First Ride (11 page)

I feel myself slipping into someplace warm and safe. “Because you show me heaven.”

CHAPTER NINE

MOLLY

I read somewhere that the average dream lasts only about eight seconds. Most people have dozens if not hundreds of dreams per night. Light, sweet, carefree dreams that patch themselves together to form one big quilted shroud wrapping you in sleep.

Not me.

I may have found dreams easy to come by when I was younger, but lately, all the worry and stress from my waking hours have found a way to wind themselves into the night, causing me to toss and turn, fade in and out, never quite able to reach the depths of rest that my body longed for.

I wasn’t able to find peace during the daylight; always worrying about money, Mom, Sasha, Tina. It was just a cruel twist of things that I wasn’t able to find peace at night either, when it should have been the one refuge I had.

The silly little rambling thoughts that now float through my mind aimlessly as I lay in Dawson’s arms are like an old friend saying hello. A friend I haven’t seen since my carefree days before my life turned upside down more than a year ago.

Surely these can’t be dreams? Could it be that it’s been so long I can’t even recognize them anymore? I hover in that foggy place between sleep, drifting in and out of rational thought.

His arms are tight around me. He’s breathing quick and shallow in an even, steady rhythm. His heart beats under my ear like a muted drum, reassuring me that he’s still here. That he’s
real
. That he’s not a dream.

I feel him cloaking me with his heavy arms. I smell the musky aroma on his skin, in his sheets. I taste him still, in my mouth. He seems to be everything, everywhere, all at once. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel safe. I feel like I can dream.

~*~

“The fuck?” Dawson wakes, startled.

Whereas he’s on full alert, I’m sluggish to follow. “Sasha. Just Sasha. Nightmares.”

I stub my toe as I run blindly in my unfamiliar surroundings, hopping and cursing under my breath at my surely deformed little toe.

She’s sitting upright, clutching her doll to her chest, frantically looking around the darkened room.

“Shhh… I’m here, sweet girl.” I take her in my arms and rock back and forth, smoothing her hair with my palm.

I feel the cotton of my top begin to dampen, absorbing her tears.

“It’s alright, Sasha. It’s just a dream. You’re in your new room, remember? With your dollhouse and all your dolls set up.” I soften my voice to help calm her.

“She okay?” Dawson’s at my back, his voice riddled with concern. I feel his hand rest on my shoulder.

Sasha sniffles and lifts her head, her eyes twinkling with wetness in the soft light of the nearby children’s nightlight I’d installed thinking it would help. She seems curious about the large man leaning over us.

Her tears slow.

“Remember Dawson? One of our new friends?” I ask her while swiping at a salty drop in the middle of her cheek.

Her eyes dart from Dawson, to me, and then back, fixated on the giant who’s nervously trying to help. She nods slowly.

I close my eyes, thankful that the worst has passed. Some nights are worse than others with Sasha inconsolable in my arms for what seems like hours. In the beginning, she seemed to be looking for her mom. After some time had passed I’m wasn’t sure what plagued her to cause the outbursts. They just
happen
.

“Does she feel alright? Maybe she’s sick? Hungry? Thirsty? Cold?” Dawson’s brainstorming, trying to come up with an explanation.

“Scared,” Sasha whispers.

Dawson crouches low, balancing on his bare feet, joining our little huddle. “Oh, sweetie,” he carefully moves his hand slowly, to push away the messy hair covering her eyes. “That’s one thing you
never
have to be again.”

Her eyes narrow, unsure whether or not to believe him.

“You see these muscles?” Sasha looks to the side and I tilt my head to follow. Dawson is flexing his obscenely large bicep in an exaggerated, cartoonish sort of way. “Nothing’s gonna scare you or hurt you. They’d have to get through me, first.”

Sasha’s eyebrows arch, wondering if it’s true, mesmerized by the possibility. I nod enthusiastically, agreeing with his claim. “Gotta get through him first and then get through me next. You’re one safe little girl. All better, sweet girl? Ready to get back in bed?” I ask.

Her arms move to cling tightly around my neck. “Maw, sleep with me.”

Who knew that such little arms could squeeze so tight?

“Would that make you feel better?” I already know the answer. Her nodding head confirms it.

Picking her tiny frame up, I stand to my feet, carrying her back to the twin-sized bed with rails. I place her down gently on the mattress, her head on the soft pillow.

“Alright. Just until you fall asleep. Move on over.” I snuggle next to her.

“Hand me a pillow,” Dawson speaks from the shadowed area on my side of Sasha’s small bed, closest to the door.

“Huh?” I ask. Not understanding why, I hold out one of the extra pillows.

I hear a soft thud and then a light grunt.

“What are you doing?” I whisper down to the hard floor where I see his silhouette.

His voice flexes as if he’s rolling over. “In case she gets scared again. This way she knows I meant what I said.”

“Dawson--” I protest. He’s crazy. He’s gonna give himself one hell of a backache that way.

“Shh,” he quiets me. “You’re gonna wake her up. Get some sleep, Angel.”

I stifle another objection, as I feel Sasha’s arm on mine grow limp. It’s true. She
is
sleeping. How the
fuck
did that happen so fast? I kiss her forehead.

“G’night,” I whisper to her before closing my eyes.

Maybe tonight we can
both
dream.

~*~

“I’ll come back the day after tomorrow, mom. Promise.” I notice the dryness of her skin as I kiss her forehead. “But I gotta go if I’m gonna get to work on time.”

Out of habit from tucking Sasha in at night, I pull the covers up and press tightly against the sides.

“Bring Sasha next time. Her Granny hasn’t seen her in weeks.” Mom stops my fussing, taking my hand in hers. “You could even drop her off here for a couple of hours so that you can have some time to yourself, Mol. Lord knows you don’t get enough of it.”

