I'm Still Here

by Kathryn R. Biel

  I'm Still Here

  By

  Kathryn R. Biel

  I'M STILL HERE

  Copyright © 2014 by Kathryn R. Biel

  ISBN-10: 0-9913917-3-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9913917-3-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excepts in a review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation with the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover design by Becky Monson.

  Cover image via iStock photo by mammuth.

  ACKNOWLEGDEMENTS

  To my bestie, Michele Vagianelis. Yet another story that would not have been written without you. Oh, and make sure to thank JV for the spam email I supposedly sent to him that got this all started.

  I had an incredible team of beta readers on this project. Without their collective insight, suggestions and encouragement, this book would be nowhere near what it is today. I'm so lucky to have this group of lovely, smart and talented writers and editors: Jayne Denker, Tracy Krimmer, Heather McCoubrey, Jana Misho, Becky Monson, Susan Rys and Chrissy Wolfe.

  And speaking of editors, this would be a hot mess without the critical eyes of Cahren Morris and Karen Pirozzi. I promise, someday, I will learn how to use a comma properly, as well as the difference between abject and object poverty.

  I would still be floundering, trying to decide on a cover and a blurb if not for the great group over at ChickLitChatHQ. Thank you all for your wisdom and opinions!

  My first friend in life, Julie Stewart (you will always be Julie Cheney to me!), thank you for giving me some insight about what it is like to be in a band. I wish you'd move back up here so I can go see you play again.

  Meghan Francis, who is not only a talented soccer coach, but a gifted speech-language pathologist as well, thank you for answering my questions about aphasia. If there are any technical errors, I assure you that they were all mine in the making.

  Becky Monson, cover designer extraordinaire—I'm totally crushing on this cover too.

  Cheryl and Dean Schoeder, thank you for the use of your names. I'm sorry for what I did to them.

  Without the support of my parents and husband, none of this would be possible. And now to that team, I've added my brother, Dan, who comes to my book events and asks insightful questions and my niece Lexi who helps me with my social media marketing. I'm so lucky to have all of you, as well as my biggest (smallest) supporters, Jake and Sophia.

  I never knew it was possible to miss someone you never met. Mike, the void you’ve left is immeasurable and I wish you were still here.

  DEDICATION

  To my Tuesday night dance girls: No matter how I feel walking in the door, I know I'll feel better by the end of the night. It is my therapy through movement, and laughing until you cry doesn't hurt either. To Nicole, Jillian, Katie, Kaitlin, Dara, Jaimie, Megan and Kristen, thank you for listening, for your support, and most importantly, not laughing too hard at my dancing.

  And to Margie and Charlene who taught me how to dance in the first place.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stepped on the sidewalk and walked with confidence. My hair was red and curly. My skin was flawless. My dress was tight, little and black. My car was, well shit, it was still a beat up, tired-looking, non-descript sedan (a 1992 Mercury Topaz, to be exact) with more rust than paint. I looked back over my shoulder. Yep, it was still there. It had not been magically replaced by a Porsche. I lost some (okay, all) of my bravado and my shoulders hunched for a minute. The confidence, fleeting as it was, was gone. I stopped and took a deep breath. I could do this. Aww, who the hell was I kidding? There was no way in hell I could do this. I turned around and walked as fast as my stilettos and tight LBD would let me, back to my POS mode of transportation. I jangled the key in the lock and jostled the door open. Bending and dipping so as not to flash my wares, I finally was inside my safe haven. With only three attempts at turning the engine over, I was off and sped away. I wanted to go home and hide in my bed for about six years. I decided that I needed some fortification if I was going to stay holed up for that long. I took the much familiar detour to the market to pick up some emergency supplies—a bag of Fritos and a box of Ho Hos.

  What had I been thinking signing up for speed dating? It wasn't me. I wasn't that type of girl. I didn't do frivolous and flighty things like speed dating. I couldn't believe I let myself get talked into it. I didn't want to disappoint Jillian by saying no to her zany idea. I let her bully me into it. On the other hand, I was tired of being alone. I had been on my own for so long that the prospect of even possibly meeting someone held appeal. Well, it wasn't going to be through speed dating, that was for sure.

  As I was powering down the aisle towards the express check out, the heel snapped on my shoe. I stopped and stared, shoe in my hand like an alien life form. Really? Just my luck. I would say the universe was against me, if I believed in that sort of thing. 2013 was not turning out to be my year. Nope, not at all. I limped the rest of the way (why did the Ho Hos have to be in the back of the market?) to the check out, praying that no one noticed me. Of course, I was waaay overdressed for grocery shopping and had comfort food, as well as the heel from my shoe in my hand. Now I was lumbering through the store like Quasimoto, and I had the sneaking suspicion that my hair was growing larger by the minute. I’m fairly certain that I stuck out in the grocery store like a sore thumb, like the date-less loser on a Saturday night that I was. I made it to my car and kicked off my shoes as soon as I got inside. Good thing that I didn’t need a pair of black heels anytime soon. I was on a restricted budget, and shoe shopping was not high on the list of essentials. Sure, they would now be on the list, but Ho Hos and Fritos always took precedence.

