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The Song in My Heart

Page 16

by Richardson, Tracey


  Erika heard it before she saw it. The wind sounded like a truck engine bearing down on them, gathering speed and intensity with each second. She turned in time to see a web of metal scaffolding buckle, then topple in slow motion like a child’s Meccano set. A speaker crashed onto its side. Lights dangling from the scaffolding suddenly let go of their hold, shattering on the stage below.

  “Dess!” Erika yelled, her heart in her throat. But even as she yelled and tossed the mic away and began to run toward her, she knew she was too late. Metal, wood and plastic had tumbled down on top of Dess in a twisted, sickening heap, swallowing her instantly.

  Oh, God, Erika thought as the screech of metal and the roaring wind suddenly came to an eerie silence. “Dess!” Oh please, please don’t let her be hurt. Please, God, anything but that! Others had dashed onto the stage. Arms began frantically pulling at the debris, and people shouted for a doctor, for someone to call 911. Sloane was there pitching in, unhurt and trying hard to get to Dess. “She’s under there,” Erika shouted tremblingly, shock and fear paralyzing her. “Get her out of there. Hurry!”

  Slowly, a hand emerged from the rubble. It was Dess’s right hand, with the instantly recognizable emerald and gold ring on her third finger. Her fingers wiggled. “Oh, thank God,” Erika cried, her heart beating again, and she fell to her knees. “Dess, are you okay?” Shit, I’m supposed to be calling her Dora, she remembered too late. Oh, fuck it. “Please, baby, are you okay?”

  Sloane’s face was the color of chalk. She was closer to Dess and carefully bent her head into a small gap in the debris to get a better look. She gave Erika a tentative thumbs up.

  It was going to be okay, Erika decided. Because it simply had to be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dess’s groan came out muffled, the pressure on her chest squeezing it like a vise. She tried to take mental stock of her body, but it was impossible under the heap of material on her—some of it sharp and cutting into her, some of it heavy, like rocks. Her arm hurt like a bitch—she knew that much—and it hurt to breathe.

  Sloane was yelling at her, saying they were going to get her out of there. She thought she heard Erika’s voice too, but her mind was swathed in gauze. Everything had happened so fast. She remembered a storm approaching. They’d just finished playing a song when all hell broke loose. She heard the crack of lights and scaffolding dislodging from above, but there’d been no time to escape, only time to throw an arm up to try to protect her head. It seemed to be still pinned above her. Pain lanced through her again and again, stealing what little breath remained in her lungs.

  Sirens, faint in the distance, and voices that were loud and persistent, gave her some measure of reassurance. The noise also kept her from giving in to the dizziness, the pain and the blinding fatigue. She wanted to sleep, to disappear. But she also feared never waking up again.

  Strong hands pushed away the last of the debris, but someone shouted that they shouldn’t move her until the paramedics arrived. The pain from her arm was a hot poker right up into her shoulder, and she groaned again. Louder now. Oh fuck, she thought. This isn’t good. My arm’s broken.

  Erika’s face appeared above her, hovering, and for a moment Dess wondered if it was her imagination or a dream. Then Erika tenderly stroked her cheek, and Dess cried tears of gratefulness.

  “Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay now. Help is coming. How do you feel? Where does it hurt?”

  She tried to speak, but the words refused to form. “Arm,” she managed to say through the pain and fog.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Erika said again. Her voice was hoarse, as though she were choking on her concern, and it tore at Dess’s heart. She wanted to turn the tables and reassure Erika, but she couldn’t move and could barely speak.

  “You,” Dess said, pushing out the words. “Okay? Sloane too?”

  Sloane’s face swam in her field of vision. Her eyes looked worried, but she was smiling. “We’re good. And you’re going to be good too.” She leaned closer to whisper. “The kid here is pretty worried about you, so don’t let her down, okay?”

  Dess tried to smile. “I’m tough.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me that. Takes more than a little old storm to knock the stuffing out of you, pal.”

