Rain Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 5)

by Catherine Gayle

  But with Ethan in my hospital room, I didn’t suffer the same frustrations.

  He would fold his huge body into one of the too-small chairs in the room, which had to be horribly uncomfortable, and sit by my side.

  Most of the time, he didn’t say anything. I often opened my eyes after a nap and found him staring at me. Not in a creepy way, though. He stared as if trying to catalog everything about me.

  When the nurses came in, he recited a long list of my vital signs and any tiny changes he might have observed in me, whether it was a rattle in my breathing, or the fact that my pulse slowed every time I drifted off to sleep and he wondered if that was normal or if they needed to do something about it, or even the tiny pink bump he’d noticed on the back of my hand that he wanted them to check out, in case it posed a concern.

  How had he noticed the bump on my hand? I could barely even feel it if I dragged the pad of the thumb from my other hand across it, so why would he notice such a thing?

  I was a mess of cuts, bruises, broken bones, and tubes running through my body until I couldn’t tell where the machines ended and I began, but Ethan somehow saw everything.

  He saw me.

  It was enough to make me cry for wishing he were with me during all the times he wasn’t, while at the same time wishing he would stay away because I didn’t want to be noticed.

  Being noticed could only bring me danger. With Hayes, any time I’d somehow gone without him noticing me, I also went without him hitting me.

  But Ethan’s attention was different, somehow. He made me feel precious and cared for. I was terrified of getting too accustomed to the ways he made me feel, because it couldn’t last. It was only a façade, something that would fade away with time, much like the cuts and bruises were already starting to fade.

  I tried to guard myself against the loss of him, because it was coming. Nothing good in my life ever lasted. The only things that stuck around were the bad things, the ones I wanted to be free from, like Hayes.

  Hayes. He hadn’t been here, not once, at least not when I’d been awake. I wanted to ask about him, but I couldn’t make anyone understand me.

  Slowly but surely, my voice was growing stronger, but I still wasn’t ready to ask this question. Because I didn’t want to know the answer. I feared the answer.

  Sometime soon, though, I’d have to ask. I wouldn’t be able to put it off much longer.

  If not for the small window on the other side of my room, I wouldn’t know whether it was day or night. Everything ran together for me, with nurses coming in around the clock and waking me up in order to check my vital signs or change the bag of IV fluids or to give me another dose of some medication or another.

  “You’re starting to seem more like yourself,” Dana Zellinger said to me one time.

  More like myself? What did that mean? I shook my head, confused.

  “You seem like you’re starting to understand what’s going on,” she said. “At first, every time you woke up, you were in another world, almost. We couldn’t tell if you knew who we were or what was happening.”

  “I just want to go home,” I said, almost sobbing the words, but at least they came out as something more than a whisper. But where was home? I didn’t want to go back to Hayes. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Not unless Hayes dragged me back once they let me leave the hospital. Would he do that? He might.

  I couldn’t go home with him. Not ever again. Not unless he was finally going to end it.

  Dana’s little boy patted her on the knee and said, “Up!” so she bent to pick him up and settle him on her lap.

  “I don’t know how soon they’re going to let you leave,” Dana said. “They’re supposed to be moving you to the rehab unit later today, though, which is great news. It means you’re that much closer to being allowed to go home.”

  And it also meant I was that much closer to having to figure out where I’d go and what I’d do with myself once I got there.

  But still, no one mentioned Hayes.

  I supposed I could try calling my parents and seeing if they would allow me to come back to their house. And what if they refused? When I’d first gotten involved with Hayes, they’d essentially cut me off. Besides, how would I get to Michigan in this kind of shape and with no money?

  Thinking about these things only made my head hurt, so I decided not to focus on them too hard. I couldn’t leave the hospital yet, anyway, so there was no point worrying about things I couldn’t control.

  Which, to be honest, was everything. I couldn’t even control my bladder.

  At some point, they’d taken out the catheter, but I was still receiving IV fluids and therefore needed to pee constantly. By the time I realized I needed to go, it was already too late, never mind the fact that I had to press my call button, wait for a nurse to arrive, which didn’t always happen very soon, and gingerly make my way from the bed to the bathroom, which was awkward since I couldn’t bend my left knee.

  I started to wish they’d give me adult diapers, because that would be easier, even if I’d be mortified for anyone to see me that way.

  But then again, how would being caught wearing diapers be worse than being seen in a puddle of my own urine? Or having everyone know all the things Hayes and his friends had done to me?

  If I kept everything in perspective, the mortification level went down by a degree or so each time the nurses had to change my bedding.

  Usually.

  It depended entirely on who else happened to be in the room with me.

  If it was one of the WAGs, I didn’t mind too much. Especially not when it was London, because she followed it up by telling me horror stories about learning to live with a urine-collection bag taped to her leg, laughing through the memories.

  If she could laugh about it, I could, too, right? Maybe someday, at least.