  Never one to waste time, I had the box of Ho Hos opened by the time my car had reversed out of the parking spot. I navigated out to the main road and proceeded to begin drowning my sorrows in the delectable goodness of chocolate cake and cream. Yeah, this was the life. It was so much better than going to the speed-dating event. I was waiting at the four-way stop, chowing down with reckless abandon, savoring the creamy deliciousness, when suddenly my car was rammed from behind. This initial impact pushed my car far enough into the intersection to run into the car to my left, which was making a left. I felt the two collisions, followed by a loud popping noise right next to my head. For a minute, I thought someone had fired a gun. But no, I could not be that lucky. It was only my airbag deploying. It wailed my chest and face, and the air was filled with smoke and dust. The Ho Ho that I had been bringing to my mouth became one with my face as my hand propelled upwards. I tried to breathe and inhaled dust and a bit of chocolate cake, which immediately had me choking and coughing. I reached down impatiently to unhook my seat belt, which had locked up. As I finally got it off, my door opened up from the outside. Without looking, I jumped out, happy to be free of my death trap, and promptly fell into the guy who opened my door.

  Yup, there I was, covered in dust and Ho Ho debris, coughing and choking, spitting out powder and cake. My red curls now resembled a rat's nest, and my dress was riding dangerously high on my thighs. I was standing barefoot in the street with no way to get home. I was so ready to meet the man of my dreams.

  "Are
you okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm ..." I was interrupted from replying 'fine' as I tried to look up at the face that belonged to the set of arms holding me up. The pain in my neck was immediate and intense. Shit, this was so not what I needed right now; par for the course for me, but not what I needed. Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them. I dropped my chin down and rested my head against the chest of the person supporting me. It didn't hurt that it belonged to a tall man. But at that point, I would have sunk my head into the soft bosom of just about anyone. "I think I hurt my neck."

  His arms were holding me by the elbows. He had a firm grip. My mind was racing a million miles a minute. I was still pretty much trying to process what had just happened. It occurred to me that my car was probably totaled. Actually, I knew it was, since the airbag had deployed. I wanted to turn and look to see how bad it really was, but I was afraid to move my head. So, I simply stood there, held up by some strange man, head buried into his chest. I still wasn't able to see what he looked like, but his strength and support seemed like a good thing at the time. Okay, maybe this night wouldn't be a total loss. I reached up with my left hand to touch my neck, and immediately felt pain in the front of my chest. I let out an involuntary whimper and wince.

  Crap. I didn't want to seem like one of those weak, whiny girls. I didn't cry. I was the strong one. I always had to be.

  "The ambulance will be here any minute. We'll get you checked out. Are you okay until then?"

  I sniffed in, trying not to get snot all over his shirt. "Maybe. I think."

  "Well, as long as you're positive."

  I started to chuckle, but it hurt too much. I sniffled loudly. I was dangerously close to losing control of the mucus in my nose. I could endure a lot of embarrassment, but snotting on a stranger was just too much, even for me. "My neck really hurts. So does my chest."

  "You probably have some pretty good whiplash and a contusion from the seat belt. Do you think you can take a few steps to get out of the intersection?"

  "Um, sure. I, um," I faltered. This was going to sound totally whiny. Please don't let me sound like a complete baby. "I can't really lift my head. I'm afraid it's going to hurt too much."

  "Squeeze your shoulder blades together, gently."

  I did as the magic voice commanded.

  "Now, see if you can lift your head a little."

  I tried, and although it hurt, it was not as bad as I expected. I had my eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the pain. I was slowly lifting my head when a high-pitched woman's shriek accosted my eardrums from my right. Even through all the cacophony of the traffic and distant wail of sirens, I knew that voice. There was no one else in the world who would say, "Avert your eyes!" to me. Reflexively, I turned to look. The pain shot down my neck and then everything went black for a moment.

  "Stay with me here. I've got you."

  I pushed down through my collapsing legs, tried to ground myself in reality and stand up again. "I'm trying to. I just thought ..." I trailed off. Had I heard what I thought I had heard? It couldn't be. I had to be a little wonky from the accident. Yeah, that was it. Certainly I hadn't just heard my dead sister's voice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Four hours later, I was still sitting on a plinth in the hallway of the Riverside Hospital, waiting to be seen. My neck hurt. So did my chest and shoulders. I was almost certain that I would have a might pretty bruise from the seat belt. I couldn't actually look, because my neck was in a brace. I still had no shoes, and my dress kept riding up. I wrapped the stiff white sheet around my lower body a little tighter hoping to keep the perverted looking bum across from me from getting a show. Not that I wasn't wearing good underwear because I was. At least this was one occasion where my mother had been right—always wear clean underwear in case of an accident.

  I was leaning with my back against the wall, sitting upright. The fatigue of the day settled in and I ached everywhere. Fairly confident that I did not have a spinal cord injury, I wiggled my fingers and toes to give myself some reassurance. This was so not how this day was supposed to go. I gingerly lifted my left arm until I could peek at my watch without moving my head. It was around eleven p.m. I needed to go home and go to bed. Letting my arm sink downward until it flopped at my side, I took in a deep breath. Slowly exhaling, I mentally inventoried all the body parts that hurt. I quickly got discouraged and decided to take the shorter approach of inventorying the parts that did not hurt (earlobes and ends of my hair).