  She closed her eyes as the sirens drew closer, wanting so badly to sleep. More than that, she wanted Erika cradling her, rocking her to sleep, whispering comforting words to her. Yes, it was exactly what she wanted.

  * * *

  Erika paced in the emergency department’s waiting room, trying desperately to keep from boiling over. She’d save it for the concert’s organizers, who’d refused to shut things down as the storm approached. She’d sue their asses off, and so would Dess. And as soon as she was sure Dess was okay, she was going to track them down and tear them new assholes.

  Sloane returned and handed her a cup of coffee. “You look like you want to kill somebody.”

  “I do want to kill somebody. One guess who that might be.”

  Sloane slumped in the plastic seat. “We’re lucky it wasn’t worse. But don’t go getting yourself sued or blacklisted. It’s up to Dess what she wants to do about this later, and the cops will investigate too. If there were safety violations, it’ll be dealt with, okay?”

  “Dess had better be okay, or else—”

  “She will be. Now sit.”

  Erika grudgingly took a seat. She didn’t want to sit here like a useless lump; she wanted to be with Dess. Her mind raced with questions that couldn’t immediately be answered. Like how Dess’s injuries might affect her in the long run. Whether she was going to be fit enough to play the rest of the tour. And more important, if Dess had to leave the tour, whether Erika even wanted to continue with it. She couldn’t imagine not seeing Dess every day, not having her right there onstage with her, not kissing her, not being able to hold her hand, not being able to make love to her every day. Her absence was something Erika couldn’t fathom right now.

  “This is all my fault,” she muttered, close to tears.

  Sloane sighed impatiently. “Don’t even start. We were all in it together, wanting to get through the set. And if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m the one who convinced her to join our tour, remember?”

  It was Erika’s turn to offer solace. “Right. Okay then. Let’s make a deal to stop blaming ourselves. It’s not like it’s going to help Dess, is it?”

  Sloane leveled scrutinizing eyes at her. “I can see why she loves you.”

  Erika’s heart somersaulted. “She loves me?” she asked weakly, hoping like hell Sloane wasn’t toying with her.

  Sloane waved a dismissive hand. “Of course she does. She just doesn’t entirely know it yet. Or maybe she knows it, but she doesn’t want to admit it. In any case, she does and she will.”

  “She will?”

  “Stop repeating everything I say.” Sloane laughed, and Erika did too. Laughing made her feel instantly better.

  A doctor—tall, thin, silver haired—strode purposely toward them. Her authority cloaked her like a suit of armor. “I’m Dr. Metcalf,” she said tersely. “You are the family of my patient?”

  Sloane answered for them. “Best friends. Her mother and sister are coming up from Chicago in the morning. How is she doing?”

  The doctor hesitated, her eyes suspicious. “My patient is noted as having some celebrity status. I can only give updates to family members.”

  “Please,” Erika implored. She was desperate and wasn’t beyond shaking the information out of this doctor.

  “We came in with Dess,” Sloane added. “We’re her bandmates, her best friends. Hell, I’ve been best friends with her for almost twenty years.” She pulled out her wallet, the leather so cracked it was curling, and flipped to a picture of the two of them. She flashed it at the doctor like it was a badge.

  “All right.” The doctor relented, and Erika’s tensed shoulders collapse
d in relief. “She has a badly broken arm and will require surgery in the morning. She also has a mild concussion and bruised ribs. We’ll need to keep her for a few days. She’s lucky. It could have been much worse.”

  “Thank you,” Sloane said. “And thank you for protecting Dess’s privacy. Can we see her?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s late and she’s on morphine anyway, so she’s not very aware of her surroundings at the moment. She needs her rest tonight.”

  Tears welled again in Erika’s eyes, as they’d done many times over the last couple of hours. She needed to see for herself that Dess was all right, but Sloane was steering her away from the doctor and toward the door.

  “Come on. We need to get back to Maggie anyway. We’ll see Dess first thing in the morning, okay?”

