The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (15 page)

Chapter 20

Spencer

Lydia held no resemblance to Bailey, only that they both lay in hospital beds, bodies weak, bundled in blankets and twisted in wires, machines hooked up to them, playing a heartbeat that was anything but regular. Small like a child, helpless and defenseless, I wanted to comfort Lydia, wanted to hold her in my arms, wipe away the pain and despair.

I tried not to think of her as an empty shell, as someone who was not strong enough to carry on, because it made my heart splinter.

Lydia was beautiful before cancer invaded her body, and chemotherapy yellowed her skin, shed her hair, and made her fragile. Her hair had been the same color of sand, speckled with flecks of brown; her eyes the ocean, a turquoise blue with white-capping waves. Her voice the sound of a well-played violin, high-pitched and spellbinding. We would sit in my front yard, legs tucked beneath us, and play whatever tune came to mind. She created soft breezy melodies, light as particles of dust filtered through the sun-light:
lullabies
that would melt you like a chocolate in a toddler’s fist. I sing one of these lullabies to Bailey, the same one I sang to Lydia the day she passed away.

I had been in her hospital room, in the intensive care unit. She was struggling to breathe, her eyes shut tight; I knew they would never open again, not unless I pried them loose. I had my hand resting on her chest. Her skin was translucent, and her body was stiff. Her heart had stopped, only I didn’t realize it. I was so scared, shuddering, could not control myself, her heart fluttered like a butterfly trapped beneath my palm, and all at once gave out.

“Goodbye, may wherever you go be better than this wretched place,” I whispered to her, and kissed her cold, blue lips.

I knew it, knew she had cancer when I started dating her, but I had not been fazed, just captivated. I am so blessed to have known such a beautiful person, even if it was only for a year.

Now there is Bailey, and although she can never be Lydia, I feel she might be able to fill the void that has been causing me so much heartache. She isn’t like every other girl: she is dainty yet durable, and you think she will rip like paper, but instead she is everlasting like diamonds.

I have seen her at her worst, and even then she seemed untouchable, a display case of broken bones and tattered skin. I see Lydia’s weakness in her, in her struggle to cling to life when it is slipping through her fingers.
Hang in there Bailey
, I think,
because we could have something here. Kill two birds with one stone, and fill each other’s voids.

I doubt Clad has a void. He is a cocky son-of-a bitch, and seems too full of himself and his obsession with Bailey to feel anything. I think he needs Bailey, not because she needs him, but because he would cease to exist without her. Like a crack addict needs a fix, he’s got Bailey.

“Is she asleep?” Clad asks, his expression full of concern.

“Yes, I sang to her,” I say proudly.

His face clouds over.

“It was just the morphine,” he says. “Did she cry? Was she in pain?”

“Clad, she fell straight to sleep as soon as you left the room. Stop freaking out, she is going to be alright,” I say, worn out by his possessive anxiety.

“Easy for you to say, you are not the one wearing a shirt stained with her blood. If you had seen her lying on the tile, dripping wet, and practically swimming in her own blood, you wouldn’t be so blasé,” he says between clenched teeth.

“You are such a hypocrite,” I say. He is really starting to get under my skin.

“How so?” he challenges me.

“Listen, I’m only here to comfort Bailey. If that is also your intention, then maybe you should stop bickering with me and let her sleep in peace.”

“She can’t hear us!” he yells at me.

“Of course she can! Her ears aren’t broken, just her arm and head. If you did give half a shit about her you wouldn’t keep going on like this. She has taken a liking to me, whether your warped mind can grasp that concept or not, and I am near positive she does not think highly of you belittling me all the time!”

“What are you, a little bitch?” Clad snickers.

“Are you serious?” I scream at him, forgetting about Bailey.

“At least I genuinely care for her. You just see her as a prize to be won. She’s a young girl, Clad, not a trophy. When are you going to wake up and realize that? She could never love someone who sees her in that light,” I say truthfully.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

“Well, it’s good you are not denying it,” I say acerbically.

“Dick!” he barks at me.

“Good one. Why don’t you go play in the sandbox now with all your preschool buddies, okay?” I say, my patience wearing thin.

“Bailey doesn’t like you,” he says sharply.

“I can see you still don’t care about her,” I respond.

