“Mom?” My voice sounds croaky, and my throat is really sore. “What are you doing here?” But then a sinking sensation fills all the spaces in my brain and my aching body, where I feel hollow. I try to move, pushing up on one elbow only to lower myself back again. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I hope that’s not the case.
Wasn’t it morning? Afternoon, maybe, last time my eyes were open? How is it dark?
“Hush now.” My mother fusses with the blanket. Why is she here? She lives in Florida, and I live …
“Mom, whereishere?” I swallow audibly, and Mom brings a tumbler of water to my lips. Her expression. I know before she says it. I’m in the hospital. My brain supplies the rest. I’m in a hospital in London. And it happened.
“You gave us all such a fright, but you’re okay now.”
“Oh.” She means okay for now. This much I know. Hey, but at least I’m not dead. I want to laugh before a black thought ripples through my head. Maybe I was dead, but I’m still here. Everything seems to fade into the distance. It happened. The thing I’ve been trying to ignore while living my life happened—and I came out on the other side.
“Mom, where is—”
“Dad?”
No. The other one. Daddy. Whit. The man I love. The man I tried to make go away. But I nod, because that’s what she expects. “He’s gone with Whit to get some of your things. Why didn’t you tell us you were staying with him?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I say, pressing my head into the pillows. I don’t want to talk about it, but I feel like there’s a lot to be said. A lot of questions to answer as I lift my hand and press it to my chest.
“When he told me about the unexploded bomb. How crazy, sweetheart. You might’ve been hurt.”
I ball my hand into a fist. Which ticking time bomb are we talking about? I survived the first and the second. The third, I guess we’ll see.
“Well,” she whispers, covering her hand with mine. “It’s safe to say we haven’t stopped worrying about you since you left.”
“I know.” Old habits are hard to lay down.
“The doctor will be coming around in a little while. They want to fit the ICD before you leave.” Though her voice is strong, her eyes plead.
An ICD. An implantable cardioverter defibrillator. A machine that could shock my heart into a rhythm should I suffer… well, what just happened, I guess. But it could also shock the hell out of me whether I need it or not. In other words, my heart is the first ticking time bomb, an ICD the second.
But getting away was never just about that.
I sigh as, under my fingers, my heart beats like it should. For now. How long did it not beat for, I wonder. And who found me?
“Will you? Now?” My mother reaches for my hands. “Please, Mimi.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t have it fitted. I just said I needed time.”
“We nearly lost you,” she whispers, turning her face from mine. She shouldn’t spare me her tears. I know she should make me watch as I turn my hand under hers, my turn to offer her reassurance.
I’m here. It happened before I was ready for it. “I’ll do it.” Because really, what other choice do I have?
* * *
Doctors come and go, nurses, too. You’re not allowed to sleep in a hospital, it seems. I’m told that, while in a coma, my parents and Whit were told it wasn’t certain whether I’d survive the experience. I’m also informed I’m very fortunate because not only did I live but it seems I don’t bear the scars. Neurologically, at least.
Almost two days in a coma. Where did I go because I have no memory of it?
How they must’ve suffered, my parents and Whit. How they must’ve worried.
It’s safe to say I feel that guilt.
Given the choice, I’d still do it again. I’d still leave.
Sometime later, hours, I think—it’s hard to judge when you’re in the hospital—I open my eyes. It’s still dark, but Whit is seated in a faux leather chair at the left of my bed. His sweater looks wrinkled, and his jeans look less than pristine. His jaw is covered in a thick rasp of stubble, and his hair is a mess.
“Hey,” I whisper, reaching to rub the sleep from my eyes.