  Erika glanced back one last time toward the hallway. Somewhere in that maze, her lover, her love, lay seriously injured and alone. It tore Erika’s heart to leave her.

  “Seriously,” Sloane urged, tugging her along. “They’ll take good care of her, and besides, she would want us to look after Maggie for her.”

  Outside, as they waited for a taxi, a couple of reporters, a photographer and a television cameraman rushed up to them.

  “Hey,” a reporter said, pushing his way to the front of the pack. “You two are in the band, right? The one that was on the stage tonight when the storm hit?”

  Erika and Sloane traded a glance, one that implied Sloane would take the lead on this. Thank God for Sloane. “Yes, we were onstage, and we’re fine, thanks for asking.”

  Undeterred, the reporter pressed on. “What about the third member of your group? The guitar player named Dora Hessler? Is she okay? We heard she was hurt.”

  “Yes. She’s going to be fine.”

  A young woman stepped forward, the magazine reporter who had interviewed Erika and Sloane in Des Moines a couple of weeks ago. She shoved a tape recorder into Sloane’s face. “How badly was she hurt?”

  “Look,” Sloane said tonelessly. “You’re going to have to direct any other questions to the event organizers or to hospital officials. We have nothing else to say about it.”

  A cab driver with impeccable timing pulled up, and Sloane pushed Erika toward the car. Great, Erika thought. My first brush with the paparazzi. It wasn’t nearly as fun as she’d imagined it would be.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The pain in Dess’s arm was numb rather than acute. The drugs were doing their thing, letting her tread water, making her feel slightly apart from herself. The light from her hospital room window told her it was late afternoon. Her mother and her sister Carol were in the room, sitting quietly in chairs they’d pulled up to her bedside.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I must have fallen asleep again.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, sweetie,” her mother said, patting her hand—the one without the IV in it. “We just want you to get better.”

  “Dess, I’m so sorry this happened,” Carol said in a defeated voice. “I’d never have urged you to do this if I thought—”

  “No one could have known,” Dess said. “Besides, I’m going to be just fine. Right? Or is there something you two aren’t telling me?” The thought made her stomach bottom out, sending her back to that awful moment when she was told she had throat cancer and that surgery and radiation were no guarantees. Nothing could be that bad again, she decided, and she commanded herself to calm down. It was only a broken arm, and her mother and sister had always been honest with her.

  “Of course not, dear,” her mother replied evenly. “And yes, you’re going to be fine. The surgeon said your arm will be as good as new in a few months. It was a clean break.”

  “No nerve damage?” Dess asked, somewhat disbelieving of her mother’s simple prognosis. Victoria (never Vicki) Hampton had somehow maintained her eternal optimism and youthful looks, in spite of outliving three husbands and seeing a daughter through cancer.

  “No,” Carol interjected. “No complications are expected. You’ll be able to play the guitar again. Just not for the rest of this tour with Sloane and Erika.”

  Oh shit, Dess thought. Erika. She’d been hazily aware of Erika’s presence earlier today, of Erika kissing her forehead, touching her cheek. What would happen to their relationship if Dess had to leave the tour? Or should she tag along like a groupie? The thought both appalled and tantalized her. Groupie sex with Erika created a whole new collection of titillating fantasies, and she chuckled out loud before she could catch herself.

  “Boy, those drugs must be good,” Carol said. “I hope they’re manufactured by my company.”

  Her mother squeezed her hand while shooting Carol an admonishing look. “Come and stay on the island with me for the summer while you recover. Maggie and I will take good care of you.”

  “Sloane and Erika are looking after her, right?”

  “Yes,” Carol said. “They’re taking good care of her. In fact, you might never get her back. I hear she’s become quite the dependable little roadie.”

  Dess was so used to having Maggie by her side that the dog’s absence felt like a limb had been amputated. Maggie had been a gift to her from her family after the cancer had struck. And to combat her loneliness after Dayna’s departure. Maggie had been more loyal and much more of a comfort than Dayna had ever been, no question.

