Текст книги "Paper Thin"

Автор книги: Jennifer Snyder

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

THE LIGHTS INSIDE THE hospital room were too bright, illuminating my sister’s broken body in an eerie glow. They made the bruising on her face seem even more discolored and grotesque. I hated the lights. Emma was beautiful, but not beneath these lights. I stared at her, soaking in all the details about her. Her brown hair was tucked within the bandage around her head awkwardly, as though whoever wrapped her up didn’t care what she looked like. Her eyes were closed. If I didn’t know already that she was in a coma, I would have wondered if they were swollen shut. Tubes leaked from her mouth, held in place by scraps of tape. The thick, textured kind that always left behind its icky glue when it was removed. Not only was it slapped haphazardly across her chin, but it was on her arm as well, holding an IV in place.

“Don’t worry, Emma,” I whispered. “I’ll help you scrape the gunk off before it turns brown and nasty.” I held my breath, waiting for some sort of an answer from her. A laugh. A giggle. A huff of sarcasm.

Emma didn’t respond. Disappointment crashed through me. My feet continued forward in their slow pace. I couldn’t speed them up. I wasn’t even sure what was propelling me toward her when all I could feel was the fear holding me back.

Once I reached her, I swallowed hard as I stretched out to touch her. My fingers curled inward before they reached her though, and my nails dug into my palm.

If I touched her, this all became real. Too real.

I blinked, unsure if I was ready for reality to crash into me again. This felt surreal, like a dream. An extended version of my nightmare from last night. I held my breath, listening for the breathing they claimed she was doing on her own, but not hearing anything. Why did they have a tube in her throat if she could breathe on her own? Was it a precaution? Was my sister’s life really that unstable? Wild thoughts buzzed through me.

I focused on the chorus of machines as they beeped out a slow tune, hoping to find some comfort in the noise, because it meant she was okay. My eyes shifted to them. Regardless of what I felt due to the sight of her, these machines told me Emma was alive.

She was strong. She would make it through this, and I would help her.

Holding on to those thoughts, I inched closer to her. Reaching out, I finally managed to touch her arm. I moved my fingertips against the few inches of her skin not covered in tape from the IV. It was warm, not cold like I had expected.

“Hey. It’s me.” My words were low and stiff. I couldn’t help but feel that if I talked to her, she would hear me and wake up on her own. “You’ve got this, Em. Don’t let go.”

I repeated the words inside my head like a mantra, staring at her, waiting, wishing, and hoping for some sign she was listening. I pushed with my mind, suddenly having become a firm believer in the whole mind over matter bit. Nothing changed though. The machines continued in their slow song of life, and my sister remained a sleeping beauty.

My chin dipped to my chest. A shuddering breath pushed its way past my lips, and I closed my eyes, giving up after only a few minutes. Still rubbing my fingers against her smooth skin, I waited. For her to wake. For them to wake her. For someone to step inside the room, and tell me my time was up. For something, anything, that might end this never-ending moment breaking me into pieces. The longer I stood there, the more pain I felt. It radiated off my sister, and buried inside my chest, circling my heart and tormenting me. Seconds turned into minutes. No one bothered me. No one came in to check her vitals. Nothing changed, except me. I felt myself become fragile, brittle, and utterly broken as I stared at her.

After what felt like hours later, the door to Emma’s room opened, allowing noise from in the hall to seep in. Irritation burned through me. My sister deserved quiet. She didn’t need the outside noise distracting her from what she was trying to do, from how she was making her way back to me. I shifted to see who had entered the room, ready to shoot daggers at them with my eyes for interrupting, until I realized it was Dawson.

The sight of him muted my irritation. His eyes were wide with the same fear I had felt clogging my system when I saw her for the first time. He was taking in the machines, the bruises, and the swelling. His hatred for all that had happened to my beautiful sister crossed his face. He understood this pain, my pain. How horrifying it was to see her lying in the bed within your reach, but unable to be fixed. He knew what it was like to look at her, and think about how she resembled a stranger. She was unrecognizable from the bandages, bruising, and swelling of her face.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he whispered as though he didn’t want to wake her.

“You’re not.” My voice was as low as his, because I felt the same. Even though I knew we wouldn’t cause her to wake from her slumber, I still whispered. It seemed disrespectful to talk in a normal voice around her.

“Okay.” He closed the door behind him. His unease radiated from him. I understood it, but hated how much it intensified my own. I needed to be strong, but couldn’t be if I was suffocated by someone else’s worry for Emma as well as my own.

“I think I’m going to get a coffee. Want one?” I patted Emma’s arm, and moved to let Dawson have access to her bedside.