“I dare you to say that one more time. Go ahead, and you will end up on a gurney like Bailey. It’s a damn good thing we are already in a hospital,” Clad says, threateningly.

“Tell Bailey I love her, but not the possessive, constricting type of love that you have for her,” I say, and leave, cutting across the hall to the waiting room. I am fuming, blood raging hot as lava, I’m a volcano ready to erupt and spew fire and brimstone on Clad.

Chapter 21

A nurse is washing my body with a sponge, I feel like a
sports car
. The water is chilly, and I shiver each time the sponge makes contact with my skin.

“Cold, sweetums?” she asks, continuing with the sponge bath.

“Cold chills,” I say. I feel a fever raging through my body.

“Yes, you do have a temperature. I’ll be back in a jiffy with a thermometer,” she says, dropping the sponge in the bucket, leaving me exposed and naked on my bed.

The door opens; thank God it is only my mother carrying a tray of food.

“I brought you some lunch, if you are feeling up to it,” she says, placing the tray on a table by the window.

Though my mouth waters, my stomach turns as sour as curdled milk.

“No Mom, I’m not up to-” I put a hand to my stomach, and Mom races for the bedpan before I can retch on myself again.

She gets to me just in time, and I gag up bile and the water I sipped just minutes before.

“Poor baby,” she says, rubbing my back.

“I hate the morphine,” I say bitterly, and wipe my mouth.

The nurse returns and sticks a thermometer under my tongue. Ten seconds later it says my fever is at a one hundred and three. I sink back into my pillow, feeling sorry for myself.

“Infection,” she says.

“Oh,” I moan.

The nurse unfolds a dinosaur-decorated gown, and dresses me.
This is as degrading as it gets
, I think to myself:
a child’s hospital gown, puking on oneself like a newborn, and being bathed like an elderly person.

“You have an infection from your head-wound, Bailey,” Mom says, emphasizing each word.

“Yes,” I say, and cover myself with the baby blankets Clad bought for me.

“Is my birthday over?” I ask, having lost track of time.

“Yes, but we will still celebrate it. Today, if you are well enough.”

“It’s just you and I here,” I point out sullenly.

“Clad and Spencer will be coming soon. They have gifts for you,” she beams.

“That is nice of them,” I say, and try to keep my eyes open, because I am still on a large dose of morphine.

“You are lucky to be alive. The doctor says you are young so your body will heal fast. And you will be good as new.”

Good as new
: Mom’s favorite saying, except her definition of ‘new’ is like a used car, dented but still running.

I raise my head off the pillow ever so slightly; if I do it too quickly I become dizzy. At the foot of my bed are two neatly wrapped packages.

“Birthday presents,” Mom says and hands them to me.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say, and rip at the paper with my good arm.

One is a small box, like a jewelry box. I open it first.

“M-om,” I say taken aback. In my hand is a golden locket suspended from a gold chain.

“Open it,” she says, biting her nails in nervous anticipation.

My fingers tremble. The locket falls and gets lost in the blankets. Mom retrieves it, and opens the hook for me.

“Here, baby, I hope you like it,” she says, dangling it from her hand.

“
Daddy
,” I cry.

“Where did you get it?” I ask, holding back a sob. In the locket is a picture of my mom, young and beautiful, and a picture of my dad, rough and charming. I haven’t seen a picture of him since that night when Mom burned them all in our fireplace.

“I have been holding on to it,” she says nonchalantly.

“Thank you!” I say and open my arms for a hug.

We embrace for what seems like forever and a day, and then she puts the necklace around my neck. It covers my cut.

“Pretty as can be,” she says.

“Open the next one!” She shoves the larger gift into my hands.

I eagerly tear off the paper, and see it is a shoe-box. I lift the lid to reveal a pair of white wedges.

“Aren’t they fashionable? I’ve been dying to get rid of those nasty boots you keep walking in!”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, much less enthusiastically than I did for the locket.

“I was going to let you go shopping with a friend…but now I have a large hospital bill to pay. It will be a miracle if we don’t go bankrupt!” she says.

“I will get well quickly, Mom. In no time I will be walking, and then I can leave early, that will cut down the bill,” I promise her.

“No, no, no, you stay in bed until you are feeling extremely well, and maybe then you can go home. I don’t want you faking that you are better just to save my pocket book,” she says.