  When it happened and I had a room full of detectives asking me questions I couldn’t answer, because I still couldn’t speak very well even though I didn’t have machines breathing for me any longer, and because I didn’t want to be forced to think about all the things I’d been through, I wished I could crawl under my bed and not have to come back out for a month. But at least in those instances, the nurses shooed all the detectives out of my room and wouldn’t let them come back for a while.

  It hadn’t happened yet when Ethan was with me, but I knew it was coming. And no matter how well I braced myself against the indignity, I knew there was no way to truly prepare for it.

  I’d just have to deal with it when it happened.

  And it might very well happen soon, because he was due to arrive any minute if what London told me was true.

  I reached for the remote control. They’d looped the cord around my bed rails so I wouldn’t lose it and to keep it from getting tangled with all the various and sundry tubes still connected to my body. But once I had the thing in my hand, I couldn’t remember which button called the nurse and which turned on the television, so I stared at it for a long time, trying but failing to make my brain work.

  “You want to call the nurse?” London finally asked.

  I nodded. “I need to pee.” The words were so soft I could barely hear them myself, so there was no way the nurse would be able to make out my request on the intercom.

  London nodded, though, calm and collected and completely unfazed by my memory lapse. “It’s the red button. The big one at the top.”

  I pressed the button she’d indicated, even though in my foggy brain, I thought the red button was the one that controlled the television.

  Apparently she was right, though, because the TV didn’t come on.

  The nurse didn’t respond over the intercom, either, though. Not for a long time. So long that, whether I’d needed to pee before or not, I really needed to go now, since I was thinking about it.

  I pressed the button again, hoping they’d answer soon, because I was sick to death of wetting myself, and even if some of my guests could possibly help me, I didn’t think Lond
on could. She was in a wheelchair, herself, so how could she get me into one, wheel me into the bathroom, get my clothes off, and help me onto the toilet?

  Short answer: she couldn’t.

  I jammed my finger against the red button so hard that I thought I might break it. It was going to happen. I knew it. My eyes filled with tears of frustration.

  London took the remote from me and set it just out of my reach. “I’ll go find someone, okay? It’ll be all right.”

  But it wouldn’t be all right. That was the problem. Nothing was all right, and I didn’t think it ever would be again.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying and forced a nod. Then she wheeled herself out into the hall.

  A couple of minutes later, my door opened again.

  I looked over, hoping to see London and a nurse coming to my rescue, but I completely deflated when Ethan’s tall, powerful frame filled the open doorway.

  I wanted to see him.

  I wanted it more than I should, because I had no business relying on him the way I had been lately.

  I just didn’t want him to see me. Not like this.

  It was such a contradiction, but I couldn’t control the randomness of my thoughts and emotions. They were as much of a mess as the rest of me.

  Then I did the worst thing I could possibly have done. The one thing I hadn’t allowed myself to do throughout all my time in the hospital.

  I burst into tears.

  And as soon as I did that, I wet myself again, which only made me cry harder.

  THERE WERE A lot of things in life I could handle without batting an eye.

  I could handle being a single father and maintaining a good relationship with my kid’s mother, despite not being able to make things work out between us within our marriage.

  I could handle answering the tough questions my son asked me, even when they made me uncomfortable or when there weren’t any good answers to be had.

  I could handle being a middle-of-the-road defenseman on one of the worst teams in the entire National Hockey League, knowing it could mean I might never have a shot at playing for the Stanley Cup, because at least it meant I had a good career playing a game I loved and, if I was smart and saved the bulk of my earnings, I should always be able to provide for my family.

  I could handle standing up to my own abusive father and the rat bastards who’d done this to Natalie.

  But I could not handle seeing her break down in tears in the very same moment I stepped into her room. It felt like she was literally ripping my heart out with each strangled sob and with every tear that dripped onto her hospital gown and turned the delicate baby blue into a deeper shade of sky blue that matched her eyes.

  I had never felt more inadequate in my life.

  I crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, but she shook her head frantically and tried to push me away, so I jumped up again. “What’s wrong?” I asked, desperate to brush her tears from her eyes, to sweep the hair back from her forehead, to soothe her in some way. “Tell me so I can help.”

  But she was crying so hard that she was choking on the sobs and there was no way for her to tell me anything at all.

  A weighted sense of uselessness had me collapsing into one of the lavender armchairs in defeat.

  Natalie pinched her eyes closed, refusing to look at me.

  I felt as if she’d punched me in the gut.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I choked out, praying she wouldn’t ask me to go. But I would. If she wanted me to go, I would.

  But even though she wouldn’t look at me, she shook her head no.

  I took in a relieved breath, still confused, but at least she wasn’t going to kick me out.

  Her tears kept falling, and she was taking frantic, gulping breaths in an effort to make the sobbing stop, but every time she opened her eyes, she cried harder than before.

  London wheeled into the room and stopped next to me. “What happened?” she demanded accusingly, as if whatever had gone wrong was my fault. “What’d you do?”