A breath escaped his lips, and I knew it was from him taking in the full view of her. I lifted my gaze to look at him, really look at him. He was chewing along the side of his bottom lip, something I had always known him to do whenever he was nervous or scared. I used to think it was the cutest thing, but now there was nothing cute about it. It was heartbreaking.

“She looks like she’s in so much pain.” His words rolled through the air in the room, slamming into me. “Oh my God.” He doubled over. I knew it was from the pain of seeing her this way, because I’d felt it too. I still did. Tears slipped from my eyes, because I knew exactly what he was feeling.

“I know.” My words were simple. My voice constricted. I couldn’t offer him much more than that. I would break in half if I did.

“They told me she wouldn’t feel anything while she was still under.” He pulled in a shaky breath, gathering himself. “How could they know for sure? It looks like it hurts her to breathe.”

“If you look beyond everything and search her face, she looks peaceful. You can’t feel pain if you’re peaceful.” I couldn’t look at her and see this again for myself, because looking at her would mean I would have to see past everything else first, and I wasn’t sure I could do that again. Not twice in one day. Instead, I continued to stare at him.

His gaze drift over her face, searching for what I had been talking about. When he found it, a little of the craze melted from his eyes, and his features seemed to soften. “You’re right.”

A moment of silence passed through the room. It wasn’t heavy, but instead held a calming quality.

“Coffee?” I needed to give him time alone with her. I needed to catch my breath again.

“Sure.” He never looked away from my sister. His stare was so intense, so set on her, it was as though he were trying to rouse her from this with his mind, to heal her with his thoughts. Maybe, between the both of us, we could. “Thanks.”

I slipped out of the room as quietly as I could. After I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it for support and shut my eyes. I had survived seeing Emma for the first time. The worst was over now. Right?

I SPENT FOUR DAYS at the hospital, waiting for the doctors to tell me they were waking Emma. Four days of misery. Four days of worry. Four days of hope building, and growing because of the positive words Dawson kept feeding me in conjunction with the doctors. Even though I knew Dawson said them more for himself than me, and the doctors said them because it was their job, they still helped ease my worry.

Some.

The day my sister was brought out of her coma was almost as scary as the moment I found out she had been in an accident. No one knew if there was brain damage. No one knew how she would handle the news of what happened. Again, all we could do was wait. People are right when they say the waiting is the hardest part.

I had been gripping one hand, while Dawson gripped her other when her eyes fluttered open. Confusion swirled in her hazel eyes. I knew she didn’t understand what was going on, but at the same time she did. I imagined her mind being complete chaos as she connected images from the accident to where she was. Her first words had been, “What’s wrong?” I wondered if she meant what was wrong with her, because she felt different, or if she’d meant with me. She squeezed my hand tighter, and I glanced across her to Dawson, realizing she was doing the same to his hand. All of my worries evaporated then, because I knew Emma was going to be fine. She could talk, and she could squeeze her hands. Both were good signs.

Hope bloomed through me, and I knew things were going to be all right. We could make it through this. Emma could make it through this. She was strong, and I could be strong for her.

I GRIPPED THE ARMS of Emma’s wheelchair and pulled with all my might. It was only two steps, but they killed me each time. I needed the church to finish building the ramp to the living room, because I wasn’t sure how many more times I could do this without my arms falling off.

“Almost.” I gritted my teeth together, giving one final tug. Emma hated this part. My sister had become as independent as she always was, even with the earth-shattering change of being wheelchair bound. Needing help up these stairs was demoralizing for her. It was clear in the way her shoulders slumped forward, and the twisted look of hatred that always shot across her face.

As horrible as it was for me to admit, I kept waiting for her to finally crack. I had always thought of my sister as a superhero, but even superheroes cracked under such pressure and disastrous situations. She hadn’t even cried yet. I suspected she was putting on a front for me, but when I spoke with Dawson about it, he said she must be doing the same for him as well.

“Whew. There. We made it.” I moved out of her way so she could get to the kitchen door. I needed a moment to catch my breath.

“Thanks,” she muttered as she used her arms to maneuver the wheelchair through the narrow doorway. Apparently, not all houses were wheelchair friendly, especially not the older ones.

Ours was built in the late sixties. The doors and hallways were barely wide enough for her to squeeze through even with a compact wheelchair, leaving no room for error.

Emma bumped into the door jam and reversed her chair so she could line up better and try again. This was the part I hated most, standing there, watching her frustration grow over something that had been so simple to her before. I wanted to help, and a few times I had made the mistake of reaching out and adjusting her chair for her, but she told me she would never learn if I was constantly helping her. The words had stung, but I also understood her point.

“Damn it,” she whispered under her breath as she reversed for a second time.

