Won't Let Go (9 page)

The gasp that escapes my lips is loud, but is drowned out by the constant beep of machines. I take another step forward, my hand rising to my mouth.

Oakley, or rather Embry Winston, lies deathly still, the only movement—his chest rising and falling.

Another step forward shows his eyes closed, dishevelled sandy blond hair and skin so pale it’s almost see-through. Nothing like the ghost form of him I’ve only begun to get used to.

If I wasn’t here, staring at his body, I wouldn’t believe it, but he’s alive.

Oakley is alive.

The newspaper article told me as much, but I had to see for myself.

My eyes well with water. I take my hand from my mouth and swipe at them. A small part of me hoped it wasn’t true, that I wouldn’t find him in this bed, in this hospital. The other part of me is even more desperate to solve the case.

 Embry looks older, but not much. His ghost form has a freshly cut look but with the top a little longer, just enough to fall into his blue eyes. This Embry’s blond hair is curling over his ears and shaggy. Three years in a coma has done nothing for his physique. Where there should be toned muscle and bulking biceps, his skin looks loose and veiny. Yet, he still manages to seem almost peaceful, like the male version of Sleeping Beauty. Only he might never wake up, ever.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, maybe for his body to still be broken and battered, but it’s had numerous surgeries and years to heal. Perhaps I thought he’d look the same, having been trapped in the coma and unable to age, though that’s impossible. But it’s hard looking at him. His ghost form, believe it or not, looks more real, more alive.

There isn’t any sign anyone’s been here. No flowers, no open magazines on the small table in the corner and the window blind is drawn tight. The only color the room holds are the dull green walls and the light green blanket that covers Embry’s body. There’s nothing here, besides him.

I stand motionless for a long while, just staring at Embry’s lips, dry, cracked and pale, the short stubble that covers his cheeks and neck, and the long eyelashes—I never noticed—that frame his closed lids. Even now, he’s still beautiful.

I’ve seen enough, and I turn to leave. But before I reach the door, it’s pushed open. I jump slightly, let out a squeal of surprise as a nurse bustles in. She stops when her eyes fall on me.

“Excuse me?” she says. She’s short and round. Her scrubs aren’t green like the other hospital employees I’ve seen downstairs. Hers have
Looney Tunes
characters on them. Her hair is wound into tight, graying curls that glisten with hairspray.

I stumble over myself. “I-I’m sorry. I was just—visiting?”

Her tight, wrinkled face lightens up. “Oh, that’s so nice. I can come back,” she says, backing towards the door.

I lift my hands up. “No, please don’t go—I was wondering...I mean what happened to him?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say. For some reason, I want to hear it out loud, hoping the answer I get might be something different.

Her nose wrinkles. “Don’t you know Mr. Winston? Only his family is supposed to be in here.”

“Oh um, I—am?” I say.

The nurse nods, giving me a knowing smile. I sigh with relief.
Thank you for not kicking me out
.

She moves towards Embry’s bed. Her hand touches his wrist—taking his pulse. “He was hit by a car some years ago.” After taking a pen out of her breast pocket she writes on a small slip of paper in her hand.

Allison had said the two brothers had a fight. Elliot versus Embry. But something else happened that night, something no one knows. Something I’m determined to figure out because how does a dispute between two brother’s turn into attempted murder?

“Does he not get any visitors?” I motion to the lack of personal touches in the room.

She brushes the hairs on top of Embry’s head, forcing them to lie flat, only to have them spring up again once she moves her hand away. “Not for awhile now. I’ve been here since he came. He had lots in the beginning, but the longer someone’s here, the less people come. I think it’s hard for them.”

“Will he—will he ever wake up?” My voice trembles. I take a step forward, reaching my hand out. I want to feel his warmth, but when my fingertips graze his arm, I pull back quickly. “He’s so cold,” I whisper. I’m shocked his living form isn’t warmed with life.

“It happens. Sometimes the blood in comatose patients has trouble circulating properly, making them feel cool. And no, I suspect he might never wake up.” Her tone sounds sincere.

