Borrowed Heart

by Linda Lamberson

  “C’mon! C’mon!” I shouted at myself as I fumbled with my keys. “Damn it! Start the car!” I could barely see through the tears that were welling up uncontrollably in my eyes. When I finally found the right key, I shoved it into the ignition and started my car, revving the engine as loudly as I could before throwing the car into reverse. Ryan, who had somehow managed to put on his pants, ran after me bare-chested and barefoot in the snow.

  “Evie! Please don’t go!” Ryan begged.

  I couldn’t help but notice the irony of the moment. This was the second time in a span of a week that a guy had cried out to me, pleading for me to stay. In another context, in an ideal world, I should have felt like I was floating in Heaven; but, at that moment, I felt like I had crash-landed in Hell. I punched the accelerator and barreled out of the parking space backwards before Ryan could reach my car.

  “Evie! Please! I can explain! Just give me a chance to explain!” Ryan had positioned himself about fifteen feet or so in front of me, blocking my only exit route. His hands were raised defensively out in front of him as if he could stop my car from hitting him should I choose to ignore his pleas. I rolled the window down a crack.

  “Get out of my way, Ryan, before I run you over! I swear I will!” I revved the engine again purely for effect. The power of the engine rumbling under me felt good; it felt like the only thing in my control. Ryan stood his ground, not budging an inch. I certainly wasn’t going to let this son of a bitch stop me from leaving. I wanted to put as many miles as I could between Ryan Walker and me as fast as possible. I looked at him with daggers in my eyes. The bastard!

  The vengeful part of me wished I could hit Ryan with my car. I surveyed the asphalt—it wasn’t icy. I indulged myself a bit and popped the clutch, letting the car jerk forward about ten feet before I slammed on the brakes. It was enough to make Ryan jump out of the way. He looked scared, which only made me laugh out loud. I must have seemed completely deranged, but I didn’t care. Once Ryan was safely out of harm’s way, I punched the accelerator and peeled out of his apartment complex. I couldn’t drive away quickly enough.

  “And to think I drove to Champaign to confess my sins!” I shouted. I bit my bottom lip so hard I could taste blood. I was furious. I slammed my fists into the steering wheel to release some of the anger churning inside me, but I found no relief. I slammed my fists down again and screamed. I could feel the steering wheel vibrate from the blows. Never in a million years did I think that Ryan would do this to me. How long had this been going on? Were there other girls? Did he screw around in high school too? Had I been too blind to see him for what he really was—a liar and a cheat?

  So much for forgiveness. Ryan and I were one hundred percent over. I knew I was being hypocritical, but based on the Fujita scale, my mistake was an F-1, at most an F-2. Ryan’s mistake, on the other hand, was a full-blown F-5.

  My cell phone was going nuts. I turned it off and tossed it into my bag. I couldn’t deal with anyone right now, let alone Ryan. I just wanted to be alone for the trip back to Bloomington.

  It started snowing shortly after I hit I-74. I hadn’t even thought to check the weather report before leaving Bloomington that afternoon. Large wet snowflakes started to pummel my windshield as I sped down the highway. It was an understatement to say that my mom’s hand-me-down car didn’t handle snow well. And despite my overwhelming desire to get as far away from Ryan as I could, I still had enough common sense left to slow down.

  It wasn’t until halfway home that I realized I’d gone emotionally numb. I couldn’t feel anything. The rhythmic sound and motion of the windshield wipers had me in some sort of trance. Swish-swish. Swish-swish. Swish-swish.

  Emotionally anesthetized, I felt safe enough to begin running through the past couple of years, searching for some evidence, some clue or sign, something … anything that would make sense of what I had just witnessed. I couldn’t figure it out. How could Ryan do this to me? If there had been one person I thought I could always trust and count on, it was him. How could I have been so wrong?

  I replayed the scene in Ryan’s apartment and felt queasy. Well, at least now I knew what had caused that unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach when I first decided to go to Champaign. It was fate trying to tell me what I’d find when I got there. If only I had listened. I could’ve been spared the ugly details now coursing nonstop through my head.

