Get to You

by Albany Walker

  “She's had a transfusion, to help with blood loss,” Linda frowns deeply at us. “She’s severely dehydrated, so she’ll need constant IV fluids and a heavy round of antibiotics.” She sighs, continuing, “Her heart rate and blood pressure are back to a more normal range, and a cat scan shows that the internal bleeding in her abdomen stopped on its own.”

  Linda reassures me several times that it’s quite common for small hemorrhages to heal themselves. It had been hours, possibly a day, since she sustained the injury.

  I think how easily she could have died and the pain she must have endured. I want to scream but know I can’t. She must have been so scared.

  I sit, stewing in my own rage. I want to visit the same torture upon him. I want to feel his bones snap under my hands. My hands shake as I try to regain my self-control. I can’t focus.

  Brian’s hand is on my shoulder. I can barely feel it. My thoughts are spiraling.

  Linda continues to update us on Samantha's condition, and it’s these updates that keep me here, waiting when all I want to do is find him and kill him.

  “Her right hand and arm will require surgery to repair the damage.”

  “When will they do the surgery?”

  “We are waiting for her to gain consciousness. The biggest concern now is that she hasn't woken up yet.”

  Linda leaves soon after, and Brain goes back to his motel room to get some rest, asking me three times to come with him, before accepting that I'm not leaving.

  It's late when Linda peeks her head into the room, “You’re not sleeping?”

  I shake my head. It’s not that I haven’t tried, but my brain just won't stop thinking about everything. Her shoulders slump and nose scrunches up, squinting her eyes. “Im really not supposed to do this…” she looks down the hall in both directions. “Come on.” Her hand motions me forward.

  I’m out of the chair and at the door, following behind her in seconds. Taking mercy on me she delivers me to Sam's room with a warning that I only have a precious few minutes.

  I push past the door and peer inside. The room is dim, with only a light coming from just above her bed. She looks small and frail lying there. I listen to her heart beat over the monitor. It’s the only sound in the room. Taking a few steps closer, I bite my lip. I’m tempted to try and wake her. Her left arm is cocooned in white bandages. The sight of her face covered in bruises threatens to shatter the tiny bit of composure I have left.

  I brush my fingers over the shell of her ear, pushing back the few hairs that have fallen over her shoulder. “Oh Sammy,” I curl my arm up over her head, careful not to touch her and drop my forehead to the mattress beside her.

  Too soon, I feel someone enter the room. A palm lands on my shoulder, and I know my time is up. Standing, I wipe away the evidence of my tears before turning around.

  Linda ushers me back to the waiting room, a small crinkly pillow and a thin white blanket in her hands. She offers them to me and nods at a long bench.

  I sleep restlessly. In my mind, I still hear the sound of her heart beat.

  29

  I wake disoriented. It takes my sleep deprived brain a few moments to recognize what woke me so abruptly. The room is dimly lit by the low lights in the hall. I can make out a figure standing by the door. I run a hand over my face trying to wake up enough to speak.

  I drop my feet to the floor before I croak, "Sorry, you can turn on the light. One of the nurses must have shut it off." I clear my throat. I need water. I must have slept longer then I had assumed.

  No reply comes from whoever entered, and the light stays off. As my eyes adjust, I'm able to make out her shape, it's definitely a her.

  "I think the light switch is on the wall, by the door, right behind you." My voice is still deep from sleep, but at least it's more discernible.

  She reaches back without turning around. My eyes snap shut from the glare of the bright lights. I use my hand to shield my eyes as they adjust. The first thing they make out is colorful clogs.

  Removing my hand, I get my first look at the young woman that entered. She’s dressed in scrubs.

  I stand abruptly. My ears buzz as a wave of vertigo hits me.

  “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

  Her eyes go round, her hand flies up to her forehead, and her cheeks turn pink.

  “Oh goodness, yes.” She flusters, “I'm so sorry. It's not everyday you meet a movie star around here.” She puts a hand out to gesture to the double doors, “Samantha, she's starting to wake up. She's called for you a few times." That's all it takes to have me flying down the hall.