  Seeing as how my ears were one of the few parts that did not appear to be injured, could I really believe what I thought they heard? It couldn't have been Aster. No way. She had been gone for more than seven years now. I tried not to think of her very often. Of course, that was akin to telling myself not to breathe. God, I missed her. I wished she was here with me, holding my hand. Like the time when we were ten and I got dragged across a gravel road by our dog. I was terrified that the stupid animal would get away so I refused to let go of his leash. There were little tiny pebbles embedded into the skin on my knees. It took my mother hours to dig them all out, and it hurt like the dickens. Aster sat with me the whole time. She alternated between reading to me and singing to me to distract me from the pain. Closing my eyes, I could still see the hideous striped shirt she was wearing that day, and I could hear her voice reciting the words of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I thought she was so great entertaining me that day.

  I thought of that day often. But tonight, in pain once again, I remembered, moments before Cinda took off, seeing Aster across the road with the neighbor's dog. The one that Cinda hated. Aster knew it. We weren't supposed to play with that dog. It had a mean streak. I never knew why Aster was with that dog that day. In all the excitement (and pain), I forgot to ask her. Looking back, it was easy to guess that she stayed with me while I was being patched up out of guilt. I guess I would never know.

  Deep in this memory, I jumped when I heard a voice saying my last name.

  "Ms. Cox? How are you doing?"

  I opened my eyes. It was that nice guy who had pulled me out of my car at the scene of the accident. Here he was in the hospital. How had he found me? Wait, why was he here in the hospital? Was he some kind of deranged psycho who stalks car accident victims?

  "Before you think I'm some kind of creepy stalker—"

  "Too late," I managed to interject quickly. Then I smiled. Well, sort of smiled, since my cheek muscles hurt.

  Deranged-stalker guy smiled back. He had straight white teeth, so he must have had good dental and orthodontic care. Okay, I could start referring to him as "good-dental-hygiene-deranged-stalker-guy." Good dental hygiene is important. So many deranged stalkers have poor dental care, and it pretty much gives them away right from the start.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Pretty crappy. I kind of feel like I got hit by a truck."

  Good-dental-hygiene, oh crap, you know who I mean, replied, "Well, you kind of did. The vehicle you were pushed into was a Ram."

  "As in battering?"

  "As in Dodge."

  "Well, then that explains it, although the battering ram would have made sense too." I smiled a little more now. He laughed. I wished I could laugh with him, but God, everything really hurt. Maybe I was getting a little delirious from the pain, but this guy seemed kind of cute. No, not kind of cute, but really cute. "But, unless you want me to refer to you as 'Deranged-stalker-man' I might need to know your name. If that's okay."

  "O.K."

  I waited. "Okay?"

  "O.K."

  "Okay, normally I have a good sense of humor, but I've had kind of a shitty day. Everything hurts. My car is totaled. I have no money for a new one. To make matters worse, I lost my Ho Hos and Fritos in the car, which I totally needed today to comfort me because I was too chicken-shit to go to a speed dating thingy that my friend pressured me into. Then, I've been waiting here for hours. I appreciate you coming to see me, and for your help earlier, but can you just cut me some slack and tell me your name?"

/>   "My name is O.K."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  "Wow that sucks. I thought my parents were bad, but I think yours take the cake."

  O.K. laughed. "No, they did not saddle me with the name. It's my nickname, but it's what everyone calls me. I'm not sure I'd answer to my given name anymore."

  "So what is your given name then?"

  "Top secret information."

  "Oh, come on. Give me a break. Can you not tell that I've had the most crap-tastic day?"

  "Oh, I guess, and only because you've had a crap-tastic day. But you have to promise to keep it a secret. Deal?"

  "Deal. Wait, let me guess?"

  "You'll never get it."

  "Now that sounds like a challenge." He looked skeptical. I decided to try looking desperate. "Oh come on, please? I've been here for over four hours, and I'm bored out of my gourd. Please?"

  "I guess we can play, but only because you just rhymed 'bored' and 'gourd.' You get points for rhyming while in pain."

  "How many points do I get for guessing your name correctly?"

  "I don't even have to determine it because you will not get it. But if it makes you feel better, then guess away."

  "Oscar?"

  He shook his head and smiled.

  "Oliver? Owen? Otto?"

  "You're so cold, you're about to die of hypothermia."

  "Otis? Ogden? Ozzy?"

  "Getting even colder."

  "Orenthal?"

  "Orenthal?

  "Yeah, like O.J. Simpson."

  O.K. laughed. "I know. I'm just surprised that you knew his real name."

  "I wouldn't have before the trial, but who doesn't now? So, not even close?"

  "Nope, not even close." He sat down in a chair next to my gurney and comfortably crossed his right ankle over his left knee. He clasped his fingers behind his head and relaxed back against the wall.