  I eased up on the death grip I had maintained on the steering wheel for the last hour-and-a-half and stretched out my stiff fingers. I took a deep breath. Oddly enough, when I exhaled I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my chest.

  “Open your eyes, Evie, and take a good look around; or you’re going to miss something great sitting right next to you.” I heard Quinn’s words echo in my head. I pictured his blue eyes. I smiled and stepped on the gas. I was suddenly anxious to get back to Bloomington.

  6. Head On

  Headed southbound on the local highway between Indianapolis and Bloomington, I was twenty-five miles north of campus when I slowed down for the red stoplight ahead of me. The light turned green before I reached the intersection, so I sped up. Twenty yards or so from the light, a pickup truck coming from the other direction unexpectedly swerved and made a left turn in front of me. I reacted immediately, preparing to slam on the brakes at a moment’s notice if necessary, and watched the truck clear my path.

  That was a little too close for comfort, I said to myself as I glared at the truck angrily. I turned my attention back to the intersection only to gasp in terror. A car had followed the pickup truck and was turning left in front of me as I entered the intersection.

  No! This can’t be happening! my mind screamed in alarm. I slammed on the brakes with both feet, but it was of no use. There was no way to avoid the car. It was almost as if the driver was aiming straight for me.

  “NO!” I shrieked, clutching the steering wheel, bracing myself for the impact. In that moment it was as if everything was moving in slow motion. I became hyper-aware of everything that was happening to me—and of everything that was about to happen. I could feel every muscle in my body tense up. I could hear the screeching of my tires on the pavement and smell burning rubber. My heart was pounding in my ears. My chest ached like my heart was trying to beat its way out of my body and save itself.

  Memories of my life flashed before my eyes. I saw my parents. Mom, Dad—I’m so sorry! I love you! Random images of me at various stages of my life raced through my head. I saw my friends. Thank you, God, for giving Rachel strep throat. I thought about the schoolwork I’d never do, the dorm room I’d never again see, and the classes I’d never take. And … I saw Quinn’s deep blue eyes. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” I heard him say.

  SLAM! I heard the metal of my car being crushed inward as I collided head on into the side of the car that had so recklessly and perilously positioned itself in my direct path. I was thrown forward. I could feel my seatbelt lock and the pressure of the belt against my ribs.

  SNAP! Part of my plastic seatbelt buckle broke, and I was catapulted forward a few inches while the intact portion of the buckle strained to hold me back. I heard more metal crunching and scraping. I smelled smoke and gasoline fumes. My front windshield shattered, and glass fragments rained down on me. All the while, my hands gripped the steering wheel of my car and both of my feet were firmly planted on the brake. My car swerved out of control and started careening into the right lane.

  CRASH!

  What was that? I spun my head to the right just in time to look out my passenger window before it shattered.

  “What the—?” I shouted in fear. Another car had come up from behind, slammed into the right side of my car, and somehow fused itself to my passenger side. Both cars began spinning out of control together. I saw a shower of sparks fly between us as our cars were grinding together. Then I heard the sound of sheet metal tearing as our cars were ripped apart by sheer momentum. My car was flung into the median, and finally, miracle of all miracles
, it stopped. Only then did my driver’s side airbag deploy, which did nothing except fry what little nerves I had left.

  It took me a minute to realize I’d survived the crash. I was still alive. I grabbed the charm hanging around my neck, reveling in my good fortune. Thank you! Thank you! Not today. It was not meant to be today.

  Everything seemed eerily quiet. My mind went on autopilot as the urge for self-preservation kicked in. It was as if a voice in my head began walking me through a mental checklist of what I needed to do.

  I smell smoke; something could be burning, the voice whispered urgently. Turn off the car.

  “Okay,” I responded out loud as I turned off the car and removed my keys from the ignition.

  Are you hurt? the voice asked.

  “Not too bad, I think,” I said as I conducted a mental inventory of my body.

  Can you move? the voice continued.

  “Yes,” I replied numbly.

  Get out of the car—it could explode.

  “Okay.” My hands trembled as I fumbled to open the door.

  Walk away from the car.

