Something is happening. I’m not sure what—and I sure as hell don’t have any control over it—but despite the urgent desire to try and move, I stay perfectly calm.
And then I feel it … a twitch, followed by another twitch … and another.
I hear the door open and then someone starts talking, but I’m too absorbed in the feeling of these little spasms taking place throughout my body to pay too much attention to the conversation. Out of nowhere, my eyelids get yanked open and I cringe when a bright light shines in my face. A garbled moan falls from my mouth, and I can tell by the burning pain ripping through my throat that an actual sound is coming out.
“Katie!” my mom squeals. “She’s awake! She’s moving!”
My eyelids feel heavy and weak, and each time I try to crack them open, the light in the room blinds me. Someone must notice because the next time I try to open them, the light is turned off, which makes it so much easier. I blink several times, and the blurry figure in front of me slowly comes into focus. “Mo-om,” I croak.
“Oh, Katie.” She buries her face into the side of my neck. Without thinking, I lift my arm. It’s heavy and sore, but I manage to drape it awkwardly over her shoulder as she cries. “I was so scared. I thought I’d lost you too.” Her words barely have time to register before my arm slips from her back and my eyelids drift shut, and despite my best effort, I can’t get them to open back up. “Katie?”
I thought I’d lost you too.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Devora. This is normal. I’m going to go let Dr. Cantrell know that she’s starting to wake up.”
What does that mean? Who else did she lose?
“Thank you—” Everything around me cuts to black, and my body goes limp as the dark hole sucks me in again.
“Hey, pretty girl.” Warm lips touch the side of my head. I have no sense of time, but I hope I wasn’t out too long. “I go home for thirty minutes to take a shower and change clothes, and you wake up. What’s that all about, huh?” My eyes flutter open and I catch a glimpse of Wyatt’s handsome face before they drift shut again.
“She’s stubborn as hell.” Bailey! Wyatt laughs at my sister’s accurate description, and the bed dips low next to my hip. “Always stubborn. Even when you’re unconscious.” Bailey’s breath fans the side of my face before she kisses me on the cheek. She whispers I love you, kisses me once more and pulls away.
Every muscle in my body screams when I try to shift in bed. My body feels bruised and battered, and I’m stiff as hell.
“Katie?” I peel my eyes open, and this time two faces are peering down at me. “Don’t move, sweetheart.” Wyatt is watching me with open adoration. That look, combined with the unshed tears glistening in my sister’s eyes, causes my chest to constrict. My gaze bounces around the room, and alarm bells begin ringing in my head when I notice the IV pole sitting off to the side. My eyes follow the tubing, which is attached to an IV in my arm, and a pulse oximeter is wrapped firmly around my middle finger.
Everything floating around in my head is still a jumbled mess, and I start to panic because, for the life me, I can’t figure out why I’m here.
“Wyatt?” My voice is hoarse and raw, and I desperately need something to drink.
Beautiful blue orbs are watching me, filling with tears, and I feel a few of my own slip down the side of my face. Wyatt reaches out and brushes them off my cheek. “I’ve missed you so much, Katie.”
“What happened? Why am I here?” I ask, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Why did he miss me? How long have I been here?
Bailey slides Wyatt a sidelong glance that he quickly returns, and it’s almost as though they’re having some sort of silent conversation. My eyes bounce anxiously between the two as I wait for someone to answer me. Obviously something bad happened or I wouldn’t be laid up in a hospital bed feeling like I got hit by a train.
I watch as my sister’s head lowers. She swipes a hand across her face and I can see, despite her attempt to hide it, that her chin is trembling. “I ca—” Her voice breaks and she shakes her head. “I can’t.” Lifting my hand, I reach for Bailey, but she spins away from me and runs out of the room.
Shifting in bed, I make a move to go after her and my entire body screams in protest. Sucking in a sharp breath, my gaze snaps to Wyatt and he runs a shaky hand down the front of his face. “What—” I shake my head, panic and fear settling thick in my bones. “What the hell is going on?”
“Katie—” Wyatt sighs and looks away. His jaw ticks several times, and when his eyes find mine again, they’re full of grief. “I think we need to wait for your mom to come back.”
My stomach churns as my mind races to try and make sense of what’s going on. I come up with absolutely nothing—and that frustrates me even more. “No, Wyatt.” With my eyes locked on his face, I reach for his hand. He wraps his fingers around mine and squeezes them lightly. “Tell me,” I beg.
But even as I say the words, snippets of memories and broken conversations flash through my mind.
My mom crying.
I’ve already lost so much.
I can’t lose her too.
I thought I’d lost you too.
“Damn it, Wyatt,” I growl. His eyes search mine, and I can tell that he’s trying to decide what to do. “Please. Please tell me.” Frustrated, I lift my free hand to my head and wince when something pricks my finger. What the hell?
Gently, I run my hand further into my hair and follow what I presume to be stitches, finding that they stop just above my ear. Rubbing my thumb over the pads of my fingers, I hold my hand in front of my face, inspecting it closely. My hand shakes when I see the blood smudged on the tips of my fingers.
Blood on my head.
Sore, stiff body.
