What Remains by Helene Dunbar Read Free Book Online Page A

dark.

Five
    Everything hurts. I’m screaming so loudly I’m pretty sure I woke myself up. I figure out quickly that the screaming must just be in my mind because there’s a tube jammed down my throat. There’s a machine near me that’s making noises that sound like sucking. I know from watching all those hospital TV shows that it’s a ventilator and it’s breathing for me.
    Which brings up the questions, “why aren’t I breathing for mysel f ?” and “where the hell am I?”
    I try to move, but my arms are pinned down and my chest feels like it’s being stood on by an elephant. Everything in the room seems to be beeping and clanging. I’m drowning in sound, and pain, and fear.
    The only thing that doesn’t hurt is that someone is holding my hand. I move my eyes slowly, and I’m rewarded for the effort by seeing Spencer standing next to me, a blue paper gown over his clothes and a yellow mask over his mouth. He looks bruised, like he’s been in a bad fight.
    But then he tears up and I have to wonder what’s going on that’s so bad it’s making Spencer Yeats cry. A nurse pushes him out of the way and shines a bright light in my eyes. My back arches with a burst of pain that feels like fire surging through my chest. I want the nurse to go away. I want Spencer to come back and tell me what the hell is going on.
    I inhale that horrible antiseptic hospital smell and wonder if someone is playing a joke on me. I don’t remember being sick. I just remember driving.
    And then another memory starts to sneak in, slowly at first like it isn’t sure it wants to be remembered. I can’t quite get my mind to hold onto it. There’s something big—really big —coming closer and closer, and then everything goes black. But there’s also something else that keeps slipping away; something warm and wet, and it’s climbing inside me like a nightmare.
    The nurse fiddles with tubes and bags, and puts a pump with a button in my hand and tells me to push it when the pain gets too bad. I’m not sure how to judge “too bad.” All I know is that I feel worse than I ever have, even after I tore a tendon a couple of years ago sliding into third. I push the button and the memory, or whatever it is, lies back down and goes back to sleep. And so do I.

    The next time I wake up, my parents are here. Both of them. For some reason, that makes me even more worried. My parents are always working. Always. I can’t imagine what could have happened that would possibly drag them away from their jobs when nothing else ever has, including my junior high graduation (Mom had to take a deposition), my Little League championship ceremony (Dad was on a business trip), and parent-teacher conferences (I don’t think they’ve made it to one since third grade).
    My usually well-dressed mom looks tired. Her eyes are rimmed with red and I’m pretty sure she randomly picked her wrinkled clothes out of the laundry basket. She has her hand on my forehead like she used to when I was little and sick and she wasn’t working in court all the time. It would feel good if it wasn’t so unusual. Plus, Dad is standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed and he keeps glancing at the door like he’d bolt if he thought he could get away with it.
    The damned tube is still down my throat so I can’t talk, but I’m not sure what I’d say anyhow. I don’t see Spencer and that makes me wonder where Lizzie is. If something is wrong, she’d be here.
    The nurse scurries back; it’s a different one this time. This one smells like vanilla and it makes me think of Ally, which makes me wince.
    â€œI know it hurts, honey, but let’s try to stay awake for a little bit if you can,” the nurse says. I’d laugh if I could, but the nurse doesn’t need to know that I’m trapped here in bed aching for a girl I’ve never