  “Okay.” I slowly stepped out of the car, carefully finding my balance and assessing my body for any injuries.

  Don’t look back; you’ll only freak out, the voice continued.

  I was sure my car was totaled, and I knew looking at it would only make me realize just how close to death I had come this time. I shuddered at the thought.

  I spotted the third car involved in the accident, which was not more than fifteen yards behind me in the median. The driver, a middle-aged man in a dark grey suit, was standing beside his car talking on his cell phone. He had a nasty gash in his forehead, but it didn’t seem to faze him much. I assumed he was going into shock. The front of his car was smashed in and most, if not all, of the sheet metal on the driver’s side was ripped off.

  “You all right?” I called out shakily.

  “Yeah,” the man responded. “You?”

  “Yeah … I think so.” I still couldn’t believe it myself. I had survived! Not only that, I was actually walking.

  “What in the hell was that asshole thinking?” The man scowled, looking at the old-beater sedan that had caused the accident. I followed the man’s eyes across the highway to the shoulder on the opposite side of the southbound lanes. Without so much as glancing to see if there was any oncoming traffic, I bolted across the road, determined to get the answer to that very question. What kind of a person would pull such a stupid stunt?

  The “asshole” was still in his car. He was hunched over his steering wheel, groaning.

  “What in the hell is wrong with you? You could’ve killed us!” I screamed, but nothing was registering with the driver. It sounded like he was gasping for breath. No, that wasn’t it. He was dry-heaving. He was going to throw up! The driver looked up at me, but his eyes couldn’t focus on anything. He tried to say something, but he was slurring incomprehensibly. I took a few steps closer to the car and was overcome by the smell of alcohol.

  “You’re drunk!” I yelled, enraged. That was the last straw. Whatever emotional numbness I had been fortunate enough to feel on the way home from Champaign was instantly gone. I could no longer contain my wrath, my fear, my anguish, my disgust, my guilt—any of it. I looked at my car across the median; it was almost unrecognizable—a smashed-in, crumpled-up heap of scrap metal. Horrified, I looked away. The magnitude of what had just happened began to hit me. I started to shake uncontrollably; I was losing it fast.

  Not knowing what to do, I started backing away from the drunken idiot hunched over in his car. I had to get away from him. I had to get away from everyone and everything. I took another step backwards and then another.

  “Stop! Get out of the way!” someone hollered.

  “Hey, little lady, what do ya think you’re doing?” another voice shouted.

  Were they talking to me? I looked around, but my head was spinning. My ears were buzzing. I couldn’t focus. Nothing was making sense.

  I snapped out of my haze when I heard the loud horn and the sound of screeching brakes. My eyes darted over my right shoulder. But by the time I realized I was in trouble, it was too late. I saw a pair of lights rushing towards me. Like a deer in the headlights, I was frozen in the middle of the highway, absolutely terrified. There was no time to run. There was no place to go. I was acutely aware that I wasn’t going to get out of this unscathed. Not this time.

  “Bad things always happen in threes … I’m sorry.” Madame Sasha’s words rang like a death knell in my ears.

  I heard screaming—my screaming. The headlights were so intense and bright, they blinded me. Still, I couldn’t turn away.

  The impact of the pickup truck launched my frail body into the air. It felt like I’d been struck by a semi moving at warp speed. Instantly, an agonizing tidal wave of pain slammed into me. I felt like every bone, every organ, every part of me had just ruptured into thousands of tiny pieces. I thought I felt myself hit the pavement, but I couldn’t be sure. My lungs burned, desperate for air, but no matter how hard I gasped for breath, they remained empty. And then everything went black.

  7. Rude Awakening

  I awoke to the smell of a wood-burning fire. The faint scent of pine trees and cedar welcomed me next. Something else was familiar, too … the smell of my sheets, my blanket, my room. Not my dorm room, but my bedroom at home. I opened my eyes to discover that I was back in Sawyer.

  What am I doing here? I asked myself, thoroughly confused. Then I vaguely remembered the car accident. I stirred slightly, waiting for the unbearable pain of my injuries to sweep over my body at any second. But nothing happened; I felt fine. In fact, I felt better than fine. I felt oddly refreshed and well rested.