What the hell happened to me?
“You had to get fifteen stitches to close the gash above your temple,” Wyatt states softly. The distinct sound of tires squealing ricochets through my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut as memories start flooding in. “It took them forever to get it to stop bleeding.” I hear what he’s saying, but the flashbacks are pouring in too fast for me to stop and ask questions.
Headlights flashing. Honking … swerving.
“You also have twelve stitches to a laceration on your left arm.”
Metal crunches, glass shatters, tires squeal.
My heart races inside my chest and I grip the fabric of my gown, trying desperately to anchor myself to something.
“Three fractured ribs…”
My body flies forward, then it’s yanked back again before being tossed violently from side to side.
I wince, clutching my head. Too much … this is all too much. My breaths are becoming more and more shallow as anxiety trickles through my veins.
“And you have a bruised left hip.”
Moaning … gurgling … my head lolls to the side and I crack my eyes open.
My eyes drift shut. The memory of the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.
Blood. Lots and lots of blood.
My eyes snap open and I search the room. Someone is missing. Where is Dad? Oh God. No. No, no, no. Please, no.
My mom comes barreling into the room at the same time realization hits me.
“Da-ad!” I scream. Mom comes to an abrupt halt at the end of my bed and her hand flies to her face, covering her mouth. She blinks once and tears start rolling down her face.
“Katie …”
I hear Wyatt say my name, but everything seems to be happening in slow-motion and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from my mom, who’s watching me with a look of fear mixed with pain. She takes a hesitant step forward, as if I’m a wild animal and she’s trying to decide the best way to approach me. My eyes follow every move she makes, and when she sits next to me on the bed, opposite from Wyatt, she drops her hand from her face so she can brush her fingers along my cheek. Her beautiful eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and the dark circles around them tell me just how much pain she is in. I swallow hard whe
n her bottom lip trembles because I know—I can feel it in the pit of my soul—that whatever she’s about to tell me is going to rip my life to shreds.
“Katie,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.
“Dad. Where’s Dad?”
“Daddy—” Her voice cracks, and once again she plasters a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. A tight band constricts around my heart. Lifting my hand, I rub absently at the ache in my chest.
“Shhh … it’s okay.” Bailey’s soothing voice catches me off-guard.
“Bailey?” I ask frantically, needing to see my sister. She walks to my bed and drapes her arm around mom’s shoulder. Tears are dripping down her flushed face and she looks at me for a brief moment, her lips pinched together, before she gives a slight shake of her head.
That one movement is monumental and packs a mean punch of silent words that slam straight into my gut. And that’s all it takes to confirm my worst nightmare—the one thing I was most fearful of.
My heart pounds wildly inside my chest, and one of the monitors I’m hooked to makes a shrill sound. A nurse rushes into the room as I fight to keep my emotions in control. She flits nervously around me, checking my pulse and pushing buttons on the machines, and when I struggle to sit up, she helps me. Her eyes are sad, and I instantly know that she’s aware of what’s going on. “Try to relax,” she whispers before exiting the room.
The minute the door shuts behind her, something inside of me shatters.
“No!” I cry. “Ple—ease, no…” Slumping forward, I wrap my arms around my stomach. In the blink of an eye, several sets of arms come around me, holding me as violent sobs wrack my body.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, Katie.”
“We’ll get through this.”
Words of comfort are whispered, but with the blood rushing through my ears and the pounding in my head, I can’t make out who they’re coming from … or maybe I just don’t care. Everything around me becomes muffled except for the two words that keep echoing through my head.
He’s gone.
Oh my God, he’s gone.
“No!” I cry out, trying to curl myself into a ball, only to feel the grip around my body get tighter. “Nooooo. Oh, God—” I choke on my own words as I fight to suck in air. A mangled cry rips from my lungs when a knife-like pain stabs through the center of my chest, shredding everything in its way as it carves a path straight to my heart and then even deeper as it slices straight through my soul.
Hundreds of memories flash through my head.
Standing on his toes as we dance across the kitchen.
His smile the first time I hit a home run in Little League.
My hand slides into my hair as a memory chokes me.
Waking up in a vehicle, seeing glass and metal twisted around me like a cage I can’t escape from.
The memory jars me, and an instant later I see another image.
My Daddy tying my hair in pigtails, tugging playfully at each one, telling me I’m his little princess.
I grip my head tighter as the pleasant memory dissipates into something frightening.
My father is covered in blood, his eyes are cracked open—lifeless—and I watch, helplessly, as the color drains from his face.
This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone … he just can’t. I didn’t get to say goodbye. A deep groan rumbles through my chest at the thought of never getting to see him again, or hug him, or tell him I love him. “Ple—ase,“ I beg, hiccupping through the sobs.
“I know, baby. I know.” This time I recognize my mom’s sweet voice, and I fist my hands in her shirt and hold on for dear life.