  It takes me a second to orientate myself and remember which way to go. I rush past a nurse’s station, and a woman stands up and calls out to me. I ignore her and push through the door of Sam’s glass walled room.

  She looks almost the same as yesterday. Her skin isn't quite as gray, but the bruises still cover most of her face. The dried blood has been cleaned off, but black clumps remain in her beautiful hair. I'll wash each strand, just so she doesn't have to see it this way.

  Her eyes are closed, and a thin blue blanket tucked over her chest with both arms left out.

  I grab a chair and place it close to her bed. My hands ache to touch her, to be reassured that she is here, now. My fear of hurting her keeps them fisted on the bed near her hip.

  I open my mouth to speak, but the words die on my lips. I don't know where to begin.

  I drop my face to the side of her bed.

  I let it sink in that she’s here, and eventually she’s going to be okay.

  The antiseptic smell from her sheets fills my nose as I draw in heavy pulls of air. The smell overwhelms me when all I want to do is sag in relief.

  I won’t sit here feeling sorry for myself.

  I marshal my emotions and gently say, "Hey sweets, I sure did miss your beautiful face. I'm so happy we found you. I need you to come back to me. I promise it's safe here now. No one will hurt you again. Just wake up for me. I know you wanna talk to me. I need to see those gorgeous baby blues."

  She doesn't respond. I keep taking anyway, encouraging her to wake up.

  The nurses leave me alone with her. I become brave enough to touch the unmarred skin on her cheek. Her eyes flutter, and her lips move, but she doesn't utter a word.

  I wait for her to wake up.

  It’s late afternoon when a surgeon comes in, introducing himself to me.

  “I’m Dr. Parsons,” his cool hand envelopes mine in a firm grasp. “I think it’s time we took care of that arm.” His eyes zero in on Sam, “The threat of infection is riskier than her being put under anesthetic at this point. We can get her fixed up a bit before she wakes up.”

  “Are you sure? Is she ready, to be put to sleep, I mean? She hasn’t really woken up yet.”

  Dr. Parson nods his head, “Her body is doing exactly what it needs to, what we want it to do. When she’s ready, she’ll wake up. Hopefully, when she does, she won’t need any further surgeries for a while.”

  My heart is in my throat as I watch the nurses slowly maneuver her bed out of the room soon after.

  Brian shows up after I’m returned to the waiting room, with a big brown bag of food.

  "Sorry, I would have been here sooner, but some stuff had to be dealt with." He sounds cryptic. I don't care enough to ask what he's talking about.

  He has a bag with clean clothes for me and a phone charger.

  "I tried to call you a couple times, but it just went right to voicemail, so I figured it was dead. Your parents have called me a few times. I'm pretty sure they'll be here, after they arrived in New York to find you gone. Thanks for surprising me like that, by the way."

  "Shit," I groan.

  Brian raises his hand in defense, "Hey, I tried to tell her to wait a week, but she wouldn't hear it. You’re lucky she waited this long, especially with Sam being found."

  I drag my phone from my pocket and plug it in. Before I can even unfold the sandwich and take a bite, the scr
een lights up. It vibrates with messages, edging off the table.

  We've taken over the small waiting room.

  Brian pushes a few chairs together to make himself a makeshift couch to lie back in, “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” I nod, surprised no one else has come in here.

  "What floor are we on?" I question, while crunching through a bag of chips.

  "The second," Brian answers, not looking at me.

  With Sam now in stable condition and my mind able to process I ask, “Where is he? I'm assuming he was in the lead ambulance."

  Brian looks up from his phone, "Yeah, that was him. He was shot in the abdomen when he went for his weapon. They happened to catch him outside of the house."

  It doesn't escape me that he didn't answer my question.

  "Is he dead?" I ask while wiping my mouth with a napkin. The food hits my stomach like lead bricks.