  For all I knew, she was right and I’d fucked up royally.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I walked in and she started crying.” Talk about a blow to my confidence. And my ego. Yeah, Natalie’s crying probably had nothing to do with me, but it sure felt as if it were all about me.

  I didn’t like that. The thought that I could have done something to upset her made me want to bash my head against the wall.

  Natalie caught London’s eye and crooked a finger for her to come closer. London wheeled over and bent her head close to Natalie’s. I couldn’t make out what she was saying—her words were strangled by sobs—but their whispered conversation didn’t take long. Within a few seconds, London was nodding and backing away from the bed.

  Then she turned around and gave me a sympathetic look. “Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee or something?” London suggested. “She’ll be fine, and she doesn’t want you to leave. Not completely, at least. Just give us a few minutes, all right?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong?” I asked, staring at Natalie because I needed the answer to come from her. “You swear it’s okay if I come back?”

  “Come back,” she croaked, still blinking back tears.

  “Ten minutes,” London said. “At least it shouldn’t take any longer than that if I can get a nurse in here to help. Maybe you should knock before you come in, though, just to be sure we’re in the clear.”

  “I’ll stop at the nurses’ station on my way to the cafeteria and make sure someone’s coming,” I said. Then, my feet heavy and my heart starting to crack, I backed out of the room and closed the door behind me.

  There weren’t any nurses at the station as I went past, which was probably why no one had responded yet. Made sense, even if it was frustrating for Natalie.

  It wasn’t about me. I kept reminding myself of that as I paced through the halls. I was concentrating so hard to remember that whatever had upset Natalie had nothing to do with me that I forgot where I was going and ended up in the maternity ward instead of at the cafeteria.

  Several newborns were on display through the windows, with friends and family peeking through the glass and taking pictures of their little bundles of joy. It was such a dichotomy, a stark contrast to the hellish nightmare going on only a short distance away within the same building. New life and unbridled happiness bursting from the seams only a minute’s walk away from hellish devastation.

  But it wasn’t so many days ago that Natalie was a thousand times worse than she was now. I had to remember that. She was recovering at a miraculous rate, at least physically and mentally. Her emotional state was yet to be determined, and I had no doubt it would rebound far more slowly, if ever.

  I finally found my way to the cafeteria and fixed a cup of coffee for myself. I grabbed another for London, just in case, and picked up a few pastries and a couple of individual-sized cartons of milk. I’d seen the shit they were feeding Natalie, and that wouldn’t help her heal any faster. It made no sense to me why the food in the cafeteria for guests was so much more appetizing than what they served patients. Maybe a sugary treat wasn’t the best thing for her, but she’d hardly eaten anything since waking up, and I wanted her to eat something. And at least the milk would give her some good protein. She’d been losing weight while she’d been in the hospital, and frankly, she didn’t have that much to lose.

  After paying for my purchases, I loaded them up into a carrier they had handy, then headed through the convoluted hospital corridors and returned to Natalie’s room. Since I didn’t have any hands free, I kicked at the door with the toe of my shoe to knock. The last thing I wanted to do was walk in while they were changing her or something and embarrass her. And since the door was closed, they might still be doing something that would require privacy.

  London opened the door and gave me a cursory once-over. “All better now,” she said.

  Was it really okay, or was she just trying to appease me? Either way,
I raised a brow. “Yeah?”

  “It will be if one of those is for me,” she said, eyeing the coffees on my tray. “If you’re planning to drink coffee in front of me and not share, though, we’re going to have issues, you and me. And I’ll make sure that also means my husband has issues with you. You don’t want to have my surly Russian angry with you. Promise. Maybe you’re bigger, but he’s meaner.”

  Surly certainly fit Dima, but I wasn’t so sure I’d ever call him mean, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue with London right now.

  She backed out of my way and let me bring my goodies into the room. Natalie cautiously met my eye as I set the carryout tray on the wheeled cart they kept in front of her.

  I opened one of the cartons of milk since she seemed to have trouble opening things, and I could have sworn there was a hint of a smile in her expression. It was hard to tell, buried under bruises and swelling and bandages, but her eyes glinted just a bit.

  That was the first true sign of life I’d seen in her since the night this had all started—the first indication that she might come out of this on the other side. Not unscathed, and certainly not unchanged, but she was going to pull through.

  She was a fighter.

  I’d been a fighter, too.

  Maybe she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for yet. Maybe she’d never know. But I knew what I was fighting for.

  I was fighting for her.

  THE GIRLS HAD taped a large calendar onto the wall in my hospital room, close enough to my bed that I could see it whenever I was awake. Every morning, when one of them arrived, she would mark a big red X over that day on the calendar, helping me to see how much longer until I would be discharged.

  I had to go to therapy in the mornings, but the girls made sure I had guests every afternoon of my stay, to help keep me calm and sane. I wasn’t sure if they’d worked out a rotation to be sure that every day was covered, but whoever was visiting me at any point in time always knew who would be coming next. I was rarely alone other than in the middle of the night when I ought to be sleeping.