New Years Eve is a day I’ll remember always. Before dark falls we drag blankets and chairs down the beach to the water’s edge. We haul coolers and bins full of food and drinks. Then we carry bundles of wood, and a stereo with a stack of CD’s, which we play the entire time we’re out here. The batteries even grow dim at one point and have to be replaced.
We light a fire and roast hot dogs on sticks. Emma makes potato and macaroni salads that we eat with the hot dogs.
Then we make s’mores. I’ve never even eaten a roasted marshmallow, which is like heaven in itself. But when Henry makes me a s’more and holds it up for me to take a bite of, I melt in delight.
There are fireworks over the ocean at midnight, lighting the sky and the water with brilliant colors, better than the ones I had seen from my swing on previous 4th of July’s from home—especially since I watch these with Henry’s arms wrapped around me.
After the fireworks, Dr. Jamison stands up to dance with Claire and Amy. Christine has fallen asleep in Emma’s arms. I sit on a log, with Henry sitting in front of me, his hands holding my arms, which are wrapped around him, my chin resting on his head.
I watch Dr. Jamison, the man who has so much compassion that he’d helped and taken care of me when I was a virtual stranger, who had offered his help and kept my secret. He is who I wish my own father was—a man who will roll up his pants and dance in the sand with his daughters even if he thinks he might look silly.
I look at Claire, the girl with excellent fashion sense and immense talent who has befriended me and made the differences in our ages unimportant. And Amy, the shy girl who sometimes comes up next to me and slips her hand into mine timidly, or will sit next to me, content to sit quietly.
I turn to Emma, watching her rub her chin lightly over Christine’s head, watching her husband and daughters with love shining from her eyes. The woman who has raised my Henry to obsess over being a gentleman at all times, just so that he won’t disappoint her.
Grandpa Henry and Grandma June are sitting together in a folding loveseat. They have also accepted me and love me unconditionally; especially Grandpa Henry, who knows everything about the horror that is my life and has kept it to himself, and has not treated me any differently for it.
I squeeze Henry, who turns to smile at me before turning back to watch his sisters. He has given me these people that I have come to love so strongly. I’d be content to just have him, but he has given me so much more. I feel a peace and contentment that I don’t think I will ever be able to duplicate, but I know I’ll always have this memory.
Chapter Sixteen
We fly home on Saturday night, so that we will have a day to relax before returning to school on Monday morning. I’m reluctant to return to my house, feeling the familiar anxiousness in my stomach as soon as the plane lands.
We first go to Henry’s house, where we transfer my suitcase and extra bag that I had to get to bring home all of the gifts and souvenirs I have received to Henry’s car. I have even brought my parents home a bottle filled with sand and some carefully chosen seashells from the beach.
I receive hugs from everyone, and am made to promise that I’ll spend more time at their house, since they will miss me, which is going to be a difficult promise to keep since I already spend most of my time here.
Henry opens my door and as I climb in, I place a hand in my jacket pocket and feel the other secret that is now between Grandpa Henry and me.
Guilt floods me as my fingers touched the thick envelope, stuffed with ten one-hundred dollar bills. He insisted I take it for, as he called it, an “emergency fund.”
“You don’t have to use it. But I would feel better if I knew you had it, so that if you need an out, quickly, you have an option,” he told me.
I argued, but he had insisted, and somehow I’d found myself boarding the plane with the money in my pocket. I plan to bury it deep in a drawer and when I move out of my house, I’ll send it back to him.
Henry drives me to my house, the trip all too short. He parks and helps me unload my baggage, then pulls me into his arms, which are warm against the cold night air.
“How am I going to stand not seeing you all day, every day?” he asks, hugging me.
I don’t answer, wanting to cry at the thought of returning to my dismal life, knowing I have to wait until Monday morning to see him again.
“Are you sure I can’t help you carry your stuff inside?” We’ve had this argument many times before, and I can hear in his tone that he already knows the answer. “I really should meet your parents. It seems wrong to hide us from them.”
“Henry, it’s complicated. You know that. The day will come when you can meet them,” I say, having a hard time imagining when that time might be. “But not yet. Please.”
He sighs, giving in. He kisses me, then climbs back into his car and leaves. I feel the cold seep into my skin at the loss of his contact, and with both dread and a little hope, turn toward my house.
I wonder what the chances are that her good mood has lasted.
My father’s car is not parked in the driveway—not unusual for a Saturday night. I drag my luggage up the front steps. I pull the money-stuffed envelope from my pocket and push it into one of the suitcases before opening the door. I have to pull one suitcase in while holding the door open, and then turn back for the other. Before I can retrieve the second one, though, I hear her call my name.
“Kathryn! That you?”
My heart sinks like a stone. I know that tone only all too well. A lifetime of training to obey turns me toward her, leaving my second bag on the porch. I see immediately that her eyes are hooded and glassy, pupils dilated. I want to walk away, but my feet moved toward her, seemingly of their own volition. She sits on the couch in the dim light of the lamp.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demands, deadly quiet.
“I…I went to Florida, remember?”
I see a flicker of remembrance in her eyes, but she pushes it away, intent on her anger.
