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“Why didn’t you just call?” I whisper, my voice catching as I press on past the awful scene. It’s the kind of wreck that everyone slows to rubberneck at; the kind of wreck that makes you think,someone is getting a life-changing call, someone isn’t going home after this.
But I can’t dwell on that, or I’ll end up pulling over and the tears and the devastation will come, and I won’t make it to the hospital; I won’t make it to Rowan’s side, to just be with him for whatever might come. Miracles happen; I know that, but when you’ve been through hell a handful of times, you can’t help but stop believing in them. Or, you start to wonder if you might be cursed, jinxing everyone who gets close to you, everyone who starts to care for you, everyone who might love you, everyone who means something to you. I guess that’s why I never used to stay in one place for very long, terrified that my black cloud would catch up to me.
I realize it sounds arrogant, putting myself at the center of everything, making myself responsible, without exception, for all the terrible things that happen around me, but when you’ve lived the life that I’ve lived, it’s impossible not to see yourself as the tremor that sparks the avalanche which wipes out everyone else. Meanwhile, I’m somewhere else on the metaphorical mountain, not even close to the danger, yet forced to watch what I’ve set in motion.
“Rowan, why the hell didn’t you just call?” I yell out, furious that I ever sent him away as I drive on, eyes blurring with tears I can’t hold back anymore.
As I keep driving, I find myself on the rails of an emotional carnival ride, though I can’t decide if it’s a rollercoaster or a ghost train or a hall of mirrors. Considering I’ve mostly kept to the cottage, and I haven’t much wanted to remember, there’s been no need for me to take a stroll down memory lane, but memory lane is now charging toward me whether I like it or not as I reach the bridge.
On the opposite shore is the little shack of the Bayou Bend, where Ben and I had our makeshift wedding reception, surrounded by friends and good music and warm beer. Further back is the casino where I worked the blackjack tables, making a couple good friends along the way, and one slick-haired, pain-in-the-ass, sleazy enemy.
The bridge itself is loaded with memory, the two sides splitting in half to let the future through, dividing the before and the after. This is where I lost Ben, this is where I truly fell in love with him, this is where I discovered the artist in him, this is where he swept me off my feet and made me think that anything was possible.
I hit the gas and hurtle up onto the incline, but I’m not praying for the barriers to come down so I can sit at the lights and glance into the bridge booth, reminiscing and wishing that I could still see Ben, positioned by his easel, painting whatever angle he’s chosen that day. I don’t want to dwell in memory when Rowan is waiting, though he doesn’t know I’m coming to him. I don’t want anything to get between me and him, and the revelation is nothing short of stunning. Memory lane is whizzing by with everythunk-thunk-thunkof the tires on the bridge, and I find that I don’t even care. Not in an unfeeling way, but in a “there’s no time for this” kind of way.
As my tires keep thudding over the very bridge where Ben took his last breath, I hold mine. The alignment of these events is nearly too much to bear, and I hold the air in my lungs, my chest tensing as ifI’mtaking my last breath. I cross the line where both sides of the bridge meet and exhale as quickly as I can, before taking a huge gulp of the salty Gulf air, as if I’m breathing for both Ben and Rowan. I can’t let them go. I just can’t.
I race down the other side of the bridge, speeding toward the hospital with a fierce single-mindedness. I cling onto that, since it’s the only thing keeping my head above water.
“I’m on my way, Rowan,” I murmur. “Just… stay until I get to you and then, stay some more.” It’s a feeble prayer, but it’s all I’ve got.
* * *
Exactly twelve minutes later,my tires likely still smoking in the parking lot, I barrel through the doors of the emergency room and sprint up to the window of reception. A weary-eyed woman stares up at me, a fleck of pastry or a cookie or something stuck to her lip.
“I’m looking for someone. He just came in on the ambulance. Car wreck on Beach Boulevard. I think he’s in the ICU,” I pant, bracing my hands against my ribs as I catch my breath.
“Which one?” the receptionist asks in a flat voice.
“Oh… um… Rowan Lauder.”
The receptionist taps on her keyboard and squints back at me. “You family?”
“Sister,” I blurt out, because there’s no way in hell anyone is keeping me in a waiting room because I’m not a relative and explaining that I’m his niece’s stepmom probably won’t cut it. “My name’s Lyndsey. I should be down as his next of kin.” I’m making a few big guesses here, but if the police called Lyndsey first, it’s not too much of a stretch to think she’ll be the name on his medical records.
The receptionist checks her screen and seems satisfied. “Turn right and follow the red line on the floor to the ICU. Can’t promise they’ll let you in if he’s gone to surgery, but there’s a waiting room down there.”
I don’t stop to fully listen to the end part, letting it drift into my ears as I run for the red line, following it all the way to a set of automatic double doors. Above, there’s a sign that says “Intensive Care Unit” but as I try to enter, the doors don’t open. On my left, a card reader glares at me with a steady, red light.
“Excuse me,” I flag down a nurse, “how do I get in? My brother just came in by ambulance. I was told he’s in here.”
The nurse swipes her card over the little panel, and it flashes green. “I’m glad they got in touch with family. He’s stable for now, but with a lung collapse, it can go sideways real quick.”
I’m a little shocked by the lack of security, and this woman just taking my word for it, but if it gets me through the double doors, I couldn’t care less. I need to see Rowan, and though I’m pleased he’s stable, I don’t want anything going “sideways”.
So, it comes as something of a surprise when I’m led into a small room, the air ripe with the stinging scent of disinfectant and a crowd of machinery that won’t stop beeping. Wires feed into the body on the bed, a face bruised and crusted with dry blood, eyes open but unfocused, mouth jammed open with a tube, only it’s not Rowan.
“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake,” I rasp, stumbling into the doorjamb to stop my legs from buckling. “This isn’t… him.”
But I do know him and, frankly, if my legs weren’t jelly, I’d be staggering right over to the bed and yanking out his breathing tube with my bare hands, because if this is one of the two people involved in the car wreck, and the other one is Rowan, thenthisfucking bastard is the drunk driver who hit him. A drunk driver who is supposed to be in “one of the Carolinas”, overseeing some family business after his father sent him packing in disgrace, not right here in this town. A drunk driver in a black SUV that I should’ve recognized, because I know of only one asshole who needs a car that big to compensate for what he lacks.
"This is... Levi Montrose," I hiss, struggling to breathe. "He's got... nothing to do with me."
The nurse blanches. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I thought… I completely misunderstood.” She takes my hand and pulls me out of the room, probably to stop me from doing what my mind wants me to do. “You’re here for Mr. Lauder?”
I nod. I can’t speak. If this entire situation wasn’t bad enough, seeing that waste of flesh and breath in that bed is the icing on the most horrific cake that’s ever been baked.
“We weren’t expecting you so quickly. I’m so sorry, that’s totally my mistake.” The nurse hurries me to the room next door, which only adds insult to injury. “But, there’s good news.”
