Lurlene McDaniel (5 page)

“It looks like her bike went over the side. Lucky the ledge was there. It broke her fall and kept her from going all the way down.”

Sonya gives a little cry when she hears how close Analise came to plunging off the side of the mountain. I squeeze my fist so hard that I lose feeling in it. I picture Analise broken and bleeding on the rocks and underbrush.

The second cop says, “Good thing they found her. Supposed to go down into the twenties tonight.”

“She was wearing heavy sweats and a jacket,” Sonya says.

“Probably kept her from freezing to death,” the cop says.

I think about her lying on the ledge all last night, alone and in pain. I swallow a lump in my throat.

“She was unconscious,” the cop adds, “according to the rescue unit that brought her up. They
wrapped her in thermal blankets to get her body temp up.”

“Thank you,” Jack says.

We're grateful that she's been found, but we don't know anything about her condition yet. Others are waiting to be seen—people wheezing and coughing, a crying baby, a small boy with his ankle wrapped in ice packs, several people propped in chairs. But we know it's Analise who's the most critical patient at the moment. We don't say it, but we know it.

I hear Sonya whisper, “Please, God … please let her live.”

It seems like forever before a doctor comes out and asks for the Bowers. He's a tall man with a red beard and he's wearing green scrubs. He introduces himself as Dr. Kelly and pulls us aside, and I wedge my body in, like I belong. Like I'm family and not just a boyfriend. The Bowers don't seem to mind my being there, so I stay.

“We've got her stabilized,” Dr. Kelly says. “She has internal injuries, a broken left arm and leg and a few broken ribs. She's suffering from hypothermia and frostbite on the fingers of her right hand.”

“But she's alive!” Sonya's outburst startles the doctor.

He nods. “We've sent her for an MRI and a CT scan; then we'll put her in the ICU.”

“Can we see her?” Sonya asks.

“Shortly.”

I think the doctor is holding back.

“But she'll be okay,” Jacks says hopefully.

“She has a head injury. A concussion, and there's swelling in her brain.”

Sonya's knees buckle and Jack steadies her. “What's that mean?”

“We don't know yet.” The doctor tugs at his beard.

I can't get my mind around it. What is he saying?

“Are you telling us that our daughter may have brain damage?”

Jack's question hits me like a stone.

“The cold probably slowed the swelling, and that's a good thing. We'll know more after testing.”

“But we can see her?” Sonya says.

“Yes. However, she's in a coma.”

“A coma?” Sonya says.

I remember reading stories about patients in comas. A bizarre story about a man who didn't wake up for more than twenty years. My stomach squeezes. My heart feels like a lead weight.

“When will she come out of this coma?” Jack asks.

But the doctor doesn't meet their eyes. He says, “Let me take you up to the ICU.”

We follow him.

“Listen to this, Laurie. It's terrible.”

These are the first words Mom says to me on Monday morning when I come into the kitchen. I'm running late, and Mom's at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

“What's terrible?” I sort through my cereal choices and settle on Cheerios. I would skip breakfast, but Mom never lets me.

“A girl fell off the side of the mountain on her bike and wasn't discovered until Saturday.”

“A motorcycle?”

“No, a bicycle. It says she's a student at Asheville High, a senior. Analise Bower. Do you know her?”

I think about the name. “No … I don't know her.” It's a big school, and I'm a bottom-feeder freshman.

“It says her rescuers found her unconscious on a ledge that broke her fall up on Thompson Mountain.”

I think of the party up there, and that makes me think of Quin and how much I wish I could do the night all over again. I pour milk into the bowl, watch the Cheerios float. “Bet she was cold.”

“It says she's in a coma.”

I dig into my cereal, anxious to get out the door. After not hearing from Quin all weekend, I'm pretty sure our date was a total bust. I only see him twice during the school day—in the commons before first bell and when he's coming into the cafeteria at twelve-thirty. We have a ten-minute overlap. I'm anxious to know if he'll speak to me in front of his friends.

“She's in pretty sad shape.” Mom continues her commentary.

“That's too bad.” I take two bites and dump my bowl into the sink before heading off to brush my teeth.

“I can't imagine what her parents are going through.”

I'm not listening now, only thinking about what I'll say to Quin if he does speak to me.

• • •

I miss seeing Quin in the commons. Analise's accident is all anyone is talking about at school. I still can't recall who she is. During morning announcements, the principal's voice comes over the loudspeaker. “I'm sure most of you know by now that senior Analise Bower has been in a terrible accident.” The principal's voice trembles. “Her family has requested that friends of Analise please
not
come to the hospital, as she's in a special unit and no one but family is permitted. However, it is all right to mail cards and letters to Analise. They will be collected and shown to her as soon as she's out of crisis.”

When announcements are over, the whole room is quiet, subdued. Even Tad Monroe is quiet, and that never happens. I must figure out who this girl is.

At lunch, Judie can talk of little else, and when I confess that I'm clueless, Judie says, “She's the girl with the dark hair past her waist. The editor of the yearbook. You know.”

