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My mother wipes her bloodshot eyes with a tissue, tears cascading down her cheeks. And bags. She never has purple bags under her eyes like that. Nelly wraps an arm around her shaking shoulders, soothing her.
Peering back at me, a deep divot between his eyes smooshing his forehead, Dr. Barret straightens his lips into a line. Not a smile.Not a frown. “Tell me more about why you’re upset, Ivanna. What are you asking?”
Strength courses through my arms. Anger rising. “I want my husband. Wells.” Gravel scratches my vocal cords, but that was clear. I heard it. There’s no way they can’t understand me.
The doctor twists around to my mother, and she and the nurse share his baffled grimace. She shakes her head at him with a sigh.
My jaw tenses, hands fisting. The IV tape jabs at my skin with a needling prod, stretching until tiny cracks creep into the dryness. I grunt. “And Ty and Gage. Are they okay? Did Liam survive?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he sits in a chair beside the bed, his almond eyes skating all over my face in the curiosity a doctor holds when scientifically intrigued. “Can you tell me your full name?”
I huff, annoyed he’s asking me such stupid questions and not answering my important ones. “Ivanna Kingston Wells.”
His lips purse. “Can you tell me about the Wells name? Where does that come from?”
“My husband.” I shoot a glare at my mother, not understanding why she’s staying silent instead of explaining this, but she’s crying. I clear my throat. “Gavin Wells. We were married in September at La Lune Noire in New Orleans. We live with our three friends—Ty, Liam, and Gage—in Starlit Hills. Liam was shot at our home. Please tell me how he’s doing.” My breathing staggers, and my heart beats erratically.
The doctor strokes his chin, eyes growing heavy as he glances between my mother and me. “I’m sorry, Ivanna. Comas are tricky things. Sometimes, patients have extensive dreams. Some even have nightmares. It can be a challenge to differentiate between what was imagined and what is in fact reality.” He sets a serious gaze on me. “You are Ivanna Kingston, daughter of Thomas and Natasha Kingston. Labor Day weekend, you were running down the steps during an argument with your mother. You tumbled down the lastseveral stairs, banging your head on the way and ultimately hitting it on the marble floor.”
“No.” I search my mother’s face. Why is she doing this? “No. That’s not possible. And you know it! Mom, tell him how fucked up that is. You were in Switzerland and then Italy, France, and Greece. We talked. I got married. I sent you pictures.”
She drops her traitorous blue eyes to the floor. The machine next to me starts beeping faster, mimicking my pulse.
My whole body is trembling. “I want my fucking husband. Right! Now!”
My mother is sobbing, hands covering her face.
The rage in my veins pumps like a steroid, strengthening me with the same venomous energy surging through one of those test-tube villains. I rip my IV out, ignoring the sharp sting as blood seeps from the wound, and throw myself out of the bed. My knees buckle. Dr. Barret catches me, but I shove him away and stumble toward the door.
But they’re all on me. More people trickle into the room. Gripping my arms and barking orders back and forth as I thrash and scream.
Bite and spit and kick.
It takes four of them to exhaust me. They drag me back to the bed, restraining me while I growl and shout for Wells over and over. And Ty. And Gage.Please help me.
Are they with Liam? Did he survive?
My throat is raw and bloody from screaming, sweat coating my skin, limbs shaking. They strap me down as I wail.
What kind of nightmare is this?
A prick in the neck. My veins run ice cold, my entire body breaking into a violent shiver. Teeth chattering. Their faces and voices and lies and torture grow fuzzy, fading into that blinding heavenly light.
And my world returns to a suffocating stillness.
IVY
I’m home from college for the weekend. It’s my senior year, six weeks before graduation, and my parents are hosting a couple for dinner. While they mingle in the formal living room, sipping cocktails, I’m studying in my father’s office.
He insisted that I minor in computers. Who knows why. He’s always trying to help me be well rounded and prepared. For what, I’m not sure. As an artist, I can’t see how computer language will aid me, but I’ve found I have a knack for it, and it makes him happy, so why not?
As I complete my assignment, the blathering continues to filter in. It’s nothing more than background noise, along with my music playing, so I lose myself in my work.
After years of my father’s information challenges, my brain instinctually knows when to tune in and out. Sometimes, the information gets tucked away, popping up at random when something triggers it. Other times, it draws me out of my daze and beckons my immediate assessment. Tonight, my head is all over the place—the computer, the conversation, the song lyrics, and post-graduation plans. Still, even in my chaotic brain haze, I’m aware.
My mother takes Mrs. Stetson on a tour of the terrace, pool, and pond. Spring is generally a beautiful time out there, but we’re still enduring April showers, so the entertainment area is a soggy mess. It’s common etiquette to share all the nooks and crannies though, so off they go.
I code a new site into existence and then hack it for fun. The hacking isn’t part of theclass, but the study partner I was assigned isn’t the most ethical student. She was exactly who I would’ve picked to partner with, myself. She teaches me silly little tricks when we get bored. While I haven’t mastered the ins and outs, I enjoy the art of finding an alternate route.