There is a rhythmic knock, and I turn my head too suddenly.

“Oh my,” I heave.

“They are here!” Mom chirps, not bothering to see if I am okay.

She opens the door, and a group comes flooding in: Clad, Spencer, and Sarah.

“Wow, you look so much better!” Spencer says, happily surprised.

“Oh your head,” Sarah says, averting her eyes to the present in her hands. “How bad does it hurt, Bailey? On a scale of one to ten.”

“Eight,” I say, resisting the desire to sit up.

“I bet. You look like a wreck…I mean you must feel awful, you are pretty as always,” she says, flipping the gift in her hands.

“I got you something,” Clad says, piping up.

“Thank you guys, it means a lot to me you being here and celebrating my birthday,” I say, smiling feebly.

“Not to rush you or anything, but she is still in critical condition. She needs to get back to sleep,” Mom says trying not to sound snappish.

“Sure, Mrs. Sykes,” Spencer says, handing me his present.

I unwrap it and discover a thick purple quilt.

“To keep you warm, because you are always so cold. And this hospital is like living in an igloo!” Spencer explains. He takes it from my hands and gingerly spreads it over me.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he says and pats my knee.

“Thank you,” I say, my mouth growing dry from thanking so much.

“Okay mine next,” Sarah says, pushing Spencer aside.

I let her unwrap it for me because my arms have grown too tired.

“It’s a soccer ball, so you can play soccer with me!” she giggles, and places it in my lap.

“I would love too, as soon as I’m on my feet,” I say, and roll it to the end of the bed.

“Now mine,
I saved the best for last
,” Clad says arrogantly. “Be careful, it might…jump out at you.”

He hands me a box with holes in it, the kind of box that exotic snakes are shipped in.

“Will it scare me?” I ask worriedly.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says with a mysterious grin.

I take a deep breath and pop the box open. A black-haired puppy wriggles his way out and immediately licks my face.

“Clad!” I shriek with delight. “
A puppy
! Oh I love him! But you can’t bring dogs into a hospital!”

“Shhh, if you lower your voice to a scream maybe the nurses won’t find out,” he chuckles.

“I love him, oh he is so precious!” I squeal, scratching him behind the ears. “I already know what I will name him,” I say as he attempts to lick my face off. “
Angel
.”

Clad considers the name.

“It is my father’s name,” I say.

“That it is a very nice name,” he says approvingly.

“He is so cute!” Sarah oozes.

“Come on you little rascal, give mommy a kiss goodbye, she needs her rest,” Clad says, scooping up Angel.

“Will you bring him back again? I will die if we are separated for too long! I love him already,” I say.

“I will try; it is not easy to sneak him in. But I will try. Now please rest your head, sweetheart,” he says, and bends down to kiss my cheek. “You’re burning up,” Clad notes.

“I know, my head is infected, or something. I still am not thinking correctly,” I say.

“It’s okay,” Spencer says. “You will be better in no time, just keep sleeping and taking your medicine.”

“And don’t forget to eat,” Clad interjects.

I nod my head, which is feeling as large as a beach ball, and heavy as a bucket of cement.

“Sleep tight, Bailey,” Spencer says, and straightens my blanket. “Dream of something sweet.”

“Thank you all for the gifts, they are lovely,” I say with what little energy I have left.

“Of course,” Sarah says and kisses my cheek. “You
are
very feverish.”

They wave as they head out the door. I raise my hand to wave back but it gets caught on the wires, and I see Spencer frown.

“A puppy, who would have thought? And you have wanted one since you could walk! I am so happy for you,” Mom says.

“Can you push it?” I ask her, and she gladly presses the morphine button three times.

I swallow hard, as I feel my consciousness ebbing away. Soon the darkness will engulf me, soon my heart monitor will beep wildly and the nurses will come rushing in, and, sigh,
it is only the girl with achluophobia
.

This is not the drug-induced coma I was praying for
, I think, as fragmented images of creatures with too many legs, or too many eyes flash through my mind. When the parade of these beasts subsides, I find myself awake and staring at the ceiling in what I assume is my hospital room, only the paint isn’t white anymore and there isn’t kiddy wall-paper.

