Chapter 19
Opening my eyes seemed like an impossible task, so I didnʼt even attempt it. People spoke in hushed tones around me, but I couldnʼt distinguish one voice from another, much less individual words. Strong cleaning chemicals strained to mask the decidedly more human smells underneath.
“Scout?”
I knew that voice. It took a couple of tries, but my eyelids finally managed to pry themselves away from one another. Everything was slightly blurry and surreal. The television blended seamlessly into the cabinet that faded into the wall that was attached to the head of a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair, petite features, and sky-colored eyes.
“Mom?”
Crap, that hurt. My throat was raw and bruised, my tongue triple its normal size.
“Iʼm right here. Everything is going to be just fine.”
“Where--?” Had someone washed my tonsils with a Brillo pad? I didnʼt know it was possible for a throat to hurt so much.
“Youʼre in the hospital. There was an accident.”
Hospital? Accident?
I remembered being in the woods with Alex. He had let me see him as a wolf, and then--
Oh God.
“Alex! Mom, Alex! We have to help Alex!” I bolted up, but immediately slammed back onto the pillow. Someone was screaming, a blood-curdling, ear-splitting sound that filled the tiny room.
“Scout! Donʼt try to move!” Mom placed her hands on my shoulders to restrain me, but it was unnecessary. I couldnʼt move if I wanted to. The pain blazing in my stomach was all-encompassing. Mom glared at the portly woman in Sponge Bob Square Pants scrubs I hadnʼt noticed being in the room. “For the love of God, give it to her before she busts her stitches out!”
And then the world went black again.
***
Our final play in Shakespeare was to be Romeo and Juliet, a rather unimaginative grand finale, in my opinion. With the exception of that really pretty version with a pre-balding Leonardo DiCaprio, I pretty much hated Romeo and Juliet. The plot never made sense to me.
Two teenagers kill themselves in the name of love after knowing each other for a couple of days? I didnʼt get it.
Lying in the Vanderbilt University Medical Center, I finally understood. Alex and I had known each other less than nine months, yet I had curled up with him on the ground that night with the intent of dying by his side. Instead, I ended up in a hospital room where my parents took turns watching over me - Mom continuously checking the monitors, IV drips, and pillow situation while Dad stared blankly at the television. I spent my time watching the rain pound against the tiny window, disappointed that my shattered heart still managed to beat.
I had four lacerations stretching from just under my right breast down to my left hip. Two of them were deep enough to have nicked some muscle. I had forty-eight stitches across my abdomen and three more in my shoulder where I had fallen against a tree branch. That, I vaguely remembered. I couldnʼt, however, figure out how I managed to break two of the bones in my left hand.
The main concern, according to my mother, was the amount of blood I lost. During the course of my two day drug-induced coma I received eleven units, which was apparently a lot. I didnʼt need anyone to tell me they werenʼt sure I would pull through; the haunted look in my parentsʼ eyes told me that much.
I wondered if they could see how much I wished I hadnʼt in my own.
My parents never asked me what happened or why I was in the forest in the first place.
They never spoke of Alex. They made sure I was as comfortable as possible and honored my every request, save one.
On my second day of semi-consciousness my mother announced, beaming, that someone was there to see me.
“Mom, please. No visitors.”
“They arenʼt visitors; theyʼre family.” She opened the door and ushered Jase and Angel into the room.
It was unfortunate they had unhooked the heart monitor that morning. If it had still been displaying my heart rhythm for the world to see Mom would have been calling for a crash cart instead of slipping out to get herself some lunch.
They stood just inside the door, Angel timidly huddled against Jaseʼs legs. There was no evidence that he had been in a fight, which was to be expected. When Shifters go from one form to the other the process repaired any damage to the bones or tissue that must tear apart and reform to complete the Change. In the event of a major injury - like Jason Haganʼs gunshot wound or Alexʼs fall - a Change would be triggered as a last ditch effort in survival.
I couldnʼt bear to look at Jase. I wanted to talk to Angel, to attempt to ease some of the fear I could feel radiating off of her, but I couldnʼt do that with Jase in the room. I could barely breath with Jase in the room, so I ignored them and went back to my new hobby - silently counting the water droplets that clung to the window. I was on droplet number forty-six when he broke the silence.
“Iʼm sorry.”
He was sorry? For what? Trying to eviscerate me or being an accessory to the murder of my boyfriend? It didnʼt matter. Apology was not accepted.
“Charlie is in the waiting room. He refuses to leave, not even to eat or take a shower. You have to talk to him.”
Droplet number eighteen, my favorite, decided he couldnʼt hold on any longer and fell towards the ledge, taking several unnumbered friends with him.
“I donʼt have to do anything.” I took a deep breath, congratulating myself on being able to get out a whole sentence. “I want to be alone with my sister.”
“Scout--”
“Please.”
I was as much shocked as relieved that he actually left. When I head the door click shut, I turned to Angel. Her hair was braided down her back, but several unruly curls had worked their way free, frizzing out around her cherubic face. She looked small and scared.
“I like all of my pictures,” I said, nodding towards the wall in front of my bed. Every time Mom came back from the hotel where my family was staying she brought a stack of drawings Angel made for me. I had her hang them on the wall so that I could see all the Get well soon’ s and I love youʼs every time the drugs wore off enough for me to wake up. My favorite was the first one on the second row. In it she had drawn two blond girls and a boy whose smile was so big it couldnʼt be contained by the round circle of his head. In his hand he had a plate of brownies. “Youʼre becoming a really good artist.”
Angel didnʼt say anything, but she did come over to the side of my bed. Her eyes would slide from my face to my stomach and back up again. Her bottom lip quivered.