The most important question nagging my mind isn’t just if he will ever wake up, but, “Why are they keeping him like this?” From what the papers reported, the accident did more than break bones, it left him brain-dead. Even if he did wake up, he’d be forced to live in a hospital bed for the rest of his life—but worst of all—he wouldn’t have a single memory. A tear falls over the edge of my eyelid and trails down my cheek.

Maybe this is why he’s at the house, haunting his old bedroom, because no one will let him go completely. He’s trapped here, in this bed, until someone
allows
him to be free.

“Now that is something I can’t answer. It’s such a shame really. The Winston’s haven’t been here in—over a year.”

I wipe new tears. “That’s terrible.” I step away from his bed, look at the walls, the blind on the window, anything but him. It hurts my heart he’s all alone. Suddenly I’m desperate to leave. Only now, the nurse is standing in my way, blocking the door and my escape. A heavy silence falls over the room, as neither one of us seems to want to say anything else.

The nurse lets out a sad sigh, taking another step towards the door. With her hand on the knob, she turns to me. “I think having visitors helps, so come back anytime you like, dear.”

I nod and watch her exit the room, the door slipping closed with a loud
click.
I waste no time following her lead. With one last look over my shoulder at Embry, I know I have to leave.

There’s more to this tragedy than just Embry being comatose in a hospital bed while his ghost form is trapped between this world and the next.

It’s that his own brother put him here, and I need to know why.

I push open the door of Embry’s hospital room and poke my head out. The nurse who came in was nice, didn’t ask many questions, but that doesn’t mean I want to meet up with anyone else.
I got lucky, but the next nurse could easily have me thrown out, or worse, call my dad.

The coast is clear. I make a mad dash for the elevator and feverishly push the down arrow. Almost instantly the door slides open. I slip into the empty space and press the button that will take me back to the main floor. Again I watch the numbers illuminated in red, this time counting back down to one. The doors slide open with a
bing.

The lobby is still bustling with activity. I push through the crowds and out the door, gulping in the fresh air. It tastes of rain and earth. Small drops of water hit the skin of my arms. It’s cool, yet refreshing.

I used to love it when it rained. Even though the water was cold, the temperature was still always scorching hot. I’d put on a bathing suit and twirl around, letting the water soak me. It was the best feeling in the world. Better than swimming in the ocean, better than the pools everyone had in their backyards. Because rain was sporadic. You never knew when the clouds would open up and release the weeks, maybe even months of water they’d been sucking up.

By the time I get back to the Mustang, the rain, sprinkling softly at first, has worked its way up to big fat drops with only one goal in mind—drenching everything in sight. That includes me, my black shirt, and jeans. Even my sneakers are squishing with water. The first thing I do when I slide into the car is crank her over and turn on the heater full blast. As much as I love the rain, it almost always has a way of taking things too far.

Most of the day has passed by the time I get home. I open the big wooden door with an
oomph
. I kick off my shoes, peel off my soaked socks, and tip-toe up the stairs, only to stop half way when I hear the sing-song voice of Mom. “You’ve been out all day—”

My hand squeezes the banister, turning my knuckles white. “I met up with Allison, from yesterday. She showed me around...” I gulp, adding, “And introduced me to some of her friends.”
Some of that is true. God. Willard Grove is turning me into a liar, and I hate it.

“Well isn’t that just great.” She smiles, eyes gleaming. “Why don’t you wash up for dinner? Dad should be home soon.”

“Okay.”

I’m not all that surprised when I open the door to my room and see Embry. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed with the full light of the after rain-storm sun streaming through the window lighting him up. He looks so real.

His head turns slightly at the sound of the door clicking shut. “You were gone—all day,” he says, sounding dejected.

The whole way home I had tried to come up with best case scenarios on what to do, how best to tell him what I found.

But the truth is I can’t.

Not yet.

I don’t feel I have enough answers. Part of me is sure if I tell him, maybe it will trigger something in his head. He’ll gain back some of the memories, maybe. But if he doesn’t, I don’t know how to explain it all. I just don’t think I can muster up the words.