“Who said you could do that?”
You, I think, but don’t dare say it aloud, well trained in my responses. It’s then that I notice the house—it’s a disaster. Trash litters the floor; old plates of food are on the table and floor. It smells like some of it has probably been here the entire time I’ve been gone.
She follows the trail of my eyes, and her eyes flare in response.
“Do you see this mess?” her voice is getting higher now, her words coming faster. “You made this mess, then left to go on some vacation,” she spits the word out, “leaving this here for me to clean up!”
Because I’m still staring around me in revulsion, already picturing the hours of hard work it’s going to take to clean it up, I almost don’t see her next move. With one fast motion that I didn’t know she was capable of, she has risen from the couch, a metal baseball bat in hand, swinging toward my head.
I throw my newly un-splinted arm up instinctively. The bat smashes into my weakened arm, continuing its arc to slam against the side of my head. I fall to the ground, the pain from my shattered arm the only thing keeping me conscious as I gasp. Self-preservation has me scrambling to my knees to get away from her even as she swings the bat down again, the hard metal rocking forceful pain through my spine as it makes contact, stealing my breath away.
I’m on the floor again, rolling away as the bat comes down again, this time missing my head by inches. This enrages her and she lets out an animalistic screech that scares me more than any screaming she has ever done before.
The wall is next to me and I push my throbbing back against it, using it as leverage with my good arm to push myself into a standing position as the bat comes hurtling again, this time making violent contact with my stomach. I double over involuntarily and she swings again, bringing it down across my upper back. That propels me forward. It’s the end table that breaks my fall, knocking the lamp to the floor, the light bulb popping and leaving us in inky darkness. The only light shines in th
e window from the street lamp. I roll across the table onto the couch, using that as a temporary barrier to gain my feet.
She swings toward my face, catching me on the cheek with shattering pain as the world swims temporarily out of focus. I fight to keep consciousness as I look at her, see her face contorted in horrible rage, and know that she will kill me if I don’t get away. A picture of Henry flashes into my head, and with it I find a reserve of strength from somewhere inside. I stumble toward the kitchen, but she anticipates me and comes around the couch from the other side, beating me to the door.
She swings the bat up again and my good hand intuitively comes up in defense. The end of the bat slams into my palm and I close my hand around the bat, my injured hand coming up to lend strength to my grip. Before I have time to think, acting on survival instinct, I shove it toward her, the handle thrusting into her chest with enough force to propel her backwards. She doesn’t expect that and so she isn’t prepared. The force sends her reeling backwards. Without time to try to break her fall, still clutching the bat that I quickly release, she falls to the tile floor. I hear her head hit with a sickeningly loud thud.
The force of it also sends me stumbling backwards, and I land on my battered back with crushing hurt that takes my little remaining breath away. I lay still, gasping, knowing I have to move before she gets up again.
Painfully, I roll onto my stomach and start to push myself forward with my feet, unable to rise, crawling as the world undulates around me. I have to get away. I can feel blood pooling beneath me, smearing with each forward push. I only move a few feet before I can’t go anymore. My head is reeling, consciousness a barely held onto thing. Finally I lay still, waiting for her to return, to finish what she started.
Henry.
His name runs through my head, memories and thoughts incoherently jumbled together. I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here, painfully trying to breathe, before I realize I haven’t heard her move.
Oh please, I pray, let her be unconscious.
At the thought that I might still get away, I push myself forward again, but the effort and pain cause the room to spin precariously, so I stop.
Henry, I think again, and as if my thought has summoned him, the borrowed cell phone in my front pocket begins ringing. I manage to painfully lift my hip up enough to reach in and pull it out, my bloody fingers slipping the first time. I finally wriggle it out, pushing it along the floor near my face, knowing without looking that it’s him. I push it open and try to say his name.
“Hey, Kate, I know I said I wouldn’t call yet, but I couldn’t wait. I wanted to talk to you now,” I hear his voice coming from the speaker. I take a ragged breath.
“Henry,” it comes out a whisper.
“Kate? Are you there?”
Please, please, I plead silently.
“Hello? Kate?”
“Henry,” I gasp again. This time he hears, and in the ragged words hears that there is something wrong.
“Kate? What’s wrong?” There’s an edge of panic in his voice now.
“Police…call police,” my voice is wet and torn.
“Kate! Katy, hold on.” I can hear Henry talking frantically to his father, who immediately guesses what has happened. He takes the phone from Henry.
“Kate? Are you still at home?” his voice is calm and authoritative.
“Help…me,” I whisper.
“Get the police on the phone, Henry, and give them Kate’s address,” I can hear him telling Henry.
“Kate, are you hurt?” he says into the phone to me, his voice concerned but strong.
“Help me,” I whisper again.
“Kate, help is on the way. Try to get into a closet or somewhere safe if you can,” I can hear the worry beginning to creep into his words.
His words are fading. I want to tell him to tell Henry that I love him, that I will miss him. Because I’m dying—I can feel it. But there aren’t any words left. A soft, warm darkness enfolds me and I give myself to it.
