandal of the century! Pastor Lee’s wayward still-single daughter is pregnant! I have yet to determine if the rumor was so widespread because I was the pastor’s daughter—or because nobody actually believed I could be in a relationship with anyone.
Either option is just as likely.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the church building from the hospital, and once we’re there, admittedly I’m slow to climb out of the car. Aaron flashes me a disapproving glance, even though his eyes are laughing at me.
Golly, even with his face smashed in and bruised, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Have I told him that?
I should tell him that.
He hooks his arm in mine, and we walk into the church together. At least we have matching injuries. If anyone asks, we could tell them that we were in a domestic dispute and decided to beat each other up in exactly the same way. Cracked ribs. Black eyes. Split lips. Except I have a monstrous carpet burn on my face from where Kicky slid me across the floor, and the trip down the stairs sprained my knees, bruised my hips, and perforated my liver.
No, my liver isn’t perforated.
But that’s what I’m going to tell people, because I guarantee they won’t be satisfied in their poking and prodding until I tell them something truly dreadful. As though the sight of my swollen face isn’t dreadful enough.
Highpointe Baptist Church may be a proponent of many good things, but minding one’s own business doesn’t seem to be one of them—at least not among the female membership.
“Good gracious!” Marjorie, my dad’s secretary, cries in alarm as Aaron and I follow him into the offices. “What happened to you two?
Marjorie is a great secretary. She’s even a nice person. But she’s a card-carrying member of the Nosy Old Lady Club.
“It’s a long story, Marj.” I smile at her, even though I’m not really feeling it. It’s not her fault that every muscle in my entire body is screaming at me. “We accidentally stumbled on some squatters in the house we’re cleaning for URM.”
Marjorie comes around her desk and takes my hands. “Oh, dear, is anything broken?”
“No, Marjorie.”
“They didn’t do anything inappropriate, did they?”
Aaron snorts.
“Well, they beat the tar out of us.” I shrug and remember that shrugging hurts.
“Oh, well.” Marjorie pats my hand. “Bruises and scrapes will heal. Just be thankful they didn’t do worse.”
See? I should have told her my liver was perforated and that I only have a week to live. That would teach her.
“Trisha.” Dad calls down the hallway.
Aaron pulls me away from Marjorie and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly as soon as we’re out of sight. How can he roll his eyes like that? Even my eyeballs hurt.
Once we step into my dad’s office, I realize that this isn’t going to be a regular meeting. Prisha, Nathan, and Cecily are all gathered there, and—of course—there’s a general outcry of dismay.
“Trisha!” Prisha gasps and runs to me. “Oh, Trisha, what happened?”
Cecily only narrows her eyes and sips her coffee.
Nathan takes a look at me and then at Aaron. “Dude, bro. You look rough.”
“Thanks, man.” Aaron chuckles and accepts his handshake.
I lower myself into the armchair near Dad’s desk, and Prisha hangs onto my arm. I actually wish she wouldn’t because her fingers are digging into a particularly sore cluster of sore muscles. But I don’t have the heart to ask her to stop.
“We found out why we’ve been hearing voices at the house,” I say.
“Ghosts?” Cecily perks up.
Of course, she does.
“No.” Aaron shakes his head. “Squatters.”
“Not just squatters.” I sigh. “Drug dealing squatters. And they weren’t exactly happy that we found them.”
Prisha kneels next to me. “Trisha, I am beginning to believe that you have a curse on you. How is it possible for one person to attract so much trouble?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.” My dad rolls his eyes and settles into his desk chair. “Everyone, have a seat please.”
“Pastor Lee, sir,” Aaron starts slowly as he sits on the big sofa across from my dad’s de
sk, “will we be able to keep cleaning out the house?”
“Yes, tomorrow you should be clear.” Dad flips through some papers on his desk. “The police are doing a sweep of the house, but what Detective Maxwell has told me indicates that the drugs were only found in that upstairs room.”
“So the rest of the creepy dolls in the basement were clean?” I scowl.
That doesn’t sound right, but stranger things have happened.
Dad furrows his brow in consternation. “Well, Trisha, there are no dolls in the basement.”
The pronouncement falls like thunder.
“What?” Aaron makes a face.
“How can that be?” I shake my head. “Dad, there were like a hundred of those creepy dolls in that basement room.”
“Eighty-nine, specifically,” Cecily chimes in. “I counted them.”
Dad shrugs. “The police didn’t find any of them.”
I glance at Aaron. “Do you think the squatters took them?”
“Maybe.” He looks worried. “I mean, we don’t know how long the two of us were out. They could have taken them after they knocked us out. Or, since we didn’t go downstairs when we got there, they could have taken them before we even arrived.”
“Regardless.” Dad holds up his hands. “After the house has been cleared, you all are free to return to the project. However.”
I turn a frown on my dad.
He has that tone he likes to take when he’s got sad or disappointing news. I’ve heard him use it when he tells family members about someone’s bad diagnosis or untimely death. Instantly, my stomach tenses.
“What is it, Dad?”
“I feel like it’s important to tell you that Keith Wilner has been arrested.”
Cecily jerks like she’s been shot. Gasps of shock and dismay sound from the others in the room. Certainty settles in my stomach like a stone.
Oh, no. I knew something was wrong. I shut my eyes. I hate it when I’m right.
“Arrested?” I sit up. “Why? On what charges?”
But my mind is already clicking through the possibilities. Yesterday morning, Keith had discouraged me from going upstairs. He said he’d checked the rooms. He said he’d gone over everything and that it was all trash. That I didn’t need to look.
What if—What if he knew the squatters were there all along? What if he knew they were dealing drugs? What if he was just using us and our ministry as a front in order to get the drugs out of the house?
Flipping Fates Page 15