I remember her then. She was with the photographer last September when Coach lined up our cross-country team and took photos for the upcoming yearbook. I remember her hair. Who wouldn't? “Oh, yeah,” I say to Judie. “Too bad about her.” The whole time we're discussing Analise,
I'm doing an eye scan of the cafeteria for Quin while trying not to let Judie know how desperately I want to see him.

“I wonder how she wrecked,” Judie says.

Just then, Quin walks in with a group of his friends. My heart does a stutter step. I
will
him to look at me, and miraculously, he does. I smile as brightly as I know how. His gaze skims over me without ever connecting; he turns to his boys and together they disappear into the food line. I sit with my stupid smile frozen on my face. I could have been a fly on the wall for all the attention he paid me.

“What's up with you?” Judie asks. “What's so funny about a bike crash?”

I feel hot tears well up in my eyes. “Excuse me,” I say. I exit the cafeteria as fast as I can.

On Monday morning, I run into Amy in the commons, and I can tell she's been crying. It's the first thing she says to me. “Oh, Jeremy, I can't stop crying. I just keep thinking about Analise.”

Amy looks pitiful, and the waterworks make me feel helpless and useless. I think back to Friday, to when we all left school together, me and Analise holding hands and making plans, and Amy yakking about girl stuff. I don't know what to say, or how to console her.

She wipes her eyes. “I know you've seen her. How … how does she look?”

The Bowers have allowed me, and only me, to enter the ICU area where Analise is being monitored. I feel privileged. The unit is where patients with severe brain injuries—men and women with strokes, accident victims like Analise—are cared for. Machines are everywhere and nurses work the
unit 24/7. Families can stay in the unit only for a set amount of time every hour before they have to rotate out. I'm grateful that Sonya and Jack have let me visit twice. At least I touched Analise, held her hand and kissed it.

“She looks like she's asleep,” I tell Amy. I don't tell her that Analise looks busted up, her arm and leg in casts, with one whole side of her face swollen and bruised. I don't tell her that Analise's brain is so swollen that a neurosurgeon is consulting on her case. I don't mention the machines, wires, tubes, multiple IVs, the alcohol smell of medicines inserted into Analise's body. I don't tell Amy that I'm returning to the hospital as soon as I can dump school.

“Poor Analise. How long is her coma going to last?” Amy sniffles.

“No one knows.”

“But she's getting better, isn't she?” Amy looks hopeful.

“She just needs time,” I say. “That's what her mother told me. Coma patients need time to recover.”

The bell rings and I'm glad, because Amy's questions are hard to answer. There's too much I don't know. Too much I don't want to think about.

My friends and teachers give me a wide berth.

The guys mumble, “Sorry, man.” Girls and teachers ask questions. I hear later that Amy fell apart in class and had to go home. I cut out at lunch and head for the hospital. I have to see Analise. I have to touch her again, reassure myself that she's alive and coming back to us any minute.

By Friday, I'm wondering how I can get out of being grounded. When I get home from school and park in the garage, I see that Mom's SUV is gone and Dad's car is parked in one of the bays. This sucks—I don't want Dad on my back all afternoon. As I pass his car, I feel the hood and to my surprise, it's cold. That means he hasn't driven it, and since he never comes home in the middle of the day—

“Mom!” I go into the house, fighting panic, remembering the time I came home from school and found her unconscious on the floor. She was so drunk, she'd fallen and hit her head, but aside from a big knot, she was okay.

“In here.” Hearing her voice eases my panic attack. She's in the family room pouring herself a drink from a pitcher of martinis. I know it's
martinis because that's her favorite afternoon delight. “Hey, sweetie. Come give your mother a kiss.”

I peck her cheek. She reeks of gin. “Where's Dad?”

“Charlotte. Business, you know.”

She said the word “business” sarcastically, like it tasted nasty. “He took your car?”

“He's getting the fender and bumper fixed. You really did a number on my Caddy, Quin.”

“Not me. The deer.”

“Poor deer. It probably died.”

“Why Charlotte?” I get her back on message.

“Bigger city. More body shops. More deals to cut.” Mom sucks on an olive from her glass. “He won't be back until Tuesday, so it's just you and me, kid. How about we order pizza?”

I know she'll be asleep before eight if she keeps on with the martinis, and I sense an opportunity. “I'm supposed to go to Brian's. Homework.”

“You two can come here. I'll get a couple of pizzas.”

No way.
“He's stuck watching his kid sisters.”

She looks disappointed. “And of course you don't want to hang here with me. Serve out your grounding sentence.”

I feel my face get warm. “Come on, Mom. Please.”

She waves me off and buries her nose in her glass. I take out my cell and hit the stairs to my room two at a time, punching in Brian's number and thinking of who we should invite over to party with us. I remember seeing Tesa Jolley giving me the once-over a couple of times this week in lit class. It's been a while since we dated. Maybe it's time to hook up with her for old times’ sake.