After seeing Embry in the hospital, I know I should feel something akin to happiness. He’s not dead. That’s something, isn’t it? Only I don’t. I can’t shake the feeling it’s just not that easy. That letting him die isn’t going to solve the problem. Because anyone who came in contact with Embry—in ghost form—with some digging, could have found out he’s alive. Figured out how to get him off life support and let his soul crossover.
Right?

So that must mean there’s more. There has to be more.

“I know. I’m sorry, I got caught up.” I tip-toe over to my dresser and pull out dry clothes.

“You’re wet.” His presence brings a swell of cold air. I pull my arms tight around myself as I slowly turn from the dresser, leaving the clothes behind. Embry’s now a few inches away from me.

So close.

I shiver from the combination of wet clothes and icy air. He seems to sense he’s the problem and takes a step back.

“It’s okay,” I say, searching his eyes. Sandy blond hair masks them. And then he disappears in a flash, a puff of colored-grains that fall to the floor and dissolve, leaving no trace he was here.

Suddenly from the bathroom, I hear the sound of water running. I stand confused until Embry emerges. “A hot shower will warm you up.” My eyebrows must have quirked in question, because he then adds softly, “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

My heart leaps in my chest. His concern for my wellbeing is sweet, and the idea of a warm shower is enticing. My jeans have been chaffing with every step, making them super uncomfortable. They’re probably giving me a rash. Even the numbness in my toes is hard to ignore. I doubt they’ll get frostbite, but I’m sure they’d welcome the warmth. The Mustang’s heater just doesn’t heat up like it did in the old days.

So after a moment’s thought, I nod. “Yeah, okay. That sounds perfect.” I saunter towards the bathroom, just as Embry strolls past me and heads for the closet. Stopping, I say, “You’re not staying?”

It’s funny how sometimes you want
and
don’t want something at the same time. Part of me wishes I would beg him to stay, while the other part knows that pretty soon I’ll have to come clean and tell him everything.
Even a relationship with a ghost can become
complicated.

From the closet door he says, “I’ll be back later.” There’s the tiniest hint of a smile, not enough to show teeth, but just enough to reveal a slight indentation of dimples.
Could he get anymore GQ?
And before I get a chance to respond, he slips through the door and vanishes.

The warmth the shower will provide calls to me. Quickly I make my way into the bathroom, peel off my sticky, skin-tight jeans and shirt. I discard everything onto the floor in a heap and jump into the shower.

After using every gallon of hot water in the house, I turn off the shower and step out. I pause, water dripping from my hair, beads forming and rolling down my skin. In my rush to get warm, I knew I had forgotten something important—a towel—and yet, neatly folded on the closed lid of the toilet is a towel, and on the edge of the sink, the clothes I had pulled from my dresser. Now I’m not sure if I should be impressed and thankful or creeped out that Embry was in here. Grabbing the fluffy towel and wrapping it around myself, I decide to be thankful.

By the time I get back to my room after dinner I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally. Mom had grilled me with questions about my new friend. Asking what she was like, what activities she was in at school, what her friends were like...and everything in between. I’d spent like ten minutes with Allison before I bolted, in turn making all those questions beyond difficult to answer.

I hate lying.

What I hate more than that?

How positively elated Mom seems to be about my new friend. I can’t ever remember her getting that excited about the ones I had back in California. She even insisted I invite Allison over for dinner some time, so they could “get to know her.” It’s as if they’ve already decided she’s going to be my best friend. It’s just another sign of how desperate my mother is about me taking things in a new direction, accepting Willard Grove, its possibilities and starting over. I’ve never felt guiltier. Maybe Allison will make a good friend, once I get past my more urgent matter.

“You’re back,” Embry says. He’s sitting in the office chair by the desk.

“Yup.” I flounce onto my bed. I stay there, arms spread out above my head until the squeal of the chair makes me sit up.

Embry points to the book he has laid out on the desk. “These your friends?”

I sit up straighter, straining my eyes to see what he’s looking at. Shooting to my feet, I rush towards him. “You’re looking at my year book?” I pull the book—Huntington Hills High Year Book—from the desk, closing it with a thud before shoving it into the nearest drawer.