I have no idea how long we sit here and cry. Minutes … maybe hours. But I eventually cry myself to sleep, and when I wake up some time later, the room is dark, lit only by the dull glow of the moon filtering through the window. At some point during the night, everyone must have switched places because Mom and Bailey are both asleep with their heads on the bed at either side of my body. Bailey’s arm is stretched across my legs as though she’s holding on to me, and I reach out a hand and brush it softly across her forehead. Wyatt is passed out in the recliner next to my bed, his head propped awkwardly on a rolled-up sweatshirt.
Stretching my arms above my head, I let out a big yawn. My heavy lids bob several times as my sleep-induced fog lifts, and within seconds, I’m being slapped in the face with a heavy dose of reality.
My nose burns with impending tears, and I take a deep breath to try and hold myself together—if only for a minute. And really it’s only a couple of seconds. Bending forward, I bury my face in my hands and I bawl. My chest physically aches, and if hearts can truly break, then mine has been demolished. The thought of not seeing my dad every day scares the living shit out of me. He was the first man to ever love me, and knowing that he’s gone—knowing that he’ll never walk me down the aisle or teach my kids how to saddle a horse—is devastating. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try and remember everything about him that I possibly can because suddenly I feel the need to catalog every memory.
Christopher Devora was a bear of man. Six foot two and well over two hundred and fifty pounds. His thick hair was the most beautiful shade of silver, but you never would’ve known it because he refused to go anywhere without his Stetson. I’ve been told countless times that my rich chocolate eyes are the exact replicate of his, and I’ve always taken that as a compliment.
He was so much more than just my dad—and he was an amazing dad—he was also my best friend. Sure, I was close with my mom, but growing up I was a daddy’s girl through and through. Dresses and makeup? No, thank you! Most days you would find me in a ball cap and cowboy boots, raising hell on the farm. Everything he did, I did, and not once did he make me feel like I couldn’t do something just because I was a girl. By the time I was twelve, I was helping him break horses, mend fences and I could change the oil in every tractor, four-wheeler and snowmobile in our shed.
“Katie?”
I look up, wiping the tears from my face, and find my mom watching me.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head. Her eyes are still bloodshot and puffy—from all the crying, no doubt. I can’t even imagine the hell she’s gone through.
I lean back on the bed. “Not long. Ten or fifteen minutes.”
Nodding her head, she offers me a tremulous smile. “You were thinking about him,” she observes, already knowing the answer.
“What day is it?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation. My emotions are too raw and I’m not ready to talk about him yet. Or maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I’ve convinced myself that if we don’t talk about it, it isn’t true.
“It’s Saturday night,” she sighs, running a hand over her tired eyes. “God, Katie—” Looking up at the ceiling, she blows out a long, slow breath and then her glossy eyes find mine. “The past forty-eight hours have been hell. After the accident, you didn’t wake up and I was scared out of my mind. At first, they didn’t know the extent of your injuries, so they were running tests and scans. But all I knew is that you weren’t waking up, and I … we had lost so much. I just knew I wouldn’t survive if I lost you too.” The look of sorrow on her face is too much to handle and I instinctively reach for her, pulling her against my chest.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” She buries her face in the side of my neck and wails. “I can’t live without him, Katie, I can’t.” Her body shakes against mine, her tears running hot down the side of my neck, and I tighten my grip around her small frame, silently promising to help her get through this. He may have been my dad, but he was her husband … the love of her life … her soul mate. They were supposed to retire and grow old together.
“I’m so sorry, Mama,” I cry, desperate for her forgiveness. It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to die. I was supposed to drive that night, not Daddy. Guilt settles in my gut, shame prickling my skin, and I swallow past the bile rising in my throat. “This is
my fault.” She pulls back, shaking her head from side to side.
“No, Katie.” Her soft hand brushes the wetness from my face, and this time she gathers me in her arms and pulls me to her chest. “This is not your fault, sweetie. There is nothing you could have done.” I open mouth to argue with her, but she doesn’t give me the chance. “You guys were hit by a drunk driver.”
“What?” I gasp, pulling out of her arms. I vaguely recall being hit by another car, but I had no idea who it was or even how it happened. “Did the other person survive?”
Mom nods her head. “He survived. We don’t know much more than that.”
Emotion clogs my throat. “He should’ve died,” I choke out over a sob. “Not Daddy. It should’ve been him.” Or me, I think to myself, it should’ve been me.
There is no way to explain it, but the thought of this man—this drunk man—still living and breathing makes me physically ill. It isn’t right, and it sure as hell isn’t fair. He should be the one taken away from his family—not Dad.
Anger seeps into my body. I try to fight it—try to push it away—but it feels so much better to be mad at him than to feel this gut-wrenching pain. So I let the anger infiltrate my soul, and I let it dull my pain.
“Even My Dad Does Sometimes” – Ed Sheeran
“BREAKFAST IS READY.”
I jump at the sound of Bailey’s soft voice. The shovel slips from my grip, but I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground. “Holy crap,” I breathe, my hand clenched above my heart when I turn to face her. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” she says, yawning. Tucking her hands in her coat pockets, her feet shuffle against the ground and she yawns again before sitting on one of the straw bales in the corner. My brows furrow and I cock my head to the side. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my baby sister up before ten o’clock in the morning, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw her step foot in this dirty barn.
A Lover's Lament Page 3