Chapter Seventeen
There’s white all around me as I slowly blink my eyes open. Well, I think foggily, everyone talks about the white light. There’s also a steady beeping sound, and a rhythmic whoosh of air with a clicking sound. Something is pulling heavily on one side of my mouth, and I feel bound, as if I couldn’t move if I tried.
“Well, well, look who finally woke up.”
A woman comes into view with a kind face, and I’m surprised that angels dress like…nurses? I try to speak and am unable to form any words, only making sounds in my throat.
“You won’t be able to speak, sweetie. You have a tube down your throat that’s helping you to breathe.” I have to breathe in heaven? I move an arm and feel pain shoot up into my shoulder. I wince, beginning to suspect that I’m not in heaven at all; which means either I’m in hell, or I’m not dead at all—neither one a pleasant prospect.
“I can give you something for the pain if you’d like,” she tells me. “But it will probably make you sleep again, and there’s someone here who would like to see you.”
She looks meaningfully across me, and I turn my head slightly. There’s Henry, sitting in an uncomfortable looking chair in the corner, asleep. His face is unshaven, several days worth of whisker growth there, making him look older. I realize I’ve never seen him any way but clean shaven.
Tears form in my eyes and run from the corners of my eyes at the sight of him there. I look back at the nurse, who looks concerned that I’m in too much pain, but she sees something else in my eyes and smiles.
“He hasn’t moved the whole time you’ve been here. It’s been all we could do to get him to leave the room while we were doing the things we needed to. Even then, he only went outside the door. Quite a devoted young man you have there.”
She walks across the room, which I now recognize as a hospital room that is inexplicably filled with flowers. She shakes him gently on the shoulder, calling his name.
“Henry, there’s something you should see.”
Henry shoots straight up, body tense as if he’s expecting something bad, eyes immediately flying to me. I stare back at him, and confusion passes across his face as he sees my eyes, then disbelief. He looks at the nurse, and she nods. His eyes come back to mine as he stands. He slowly walks toward me, as if afraid that any fast movement will change what he thinks he’s seeing.
He comes near, his own eyes shiny with tears as he reaches out a finger, catching my tears on his fingertip. He rubs his thumb and fingertip together as if to reassure himself that the tears are real.
“Kate?” My name is a question. His hand caresses my cheek and I lean into it. He bends down, laying his forehead against mine, his eyes inches from mine.
“Kate,” he breathes, relief evident in his voice. He closes his eyes and swallows loudly. “Please be okay,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look into mine again, and there I see love mixed with the relief, and something else, too. Guilt?
“I’ll just go call the doctor, let him know you’re awake,” the nurse says. We both hear her but neither of us looks away, absorbed in each other.
“I didn’t think…I thought you might not ever wake up, Katy.” He swallows, blinking as he reaches down blindly for my hand with his free hand, enfolding it in his own, gently. “I would have died.” I try to shake my head fiercely at the thought of Henry dead, impeded by the tube in my throat. I can’t begin to imagine him dead—beautiful, vibrant, kind, caring, very alive Henry.
The nurse comes back into the room, trailed by a respiratory therapist, and the doctor who had just been coming in to see me anyway. Henry stands up, stepping slightly back, but keeping hold of my hand.
“You gave us quite a scare, young lady,” the doctor tells me. I don’t know him, have never seen him before, wonder if he’s as good a doctor as Dr. Jamison, though he probably wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a veterinarian.
“Let’s try to get that tube out of your throat, huh?” I nod, wanting to talk to
Henry. “We’ll pull it out, but you’ve been dependent on it for a while so it might be difficult for your body to breathe on its own. We might have to put it back in,” he warns.
He and the nurse step forward, forcing Henry to step back. He moves to the end of the bed where he can see me. They pull the tube out, me coughing and gagging at the sensation. The respiratory therapist steps forward and places a mask over my face, pumping a big bulbous thing on the end, forcing air into my lungs. For a moment I feel as if I’m suffocating, then my body’s instincts kick in and my lungs pull in a small breath of air on their own, then another and another.
The three medical people beam, looking like proud parents. A canula is placed in my nose and oxygen begins flowing.
“Henry,” my voice comes out thick and raspy, barely above a whisper. Henry smiles his wide smile that I love so much.
“It’s going to take a few days for your voice to work right,” the nurse tells me.
Henry comes back to my side, leaning down to kiss me softly on my freed lips.
“I love you,” I mouth.
“I love you so much,” he returns.
It’s a slow, painful recovery to even get to the point that I can get out of bed. I have respiratory and physical therapists every day. My lungs seem well on their way to recovery. I’m informed that one lung had been punctured by a broken rib and the other collapsed when it filled with fluid. My body is weak from disuse, so the physical therapy is harder, especially since I still have many broken bones.
It was two weeks from the time of the attack to when I woke from the coma. There are scans and tests performed by an occupational therapist that determine there’s no obvious brain damage.
Henry never leaves my side.
His parents, Claire and Amy have all come in to see me, Emma and Claire crying when they see me. Claire promises to make me a special outfit to wear when I leave the hospital, and Amy silently slips a four-leaf clover into my hand. Emma later tells me she had found it the year before and has been keeping it for luck. I’m touched that she would want me to have it; I need all the luck I can get.
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