It was…a lot to think about. I was trying hardnotto think about it, especially when Mom and Stephie were around.
It was my third day now in the hospital, and they were doing their best to cheer me up. “I brought you something,” Mom said, producing a container.
Even through the plastic lid, I could smell the tomato and basil. Spaghetti and meatballs soup, she called it. A tomato soup base with tiny meatballs and noodles. Something she used to make for me whenever I was sick when I was little.
“Thanks, Momma.” I accepted the container even though I wasn’t hungry. My appetite had vanished somewhere around the time I woke up with tubes coming out of various parts of my body.
“Remember how I used to think the meatballs looked like eyes?” Stephie said, a smile playing at her lips. “Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. You were pretty cute.” I managed a small laugh. “And ridiculous.”
“I always said the tomato broth looked like…”
“Stephanie Ann Marsh,” our mom said sharply.
Stephie’s face crumpled like she was going to cry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay, sissy,” I said. “I can handle a joke about blood.”
Ugh, it had been like this constantly. Mom and Stephie trying to keep their chins up, stay strong. All the while ready to cry at a moment’s notice.
There was no way I could let them know how angry and terrified I really was. If anything, as the days since the attack had passed, those churning emotions had only gotten worse.
There were some parts of the night of the attack that I still couldn’t remember. Most of the evening at the roadhouse was clear. Seeing Stephie and Vivian with their dates.That guy in a cowboy hat harassing the waitress in the parking lot.
Phelan. That was his name. Right. I’d told Sheriff Douglas about him in my statement. How I felt like someone was watching me even after Phelan took off.
Then being at home. How I’d tried to relax, even though I’d felt deep down that something wasn’t right. And then the sounds when I was in the tub… The crash.
The rest was just in flashes.
My gun in my hand. The dark hallway.
A horrible face appearing out of the shadows. And…that was it.
My attackers had used some kind of localized signal jammer to block cell service and internet at my house. A brave neighbor had heard the gunshots and came running, carrying his own shotgun. The suspects fled in a black Ford SUV. No plates.
I’d been in surgery for nearly three hours. My left arm would be in a sling for at least six weeks. Absolutely no lifting anything heavier than a couple pounds. No driving for a month. Physical therapy would start in about a week, once the initial healing began and the swelling went down.
Full recovery could take three to four months, maybe longer depending on how my body responded. It could’ve been so much worse. I knew that. Everyone kept reminding me how lucky I was.
But three to four months until I could return to duty… The time yawned open in front of me like it might swallow me whole.
I wanted to be at work. I wanted to help find the assholes who’d broken into my home. Of course, that was not going to happen.
I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. My chest and side ached with every breath.
“Honey, are you sure you’re okay?” Mom asked.
How on earth could I be okay?I almost said. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to her.
“Maybe I could use a little more pain medication after all,” I gritted out instead.
Mom scampered off to find the nurse, eager to have something to do.
“You’re not okay,” Stephie said quietly.
“I have to be.” Because if I gave in to everything I was feeling, then I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together.