I am in a hospital room, but not mine. I roll over on my side and am alarmed to see Ashten’s face staring back at me, her rabid eyes framed by the blackened strands of what is left of her hair. I dig for her hand in the blankets, to comfort her, but I grasp a stub instead. She has no arms, no hands.

“They chopped them off,” she says, lifting her stubs in the air. I choke on a scream, but can’t fully suppress it.

“They couldn’t be saved,” she says, shrugging, and her tree-stump arms lift unnaturally along with her shoulders.

“I can dig so much better, like shovels!” she shrieks, and I shake from fear. Why does she have to be so loud? And why is she so thrilled to have lost her arms?

“Sorry!” she yelps.

With narrowed eyes I peer at a light that is interrupting my sleep. “Sorry, baby,” a male doctor says as he prods my arm.

“Bad dream,” I stammer.

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asks, rubbing my shoulder to relax me.

“A terrible one,” I say.

“Your arm is healing nicely. I think it’s time for a cast, don’t you?” he asks, and I stare down at the black and blue swollen mass of flesh that was once my arm.

“Yeah, let’s cover it. I don’t want to see it like this anymore,” I say sourly.

He begins molding a cast over my mangled arm.

“It feels weird, doesn’t it?” he smiles, as the plaster dries.

“Yes, a bit,” I say turning my eyes to the window, but it is closed. “Maybe we can have the window open. It’s beginning to feel stuffy in here.”

“That’s a good idea, if your head is feeling up to it. The sunlight might bother you.”

I’m not a vampire, besides it couldn’t hurt any worse than the darkness I keep succumbing to.

“There,” he says, putting my arm on my stomach.
The cast is traffic-cone orange
.

My stomach kinks up at the sight of the detestable color.

“It’s ugly, can we take it off?” I cringe.

“Not for another two months,” the doctor grins.

“Can I take a peek at your head now?” he asks.

“Mhm,” I say.

For some reason I keep thinking that he will unwrap the bandages and I will literally see my skull bashed in, my head misshapen.

“Beautiful, healing very nicely. And the infection is almost gone,” he says.

“Can I see?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says putting a mirror in my hand, and holding another mirror facing the back of my head.

There is an “S” shape of staples: they look like the kind you use to hold paper together with, but are twice the size. I can see my scalp because the doctors shaved parts of my hair when they were putting my head back together. My scalp is a bright purple.

“It looks good,” I say, amazed by how decent my head looks, when only days ago it had been brutally smashed into tile.

“Yes it really does,” he agrees.

“How is your hip feeling?” he asks.

“Still sore,” I say, rubbing my hip.

“Well, that will take time to heal,” he says. “I’ll open the window, and then leave you to rest.” He props open the window, and my room is suddenly full of light and energy. I no longer feel like I am a caveman sheltered in the dark of his cave.

“A friend of mine, Ashten, she is supposed to be at this hospital. She is a burn victim, do you know of her?” I ask before he walks out the door.

“Two badly burnt arms, and hair singed off?” he asks thoughtfully.

“That’s the one,” I say.

“Yes, then. Yesterday she had two skin grafts to replace the damaged skin on her arms. Did you want to visit her when you are well enough to be put in a wheelchair? I could have a nurse take you,” he offers.

“Yes! I would really, really like that. I just want to see that she is okay. I saved her from burning to death.”

“What a coincidence. You must be a good friend,” he says, and then clicks the door shut.

I lift my cast-swaddled arm and flop it back down again: it must weigh three pounds.

I am feeling extremely confined and bored. I am itching to get out of bed, and the soccer ball Sarah gave to me is screaming to be kicked.

Before I realize what I am doing, my feet touch the heavily waxed linoleum, and I am trying to keep my balance with my head spinning dizzily. I grab on to the side of the bed, and make my way to the soccer ball, which has rolled into a corner of the room. I kick it out of the corner and bounce it on my knee, my hip throbbing as I do so.

There are the muffled sounds of rubber-soled nurse’s shoes coming down the corridor, but I don’t hop back into bed:
I want to play soccer
. I kick the ball and it bounces off the cabinets and hits the door just as it is being opened.

“What in Jesus name are you doing up?” the stout nurse bellows.

She doesn’t like me. When she gives me my sponge bath, she does it too roughly, and tells me not to whine about the cold.

“Playing soccer,” I say and stare at the ball that is now at her feet.