  When Brian doesn't answer I look over at him in question. He sets his phone down on the small end table beside him and gives me his full attention.

  I glare at him, and he sighs, “He's not dead. He made it through surgery last night, and he's awake and recovering today." His face is screwed up in distaste at his own words.

  I frown, realizing he's probably right here in the same hospital. She hasn't even woken up yet, and he's already recovering.

  "Beau," Brian says, sounding cautious as I stand up. “He’s being guarded by the police. He's not going to walk away from this." Brian's up, gripping the top of my shoulder, ready to put me in a hold again, if needed. "I know you want to rip his arms off man, but wouldn't you rather be here with her, instead of in prison for killing that piece of shit?"

  I rip away from his grip, “It’s not right. He shouldn’t be able to go on. Not after what he did to her.”

  I am shaking again, with unspent rage. My hands fist at my sides. There’s nothing I can do. Brain is right. I need to be here with Samantha. I need to be present when she is ready to wake up.

  I walk over to an empty corner of the room, needing space.

  "I'm fine," I finally say when Brian plants himself in the chair right next to the door.

  “You’re not,” he simply replies.

  "He should have never made it out alive," I confess, not feeling guilty at wanting him dead.

  "Yeah Beau. Some people don't deserve to breathe."

  We sit in silence with Brian still guarding the exit.

  An hour or so later an older woman in a pantsuit walks in and approaches me.

  "Mr. Huntington, I'm Rebecca Wright. I'm here on behalf of the hospital and its staff.”

  I stand, tense and unsure why she’s here.

  “We wanted to assure that you and Miss West are receiving the utmost care. I'm also here to let you know that she'll be in a new room, a private room, once she returns from surgery”

  I sag in relief that she’s not here to deliver bad news.

  “Okay,” I nod, thinking that’s good.

  “If there's anything I or the staff can do to help, don't hesitate to ask." Her hand clasps mine, as she nods, looking me in the eye.

  "Thank you. Can you make sure that no one knows her room number unless absolutely necessary?" My thoughts start to shift, realizing I have an important job to do. "I made sure her story had a lot of media coverage. It’s important that her condition and whereabouts be kept private.”

  She nods her head, accepting my request. I gear up for my last one, knowing I'll probably meet resistance.

  "I want to stay with her, permanently if possible, until she walks out of this place.” I breathe shakily. “If I'd known the man was here, I never would have left her alone in that room."

  Face stern, she replies, "Done. I'll make sure the right people only know. No one should be allowed admittance into her room unless treating or caring for her.”

  I look back at Brian, his eyebrows raise, impressed by her willingness to comply.

  She continues not missing a beat, “Now can I show you and your guest to her room? You can wait there. I'm sure you'll be much more comfortable than here." She looks around at the mess we made of the waiting room, and I half expect that it was her motivation in moving so quickly to comply.

  "Thank you," I utter, meaning it.

  30

  The room itself is much larger than the last one she was in. We've been put on the third floor, the birthing unit.

  When I question this reasoning, the hospital head, Rebecca Wright, replies, “These are the largest rooms in the hospital. We're on the opposite end of any occupied rooms.” She leaves Brian and I shortly after we settle in. Occasionally, through the door, I can hear the wail of an infant. We sit quietly, until I hear a woman scream so loudly, I shiver at the pain she must be in.

  “Well, ain’t this pleasant,” Brian mumbles, folding a new parent information pamphlet in his hands, “Sure you don’t want to go back to the waiting room?”

  We are both sit on a long built-in couch that doubles as a bed, where I'll be sleeping. After that we take turns walking around the halls, as we wait for Sam.

  I walk every time it’s my turn to the nurse’s station, to ask about Sam’s condition. I’m pretty sure they’re tired of me asking the same questions.

  On my most recent visit, one assures me that the surgery was done, everything went well, but that she needed to stay in recovery for a while.

  Samantha returns to her new room a little after six o'clock. She still hasn't fully opened her eyes, but they were able to get her to respond verbally.