Unease rolled through me. This moment was always awkward. I never knew what I should do. It always seemed like a tossup between staying where I was and offering words of encouragement, or heading to the opposite side of the house and going about my way while she figured it out on her own. Was it easier for her if I wasn’t watching? I didn’t want to ask. So I remained rooted in place until she finally got it on her own.

Things we so different now, for all of us.

I had never seen my sister this closed off and snappish. The sensation of walking on egg shells when talking to her wasn’t something I’d felt since we were teens. While she had every right to be standoffish and snippy—hell, she could be a complete bitch if she wanted, because she should be mad at the world right now—I was just taken aback by how different she was.

“Want some lunch?” I made my way through the door and into the kitchen, carrying two bag of pills from the pharmacy. Mom had one, and now so did Emma.

“I’m not hungry.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek while I stared at her. She was never hungry. The desire to say so, to put my foot down and force her to eat, burned though me. I didn’t want to upset her though. She’d already been through enough today. With a sigh, I decided to take the nice route. “Are you sure? You didn’t eat breakfast.”

Emma paused at the entrance to the living room. She hadn’t stopped because she wanted to; she’d stopped because her arms were already tired. Charity, her physical therapist, had said it would take a while for her to build up the muscles in her arms. She had mentioned more than once exhaustion was common when learning to use a wheelchair.

“I know. I’m not hungry.” She spun the wheels on her chair, and started forward again.

I kicked the kitchen door closed behind me with more force than necessary, and tossed the bags from the pharmacy on the counter. Leaning against the countertop for support, I let out another long sigh. God, Emma could be so frustrating sometimes. Why the hell wouldn’t she eat? It was something I had mentioned to her doctor, but so far, he hadn’t done anything about. He claimed there was an adjustment period, and said she would eventually pull herself away from the brink of depression. Gradually her personality would revert back to the Emma I knew and loved. He recommended I give her time.

So I had.

I’d given her almost three months now to come back to me. So far, I hadn’t seen a spark of the old Emma shine through.

I didn’t expect her to bounce back easily, but I hoped she would at least go through the motions of staying alive—like eating, showering, being. Emma didn’t seem to have any desire for those things, especially not on the days she went to physical therapy. It was as though that snuffed out any bit of light she had gotten to spark during the previous days, because it was a reminder of what she still couldn’t do and never would be able to—walk. Charity tried to teach her how to use the special shower chair to her advantage today so she could feel accomplished in something. It hadn’t gone over well. My sister hadn’t worked out a day in her life. She never needed to. She was born naturally thin, but being thin didn’t mean she was in shape. Something she was learning the hard way.

Forcing myself away from the counter, I walked to the fridge. It was after two in the afternoon, and I was starved. I decided I would heat up some leftovers for myself and Emma, hoping once she smelled something she would gain an appetite. I had just popped open the Tupperware container when a text came through on my cell. I knew who it was without having to look. Dawson always sent me a message after Emma’s therapy appointments. He wanted to know how it went before calling and asking her. Our texts gave him an edge on her mood, and helped him figure out what words of wisdom he could offer. Dawson loved my sister. There was never a question.

I reached for my phone so I could fill him in on today’s appointment.

How did it go today?

I thought of how to word my response. Flat-out telling him she might not take his call because she wasn’t in the best of moods was not something I wanted to say.

Eh, she’s had better days. ~ Charlotte

It was the truth. The days Charity spent working with her on maneuvering around in her wheelchair were the best. Emma might not have been able to make all the turns or get over all the hard areas someone like me took for granted, but she tried, and even had a sense of determination about her while doing it. Today had not been one of those days.

What was the focus on?

Moving from the chair to the shower. Tried that crazy seat thing again. She hates it still. ~ Charlotte

I left off the part about how she had fallen and bruised her forehead, positive she would tell him herself or that he would see the bruise the next time he came by.

I can work with that. I’ll have her smiling.

Emma never smiled anymore. She was depressed. I knew things took time, but I had thought she would handle this better than she was. I thought she would bounce back with a profound new look on life. Emma was too positive of a person to let this break her. At least that was what I had thought. Now I wasn’t so sure. I wondered if her positive attitude toward life had all been for show.

The front door opened, and I felt myself deflate. Mom was home. I hated the feelings simmering through me. It was wrong and horrible, but there it was, in the center of my chest all the same. Struggling to get my sister back to as normal as could be was one thing, but having to take care of my mom was another. Self-pity crashed through me, and I hated myself for it.

I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I shouldn’t feel angry. I should be happy I still had a mom and a sister here with me. I was glad, but things were complicated. Things were too different now.

“Hello?” Carla called out. With everything that had happened, we were forced to hire someone to help with getting Mom to her appointments.

“Hey. I’m in the kitchen,” I answered. “Anyone want lunch?”

