Despite the fact that he’d been gone for years, she’d kept his handkerchiefs. As I got older I recognized that she only brought them out on special days: her birthday, his, their anniversary, the anniversary of his death.
That morning the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I’d wanted desperately to turn around and run. I didn’t know where, but I did know that I wanted to disappear. To go anywhere else. To escape something I couldn’t see, but could feel.
She’d patted the spot beside her, and her expression told me that this gesture, this allowing me to sit on the sofa reserved for adults wasn’t something I wanted. But I sat beside her anyway.
She’d put her arm around me and hugged me. An apology fell from her lips, she murmured it like a mantra until she finally pulled away.
And told me my parents had been in an accident.
That they were gone.
I remembered the way I’d carelessly hugged them before they’d headed out for the night. I remembered the smell of my mom’s perfume, the scent of my dad’s cologne. His rough cheek against mine when he’d told me to watch Harley and make sure she didn’t eat an entire bag of cookies before dinner. I remembered his wink and his smile.
And how I would never hear their voices, feel their arms around me again, get to tell them I loved them one last time.
My sisters were still asleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had befallen us.
But I’d sat there with Gran that morning and watched her shine dim. And that had been the moment I’d realized that even though we’d all lost something that day, one of us had to make sure all of us could still shine, at least a little.
I blink several times and find myself back in reality, a personal hell of my own, and glance to the right. Declan is passed out awkwardly in a chair pulled up beside my bed. Based on the shadow of beard growth decorating his chin and cheeks, he’s been here for a while. His hair is all over the place, flattened in some spots and sticking up in others. The baseball cap in his lap accounts for that.
I open my mouth to speak, but it’s more of a rasp. My mouth is dry, and all I want is to drink a gallon of water. My stomach is roiling though, so I’m not sure it would be a great idea even though I’m horribly parched.
I clear my throat and try to wet my mouth so my tongue doesn’t feel so much like sandpaper. It helps, and this time I’m able to say Declan’s name. It’s barely more than a whisper, but he jolts as though he’s been Tasered. His ball cap falls to the floor and his wild eyes land on me.
“Ave? Oh, thank fucking God.” He clasps my hand between his, bows his head, and presses his lips to my knuckle. “I’m so glad you’re awake. I wasn’t sure … I didn’t think … I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t understand what he’s talking about. Or why he’d be sorry. I don’t have much in the way of memories. Just sounds I want to block out and pain that makes it hard to think. I note the needle in the back of my hand hooked up to an IV beside my bed. My right arm—the dominant one—is encased in a cast all the way past my elbow and is set in traction, keeping it raised and immobile. My left leg is also in a cast, all the way from my foot to the top of my thigh.
Real panic hits and the words are pitchy with fear. “What happened to me?”
“You were in a car accident. Thank God you’re awake. It’s been almost two days.” His voice cracks with emotion. “How do you feel? What hurts? What can I get you?”
“Thirsty.” Everything is too overwhelming to be able to get more than a single word out.
Declan clambers to his feet and almost face-plants into the nightstand beside the bed. He picks up a plastic glass of water with a bendy straw and brings it to my lips. I want to be able to do it myself, but I don’t feel strong enough to manage. As it is, I can barely muster the strength to suck the water through the straw.
Even tipping my head forward a fraction of an inch to meet the straw takes an incredible amount of energy. I rest back against the pillow, processing the various aches and pains. I’m foggy, and I don’t feel as if I’m quite connected to my body.
“How bad?” I don’t need to elaborate, considering my current state.
He sets the glass on the nightstand and takes my left hand in his, eyes flitting from my face back to the IV taped to my hand. “You have a broken ulna and radius in your right arm, and a fractured elbow. Your left tibia is broken and needed pins to keep everything in place while it heals. There’s a fracture in your fibula and femur. You also have a dislocated kneecap, bruised ribs, and some bruising and swelling in your face because the airbag deployed.”
“So really bad.” At least my sarcasm is still intact. It’s a deflection from the dread taking hold. Tiny fragments of memory filter in. The sound of metal scraping against metal. Starbursts of pain. Fear. Declan’s muffled voice. I can’t fit any of the pieces together, but I know it must be the accident that I’m remembering.
“I should’ve been with you. I don’t know what I was thinking. If we’d had my SUV, the rain wouldn’t have been a problem. I’m so sorry, Ave.” He chokes on the words and bows his head, fingers still wrapped around mine.
I want to be able to tell him it’s okay, but I’m in pretty rough shape by the look and feel of things. He’s not wrong. There’s a chance I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t flaked out on me. But at the same time, who knows if being in his car would’ve even made a difference.
I lie there, breathing through the pain, trying to piece together what happened to put me here. “The white truck.”
“Do you remember the accident?” His eyes are wide with horror, and I have to wonder what he’s seen and whether there was news footage.
Declan is very good at beating himself up over his mistakes. Usually it’s work- or sports-related—missing a goal or pass, losing money on an investment or not securing the client he wanted, but it’s not often extended to the people in his life, mostly because he’s not a relationship kind of guy.
He’s an extra loyal friend and he rarely lets anyone down. He’s the first to help someone move, or fix something, or paint a room. Need a date to a wedding? He’s a great wingman. Need a friend to go on a road trip? He’s always up for the adventure. So the fact that he ditched me for a random hookup hurts more than I expected. And now he’s going to beat himself up about it because the hurt isn’t just emotional—I’m in a bad physical state. The kind that tells me I’m lucky to be here at all.
I remember the guy in the white truck who couldn’t handle being stuck behind anyone, weaving through traffic, and using the merge lane to get ahead when he was tired of my cautious driving. He’d cut off a small car ahead of me, and it had been a flurry of hard braking. I’d followed suit, but with my tires and the slick conditions, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop in time, so I swerved toward the shoulder, hoping to avoid the car in front of me. Unfortunately, I must not have been the only person with that idea, because someone slammed into the back of my car, causing me to lurch forward.
After that, it was a lot of spinning and screeching and my own screaming. The memories are spotty. I recall bursts of pain I couldn’t escape and Declan’s voice, telling me he was getting help.