If mom was well enough for any kind of visit like that, I’d welcome it. Sasha needs to spend as much time with her family as possible, and as of now that family is just me and mom.

One look at the alarming rashes over her cheeks, and the thinning hair held in her favorite clip, and I know there’s been no progress. If anything, things may have even gotten worse since my last visit even though it was only four days ago.

I can’t risk Sasha spreading any germs like kids her age tend to do. Mom’s immune system wouldn’t be able to handle it well.

“She’s got preschool, but I’ll see about bringing her next weekend.” I use her new schedule as an excuse rather than worrying mom about my concerns regarding exposing her to any risk.

Mom shifts in her raised hospital bed. Her eyes narrow and she grimaces while moving, evidence to the extreme muscle pain and soreness from the simple act.

“That’s great, sweetie. She
should
be in preschool at her age. I remember when you and Tina would go to that tiny little preschool in the basement of our church. You used to put on the cutest little plays. When I get out of here, I want to make sure to see Sasha’s plays, too.”

Picking up my purse, I clandestinely take the two Hershey bars out of their hiding place and sneak them over to mom without her roommate, Mrs. Daley, seeing. My mother has had a sweet tooth as long as I can remember, so I try to bring her a treat when I visit.

“I’ll bring you some gossip magazines next time.” I close the zipper to my medium-sized bag and blow her a kiss before giving crotchety old Mrs. Daley a friendly wave in passing.

I can’t help but feel sorry for the old woman who shares a living space with mom. I try to visit two to three times a week, but I’ve never seen a friend or family member come by for the other woman.

There are too many people in this place that are just put here and forgotten about. I make sure that mom knows she’s not one of them.

“Excuse me? Nurse?” I’ve become friendly with most of the staff here, as mom’s been a resident for the past month, since this last flare up of her Lupus, the worst one to date.

The portly woman with her back turned to me abandons her chart and looks over her shoulder. “Hey, Molly!”

I smile once I realize it’s Rebecca, one of the friendlier employees around here. “Hey, Rebecca! Would you be able to tell me the status of mom’s chemo? I’ve been on the phone with her insurance company all morning and they said they had sent a letter here that needed some type of authorization for the next round?”

Even though mom has coverage, her insurance plan
sucks
. I have to fight tooth and nail to get them to cover any of the recommended treatments by her doctors.

“Let’s see,” she uses her hip to close the open file cabinet drawer in front of her and reaches for another one. “Donovan, Donovan …” she passes down a long line of worn looking charts. “Lillian Donovan.”

Once the correct chart is found, it’s taken out of its place and walked over to me, as Rebecca skims through the writing on the innermost page. “Yup. Looks like we got it and sent it back to them. Should be good to go. I’ll make sure she gets added to the roster for this week.”

A flood of relief washes over me. That’s some of the best news I’ve heard in days. The doctors use the chemotherapy to help control the inflammation in Mom’s joints and to keep her immune system in check since it’s decided to declare an all-out war on her major organs.

She should have started the treatment immediately, but her fucking HMO had to make us jump through hoops first, resulting in nothing but stress and headache for me and unnecessary pain for mom.

“Thanks so much, Rebecca, for all your help. It’s people like you who make me feel better about Mom having to stay here.” I give her a warm smile of appreciation. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t work too hard!” I call over my shoulder as I press the large button on the wall to cue the elevator.

Mom’s insurance company gave us a choice of two nursing facilities for her treatment. I look around at the aging elevator with peeling paint and remind myself that this was, in fact, the better of the choices.

It’s less than a twenty-minute drive to come visit and is attached to a small hospital in case there are any emergencies. This place wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I’m glad people like Nurse Rebecca are here to help make the best of it.

Once the elevator dings and the rickety old door opens to the main lobby, I reach in the outside compartment of my bag for the key to Dawson’s Jeep only to be startled by my phone buzzing harshly on vibrate in my pocket.

A kind looking man, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers in one hand, holds the front door to the building open for me.

“Hello?” I ask into the receiving end of the device as I give a nod of thanks and shield my eyes form the early afternoon sun.

“Angel, where the hell are you?”

I do a mental double take at the greeting. Dawson sounds rushed, angry even. Surely he can’t be pissed at me? “Leaving the hospital now. I’m not late am I?”

Anxiously, I lift my wrist to check the time on the worn timepiece of a bracelet. Nope. Not late. My shift isn’t supposed to start for another hour and a half.

What the fuck is his issue?

“I need you to get to the club. Now. No detours, no stopping. Just get here.”

And audible click can be heard once his words disappear. Those words are laced with something I’ve never heard in his voice. Not quite anger, but something
else
; something I can’t put my finger on. Panic takes hold of my lungs, squeezing the air out in a loud gasp.

Something’s wrong
.

That’s what was in his voice, I just know it. What could be so bad that he wouldn’t tell me over the phone? What would be bad enough that I’d have to get to him right away?

Sasha.

I nearly rip open the Jeep door with newfound strength from the rush of adrenaline that’s pulsing through my veins at the though of something having happened to my little girl.

The truck starts immediately, no silent prayer necessary to turn the ignition like in my old Honda. Regardless of Dawson’s insistence that it was “no big deal” that I drive his brand new car, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea. Now though, with the engine’s quick start and the strong pull of the motor through the parking lot and into traffic, I couldn’t be more grateful for the set of wheels, regardless of who they belonged to.

~*~

The parking lot is full of bikes. Lots and lots of bikes. The club doesn’t officially open until three, and this only confirms that something is seriously wrong. Most of the Slayers sleep during the day and party at night unless they get called up for something like when they turned out to help me move yesterday.