  I turned my head to let the sun streaming in through my bedroom windows beam across my face; it felt so warm and welcoming. I looked around and saw the white beadboard on the walls and vaulted ceiling of my room. The floor was made from reclaimed wood—a feature that my parents were not shy about sharing with their guests. “All of the wood was dredged up from the bottom of the Mississippi River; each plank is well over one hundred years old,” my parents would announce proudly to their friends when we first moved into the house.

  My full-sized bed took up most of the room, but there was still space enough for a small desk and chair, a bookshelf, a narrow dresser, and my bedside table. All of the furniture was white. Most everything was white. Even my bed linens were varying shades of white, accentuated by muted stone, taupe, and straw-colored throw pillows. I never realized how sterile my room must have appeared to an outsider. My alarm clock was across the room on my dresser; it was just after two o’clock in the afternoon.

  I heard someone rustling around downstairs. I pictured my mom in the kitchen slaving away, making my favorite comfort foods. She did it every time I was sick … or hurt.

  “Ugh.” I cringed at the thought of what I had put my parents through. They must have been so worried when they found out about the accident. How long had I been unconscious? Days? Weeks? Longer? I looked out my bedroom window and saw the thick blanket of snow that covered the backyard and the partially frozen lake in the background. It was still the dead of winter. Relief washed over me as I realized I couldn’t have been unconscious for all that long.

  I wanted to let my parents know I was awake. Feeling up to the challenge, I decided to test my strength and walk downstairs to the kitchen rather than call out for them to come up to my room. I sat up gradually. A dizzy spell hit me almost immediately and I paused. When the spell passed, I grabbed my bedpost for support and slowly and carefully stood up. I didn’t dare let go until I knew I had my balance. Once assured that I wouldn’t fall flat on my face, I tentatively took a small step forward, not yet trusting my legs. I let go of the bedpost and looked down at my feet as I took two more baby steps.

  “Okay. So far so good,” I mumbled to myself. I lifted my head to see how much progress I had made towards my bedroom door.

&nb
sp; “What?” I muttered in disbelief. I was no longer in my bedroom. In those few steps, I somehow had made it all the way downstairs and was now standing in the kitchen doorway. Shocked, I did a double take from where I was standing to the staircase I’d apparently just descended. I had no memory of walking out of my room, much less walking down a flight of stairs and through the living room to the kitchen. Panic and nausea hit me simultaneously. Maybe I wasn’t feeling as well as I thought.

  Blackouts are a common occurrence among trauma victims—right? I asked myself nervously. I didn’t know the answer to my own question. The monster lurking in the pit of my stomach began to growl uneasily.

  “Mom?” I called out anxiously. My throat was so dry; I felt like I had swallowed a handful of sand.

  No one answered. Maybe no one had heard me.

  “Mom? Dad?” I tried to muster more strength in my voice. “Are you here?”

  “Your parents aren’t here, Eve,” responded an unfamiliar male voice from the family room off the far side of the kitchen.

  Startled, I took a step backwards, partially concealing myself behind the doorway of the kitchen and the living room.

  “Who’s there?” I asked hesitantly, my voice barely audible. It wasn’t like my parents to leave me alone with a complete stranger without any warning. It was even more unlikely that they would have done so while I was unconscious. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if, after the accident, my mom had camped out in my room the entire time I was home until she knew I was in the clear. She was probably so worried that she insisted my doctor do daily house calls.

  “Are you my doctor?” I called out to the stranger.

  “Not quite,” the stranger chuckled. “But I am here to help you.” The man stepped around the corner into the kitchen so I could see him. If I had to guess, I would have said he was in his late-twenties, maybe early thirties. He was quite attractive, but not particularly striking. Every feature of his face fit well together, but not one feature stood out. He had short dark brown hair and hazel-brown eyes, which had a certain warmth and sincerity about them. He smiled at me, which somehow eased my tension. He was wearing a thin, pale-blue crewneck sweater over a white T-shirt, a pair of khaki pants, and brown loafers.