Seriously, not that I’m complaining, but who gets rejected by death?
Some things are better left unsaid, so I stick with a safe, “I’m fine.”
“Look,” she says softly, “you won’t be due for release for another twenty-four hours. Your vitals are looking good. Great, in fact. But I can see about pulling a few strings to get you additional nights if you need. Mind you, I make no guarantees, but—”
I’m already shaking my head. “That won’t be necessary.” I slowly open my eyes and turn my neck a fraction toward her. She oozes sympathy as she stares down at me. “Really, I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”
She raises her eyebrows. “All right. If you say so. Well, you’re headed to Ashwick? Have you got a place to stay there?”
I chew the inside of my cheek, already regretting not planning this move better. Or at all. “Not yet.”
“They’ve got the old inn. Can I at least get you their info? I’ve got a baggie with the clothes you were wearing at the time—they’ve dried by now, of course—and your wallet’s mostly intact.”
I let out a breath of relief and offer a small smile. My wallet, my ID; that must be how she already knew my name. “That would be great. Thank you.”
Maybe I’m being stupid and should accept her generosity. It’s not like things aren’t tight financially. All I’ve got is my personal savings stash to lean on. Working as the front desk administrator for a chiropractor only paid so much.
Still, I don’t want special treatment, and more than that, I don’t want to be under a microscope or made to talk one-on-one about my feelings. As Grams could have attested, I’ll run a 12K marathon before wasting hours discussing my feelings and what they might mean. In other words: not going to happen.
She nods. “Okay then. Dr. Perry will be right in to check on you, then we’ll discuss your stitches and—”
Stitches?A frown tugs at my lips.
“Oh, not to worry.” She pats my arm. “It was just for a cut on your shoulder blade, nothing major.” It’s then that I remember the windshield breaking. Warm blood on my skin. “Now, there’s also an officer wanting to talk to you about the accident. Whenever you’re up for it, of course.”
I mutter some kind of acknowledgement, which seems to satisfy her because she turns to exit. The door clicks behind her, and silence fills the air. My mind isn’t right yet, still foggy and drained. The monitor’s beeping beside me, and there’s something oddly comforting about the sound. Soft, steady, hypnotic.
Reassuring.
I keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead and taking slow, deep breaths.
I’m alive.
I should be happy. I should be experiencing more relief than I am, but all I can focus on are the many missing pieces of my heart. The thing is, I didn’t just lose my grandmother on Sunday morning, but my entire family. She was my mother, my father, my sister, my best friend. The only person in my life who never left and always loved. The single constant in the ever-changing sea around me.
And now, as I lie in this bright room, the beat of the monitor echoing in my ears, a blanket of haze and uncertainty rushes over me. When I think about my future, my life, my mind goes blank. It’s not an illuminating, white slate either, full of warm lights and promises.
It’s dark and lonely, and all I feel is cold. I’m alone, in a world filled with strangers and steel walls.
Chapter 3
Ashwick Inn is a large, Victorian style building. I can hear its age with each creaking step I take down the wooden hall floor. When I shove the bronze key into my room’s keyhole, it jerks and sticks before I can turn the knob and push the door open. The room is oversized, bigger than any back home, and fits an enormous bed along the far-left wall, a worn loveseat pressed up against its foot, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases stocked with dusty material. There’s a fireplace to my right, built into the base of the only red bricked wall in the room, and above it sits an older TV. The large, round rug laid out before it holds a single rocking chair.
I wonder if Grams has been here before. Clearly it’s been around for a while.
Would she have ever needed to stay at an inn? Could she have walked down that very hall, on the top floor? As open and talkative as Grams was, her past was a solid door that remained shut. It didn’t matter how many times I used to ask about her life before LA, about the grandfather I’d never known, my questions were never met with answers.
She would have loved this place, though: the natural scent of wood filling my nose, the comfortable, folksy feel that she filled our own home with, and the way the fresh coldness from outside wafts through the air. For those very same reasons, Bobby would hate it. Ashwick Inn lacks a certain ambience he tends to go for these days—the kind with smoky casinos and full-service bars.
I glance down at the new, stiff duffel bag in my hand, the price tag still poking out. A quick detour to the tiny town’s only shopping strip allowed me to stock up with some basics before heading here. My wallet and clothes are the only visible ties to my life in LA now. I never thought I’d feel so bare without any of my own clothes, photographs, and other belongings, but now I can’t shake the feeling a part of my identity was left at the bottom of Tuttle Creek Lake.
At least one of the shops carried cute postcards. I take a minute to write a little note for Jamie, letting her know I’ve made it and I’m doing okay. I may have conveniently left out a few of the darker details, but Jamie’s the kind of bestie who’d drop everything and come cursing and banging down my door to make sure I’m all right. She has enough people to take care of under her own roof as it is. Setting the card aside for now, I cross the room.
The bathroom’s small, cozy. A standalone, oval tub sits in one corner. No shower. That’s fine with me; at least it’s clean. I start the water, turning the knob to as hot as I can stand, then close the door to let the steam surround me as I undress.
The water is almost too hot when I lower myself down. Relaxation washes over me. After turning the faucet off, my eyes close as the soothing sound of water settling takes over. It’s hypnotic, the smallest waves caressing me, and my body melts into it like butter. And somehow, it’s familiar—the warmth, the syrupy sensation tugging at me, the tingling.
It’s so quiet, I can hear my own inhales and exhales. Each breath a soft pull and whoosh, a smooth and steady stream of air. Until it’s not, and I hear a different rhythm. It’s quieter, but there’s a roughness to it. It’s deep and controlled, and it doesn’t match the rise and fall of my chest. In fact, it doesn’t seem like me at all.