  “I hear Sloane and Erika are going to try to sneak Maggie in tonight to see you,” Carol said with a conspiratorial smile. “They said they’d do it even if they had to pretend one of them was blind and Maggie was their guide dog.”

  Dess laughed as much as her bruised ribs would allow.

  “Well?” her mother asked impatiently. “Are you going to accompany me back to the island after they let you out of this place in a few days?”

  Carol rolled her eyes. “Oh Mother, don’t pressure her. You know she and Erika are a couple now, and besides, being around music is good for Dess. Right, Dess?”

  “Whoa,” Dess said, her face burning. “How do you know I’m involved with Erika?” Had Erika or Sloane told them this morning while she was sleeping?

  “Duh,” Carol said, her eyes bright. “I can tell from the tone of your emails to me the last few weeks. And I can tell she makes you happy. Even now, while you’re lying here all banged up, you’re happy.”

  Dess thought of protesting or at least explaining that things weren’t necessarily serious with Erika. But the drug-induced fog was rolling in and dulling her thoughts once more. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.

  * * *

  Erika kissed Dess on the forehead and waited for her eyelids to flutter open. When they did, Maggie squirmed at her side and Erika reached down with a soft pat to quiet her.

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  Dess smiled lazily. “Hi. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too. And someone else is really glad to be here too.”

  Maggie lifted her head high enough for Dess to reach her.

  “Oh, my little angel.” Dess’s smile swallowed her face. “I missed you, Maggie Waggie. Are you okay, honey?” She stroked Maggie’s brown head and snout, and Maggie nuzzled her back. It was clear that being separated had made them both terribly unhappy.

  “She missed you,” Erika said around the lump in her throat. “And she’s not the only one.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.” Tears sprang to Dess’s eyes, and Erika quickly kissed her to snuff out her sadness.

  “We’ve been so worried about you,” Erika said softly. “I’m sure Sloane will only be too happy to tell you what a miserable bundle of nerves I’ve been since last night.”

  “Speaking of the devil, where is she?”

  “Making some calls. She’ll be here in a minute.”

  “No doubt she’s calling in every favor she can think of to find you a replacement for me. God, Erika, I’m so sorry.” Dess’s eyes were swimming again, and it was almost enough to make Erika want to cry. That and the fact that the Chicago Blues Festival next week wou
ld be her biggest and most prestigious festival yet. If Sloane failed to find a guitarist, their performance was in serious jeopardy.

  “Honey, it’s not your fault,” Erika soothed. “All that matters is that you’re going to be okay. Anything else is just a bonus.”

  “If I have to play one-handed, I—”

  “You’re not playing one-handed. But I can think of some other things you can do one-handed that would give me great pleasure.”

  Dess smiled, her eyes smoky, and Erika shuddered pleasurably. “Come here and give me another kiss.”

  Their kiss was more tenderness than flirtation, more relief and gratefulness than mischief and desire. For Erika, kissing Dess gave her an immediate sense of coming home, no matter their surroundings. If she could kiss Dess for hours, she would gladly do so.

  “Where’s Carol and my mom?” Dess asked, breaking their kiss.

  “Having dinner. They’ll be back later, though Carol told me they’ll probably head back to Chicago tomorrow morning, now that they know you’re on the road to recovery.”

  “Ah, so you’ve met Carol and know that she believes in telling it like it is.”

  “Yes, and she’s great. So is your mom.”

  “You might not think so when I tell you she’s pressuring me to join her on Mackinac Island for the rest of the summer.”

  Erika reeled for a moment. She couldn’t imagine being separated from Dess for the rest of the summer. She battled against the urge to selfishly beg her to stay. “Probably a wise suggestion,” she lied.

  “Maybe, but I don’t want to leave the tour, unless you’re kicking me off the bus.”

  Erika’s heart lifted like a jet plane soaring above the clouds. “Are you kidding me?” She lowered her voice. “But there is one thing concerning me about you staying on the tour.”

 

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