“No. We ate already.” Carla crossed the kitchen and set Mom’s purse on the counter. “I took Mrs. Montgomery to the little café on the corner of Benson and River Street.”

“Oh. Okay.” I wondered how this worked. Was I supposed to pay her for Mom’s lunch? I didn’t have any cash on me, but I was sure Emma did. Somewhere.

“I should have called to see if you two wanted anything. I’m sorry.” Carla reached out and gripped my elbow, obviously mistaking the look on my face for something it wasn’t.

“No. It’s fine, really.” I spooned more of the pasta dish I made the other night onto two plates. If I sprinkled it with more cheese, maybe it would appear more edible. “How much do I owe you for Mom’s meal?”

“Oh poo.” She waved my words away. “You don’t owe me a thing. I enjoyed the company.”

“Are you sure?” I put the lid back on the bowl and swiped my hands across my shorts. “I don’t have any cash with me right now, but I’m sure Emma has some somewhere.”

“No. It’s fine.” Carla’s smile wavered at the mention of Emma. “How did she do today?”

“Not as good as I’m sure she hoped. It was a frustrating day for her.” I went through the motions of sprinkling mozzarella cheese on both dishes. “She’ll get it. I know she will. Then things will start to get better for her.” I could feel Carla’s eyes boring into me, picking my words and emotions apart, studying what she saw.

“And how are you?”

How was I? She was the first to ask. Even during the calls I’d had with Sadie, she didn’t think to ask how I was handling things. My mind kicked me before any emotions about it could take root. Why would anyone ask how I was doing? I wasn’t the one who had survived a terrible car accident only to wake up and learn I was never going to walk again. I wasn’t the one who was losing tiny pieces of my mind each day, forgetting those I loved, forgetting words I used to know.

There was no reason for anyone to ask me how I was doing. I was fine, compared to them.

“I’m okay.” I placed one plate in the microwave, and pushed the buttons to warm it.

“I know you’re okay physically.” Carla moved so that she was a step closer to me, invading my personal space with her grandmotherly perfume smell that was oddly comforting. “But how are you mentally, sweetheart? That’s what I’m asking.”

I swallowed hard, searching for an answer that would make me seem braver than I was, one that would make this conversation end, because I couldn’t have it. I couldn’t divulge what I was truly feeling, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together if I did. “I’m hanging in there.”

“You’re as stubborn as your sister, you know that?” She placed a hand on her hip, and flashed me a tight-lipped grin. “The two of you must get that from your momma. I swear she has her stubborn days too. Did you see what she tried to walk out of the house in this morning?”

Her words shocked me. Not only her comparison between my sister and me, but also the one to my mom. It was hard for me to think of my mother as anything other than what she was now—an adult I viewed as more like a child due to her disease. I was not a child. I was far from it. My new day-to-day life was a harsh reminder of it. “No.” I’d been too worried about the fact that Emma had barely touched her breakfast again.

“Her winter coat and layers of clothes.” Carla smirked. “She was dressed for a damn blizzard again.”

As if on cue, Mom entered the kitchen. She was still dressed for frigid winter weather.

I arched a brow at Carla. “You let her leave the house like that?” I whispered, hoping Mom wouldn’t hear. The microwave beeped, and I replaced the plate inside with the other one I had yet to warm.

Carla shrugged. “Mrs. Montgomery, you ready for me to take your heavy coat yet?”

“No. I’m fine. Thank you.” Mom opened one cabinet and then another, searching for something.

“See, she’s fine. So I let her wear it.”

I nodded. I wouldn’t want to argue with her either. Regardless of my mother’s mental state, she was never one to argue with. That was one thing about her that hadn’t changed.

Mom slammed another cabinet shut and moved on to the next one.

“What are you looking for, Mom?” I asked.

“The cups.”

“In the cabinet beside the sink.” My words were slow, cautious, deflated.

We had always lived in this house. Emma had grown up here. I had grown up here. During that time, the cups had always been in the same place—the cabinet nearest the sink. I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself as grief swept through me. It was becoming such a familiar feeling.

“Oh, right.” Mom smiled as though it was a silly thing to forget.

“She’s really slipping, sweetheart. I know your sister didn’t want to, but with the way things have taken such a turn, placing your mom in a home might be the best thing for you all.” Carla gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before she walked to the backyard to smoke another of her cancer sticks.

I scooped up Emma’s plate and a fork, letting the words Carla had left me with process as I started down the hall. Was she right? Was finally admitting our mother was too much for either of us to tend to something we should do? Didn’t that mean we were giving up on her? That we were saying she was too much of a burden?

I chewed the inside of my cheek while I continued toward Emma’s room, wondering if this was the same internal debate she had each time I brought the idea of a nursing home up. If so, no wonder she snapped at me; the pressure to make the right call was unbearable.