And Eli’s sleeping with his head resting on the foot of the mattress on my left. When did he get here? I don’t remember seeing him before now.
I shift slightly, and my left arm feels weird. There’s a drip in it, the needle stinging oddly as it’s disturbed. Gross. I wonder what they’ve pumped me with so far. I wonder if I can have some more.
Mom stirs because I‘ve moved, and I try to say something, but nothing happens. I try again.
Nothing. Not a single sound.
“Sweetheart,” my mother whispers sadly, “it’s OK.” She’s wide awake in seconds, like only mothers can be, and smooths the hair out of my face with the gentlest touch. Tenderness is etched into every square inch of her face, and I notice a few strands of gray in her hair that I don’t remember seeing before.
More of the past few days - weeks, probably - floods in. I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness until time stopped meaning anything. Everything hurts, especially my throat. I remember a man in scrubs telling me that they saved my life, but not my voice box, and my vocal cords are wrecked beyond any hope of salvaging. Dr Uribe. He was pleasant, but very clearly exhausted. Probably been elbows deep in the blood and guts of my classmates, trying to save us all.
I frown. I can’t speak anymore. I will never talk again. Ever.
Dad and Eli wake up. Eli starts when he sees me awake. “Dean,” he whispers, his face contorted with…with what? Guilt? I’ve no idea why.
Dad leaves the room, calling for a nurse.
“How are you feeling?” Mom flinches as she realizes what she just said, but I know what she means. “Sorry. I mean… Are you feeling rested?”
A yes/no question. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? Only two options open to me, thumbs up or thumbs down? How am I going to communicate any more than that to anyone? What the actualfuckam I gonna do?
“Bye, Cal.”
I jolt as something else comes screaming back to me, something that can’t be true, mustn’t be true, and I stare wildly at my mother. I try to say Callie’s name, but not even a whisper comes out. I can’t whisper? FUCK!! I try again, just mouthingit this time, hoping she can read my lips and understand what I’m struggling to ask.
Dad walks in with a nurse, who checks my vitals, but I keep staring at my mother’s face, so filled with grief and dread.
I’m willing her to tell me. Willing hernotto tell me. My mind desperately casts around for something to hold onto. Maybe Callie got found, too. Maybe I was wrong, and she wasn’t dead. What do I know about checking someone’s vitals? Maybe Calista Lopez is in one of these other hospital rooms, clinging on, scarred and fucked up but alive, please, alive, so I can take care of her forever, whatever state she’s in…
“I’m so sorry, darling. Callie…she didn’t make it.” Mom’s voice cracks as she clutches my hand, willing strength into me, while Dad squeezes her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, darling…”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the truth. I knew. Of course I knew. I shouldn’t have asked.
And I have one more question.
Summoning up the very, very last of my courage, I mouth the words. I mouth her name. I need to know if she made it.
Mrs Oberman.
Mom flinches, and I wait in the silence. And then, very slowly, she shakes her head.
They’re dead.
Mrs O. Her baby. Dead because of me. It’s my fault. I hid in her classroom. I dropped the keys. He heard. He came back. It’s all my fucking fault…
I struggle against my weeping mother, against the nurse and my father and Eli, against the truth of what happened to my girlfriend and the pregnant woman I as good as killed. Can’t the doctors open me up again and just let me bleed out?
I scream. I scream. I scream.
But no sounds come.
Just terrible, choking silence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dean
Ifeel like actual shit.