  When all the nurses leave, I let my head fall into my folded arms that rest on a small dinette table.

  Brian drops his hand on my back and says, “I got an update on her step-dad a few hours ago.” When I raise my head sharply, he explains, “I was waiting for her to get back.”

  I look up and over to a sleeping Samantha.

  The chair makes a noise as I push back to stand.

  “Let’s talk out in the hall,” I whisper. If she wakes up, I don’t want her hearing anything he might have to say.

  We walk down the hall to a family gathering room. I head straight to the coffee machine. I turn on the single cup coffee brewer and place a thick insulated disposable cup under the spout.

  Brian leans his back against the wall, letting his arms hang down at his sides.

  “So?” I push the topic, when he doesn’t speak up right away. I need to get back in case she wakes up.

  “So,” he sighs. “They searched the house, the one he was keeping her in. They found a camera in the room where he kept her.” As the heavy statement falls, the blue light on the coffee maker blinks steady. I press it.

  “Did they find any tapes?” my voice is hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

  “There was a DVR system. They haven’t reviewed everything yet, but I just wanted you to know. I don’t want you blindsided later on.” He sighs, “They may come to interview her once she’s in stable condition and, ya know, conscious.”

  My palms meet the counter, my head hangs down between my shoulder blades. God only knows what’s on those tapes.

  “I can’t imagine what she’s been through. How can I help her through this? All I keep thinking is I wish she would wake up.” I lift my head and pull the coffee out from under the spout and offer it to Brian. He shakes his head, rejecting it. I take a sip, “Physically she’s mending, but on the inside, how can I ever erase that?”

  “You can’t,” his words are spoken softly.

  I start, I’m dozing off in a gliding chair next to Sammy’s bed. I'm not sure what woke me. I look over and see her trying to stretch her body. The groan in pain she makes has me springing from the chair and to her side.

  "Sammy, try not to move too much, you'll be sore," but sore does not come close to describing her injuries.

  Her eyes try to lift, the right is still swollen, but she manages to open in a slit.

  "Beau?" my name is barely audible, but it still makes my smile huge and my eyes glassy.

&
nbsp; "Yeah, baby. Do you need a drink?" I grab the cup of mostly ice chips that the nurses kept replenishing, expecting her to wake any minute. They let me know that she can have a little ice and water when she wakes.

  She nods. I bring the plastic spoon to her dry lips. She winces as she wraps her mouth around it.

  Her head drops back as she collects some ice in her mouth and sucks lightly on it. She is exhausted from holding it forward for a mere second. It speaks to how much she has been through.

  I hit the call button. It takes a minute before I get a response.

  "Yes?"

  "Samantha is awake.”

  “We’ll be right in.”

  The static cuts off.

  Her eyes fall shut and she sighs, "How'd” — she wets her lips— “I make it?” Her question pierces my heart, before I can assure her, or explain how we were lucky.

  The door swoops open and two women walk in with big smiles and soft voices. They test her vitals for what seems like ages.

  Sam is able to wake up as they collect her blood and check the various monitors attached to her. Her voice comes back gradually, as the nurses prompt her with questions about her condition.

  They ask the day and she falters, "I don't know. I think…” she trails off, a frown on her face. “I think two weeks, maybe less?”

  I wish I was able to keep quiet, but the noise I make has her turning to look at me.

  "It’s nothing, sweets," I dismiss, but of course it doesn't work.

  "Beau, what?"

  "Sammy don't worry about this right now. Let's just work on getting you better." She turns her eyes from me to the nurses. They’ve been quiet during our exchange.

  "What's the date?" she croaks. I grab the cup of ice and place it to her lips. She opens her mouth without complaint but doesn't take her eyes from the nurse.

  "November nineteenth," one answers.

  The shock is clear on Sammy’s face as her eyes dart back to mine, "But…” she struggles. “That long?" She looks at me with questions I don't have the answers to. She shakes her head disbelievingly, “I gave up…” she looks down. “I stopped counting.”