Jeb’s face hovers into bleary view as he hunches alongside me, fingers entwined with mine. His hair drips on my forearm. His eyes are red, either from crying or from fighting the flood. “Al, I’m sorry.” He nuzzles my hand, sniffling. “I’m … so sorry.” Then he chokes to silence.
I want to tell him he’s not responsible, but I can’t speak with this tube in my throat—and it wouldn’t matter. Jeb doesn’t remember who Morpheus is. He would think I’m having an oxygen-deprived delusion. So instead of trying to answer, I surrender to unconsciousness.
I have the sense of something touching the birthmark at my ankle and a rush of full-body warmth. Then I wake up in a hospital room.
A window stretches across the wall on the right side. Sunset filters through the blinds, settling in a pink haze over a rainbow of beribboned Get Well balloons, stuffed animals, flower arrangements, and potted plants on the ledge.
Everything else is colorless. White walls, white tiles, white sheets and curtains. Disinfectant and the fruity notes of Mom’s perfume waft around me, blending with the scent of the lilies on the windowsill.
The fresh-cut flowers grumble about their vase being too tight around their stems, but my mom’s voice drowns them out.
“He has no business hanging around every day and night,” she says. “Go out in the hall and tell him to leave.”
“Would you stop?” Dad answers back. “He saved her life.”
“He’s also responsible for nearly killing her. She wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if he hadn’t taken her there for”—Mom’s voice lowers, but I can still hear it—“God only knows what they were doing. If you don’t tell him to go home, I will.”
Jeb. I jerk, only to have an IV tug at the tender skin of my hand. A sense of confinement rolls over me, reminding me of the mud. Fighting the sick turn of my stomach, I attempt to ask my parents to take the needle out, but my throat is on fire. The tube that was shoved down my windpipe is gone now, but it left its mark.
My parents keep arguing. I’m so relieved to hear Dad defending Jeb, but I shut my eyes and hope they go away and leave me alone with the whispering plants. The flowers will let Jeb in. Especially the vase of white roses. I don’t have to see the card to know those came from him.
“Mom …” I don’t recognize the sound that rattles out of my mouth. It’s more like air seeping from a tire than a voice.
“Allie?” Chin-length layers of platinum hair frame her face as she appears over me. She’s never looked her age. Thirty-eight years old and not even a hint of wrinkles. Black lashes offset blue irises flecked with turquoise, like a peacock’s tail. The whites of her eyes are rimmed with red, a sure sign she’s either exhausted or has been crying. But she’s still beautiful: all fragile, wispy, and aglow as if the sun shimmers within her. And it does. Magic shines there. Magic that she’s never tapped into.
The same magic that’s inside of me.
“My sweet girl.” Relief crosses her delicate features as she strokes my cheek. The contact stirs contentment in my chest. Throughout most of my childhood, she was afraid to touch me … afraid to hurt me again like when she scarred my palms.
“Tommy-toes,” Mom says, “hand me the ice chips.” Dad obliges and towers behind her five-foot-four-inch frame as she uses a plastic spoon to feed me from the paper cup. The ice melts, soothing my throat. The water tastes like ambrosia. I nod for more.
They both watch in concerned silence as I take enough ice to numb my painful swallows.
“Where’s Jeb?” The rawness in my throat returns and makes me wince. Mom’s expression draws tight. “He was in the water with me. I need to see that he’s okay.” I cough for effect, though the resulting pain is real. “Please …”
Dad leans down over Mom’s shoulder. “Jeb’s fine, Butterfly. Give us a second to take care of you. How do you feel?”
I twitch my sore muscles. “Achy.”
“I bet.” His brown eyes water, but his smile is blissful as he reaches around Mom to pet my head. I couldn’t have asked for a better dad. If only my grandparents had lived to see me born. They would’ve been proud to have a son so caring and faithful to his family. “I’ll let Jeb know you’re awake,” he says. “He’s been here the whole time.”
It’s impossible to miss Mom’s not-so-subtle elbow to Dad’s rib cage, but her objection doesn’t faze him. He rubs a hand through his dark hair and steps out the door, closing it behind him before she can work up an argument.
Sighing, she puts the cup on the nightstand by the bed and tugs a green vinyl cushioned chair from the corner. She sits down close to me, smoothing her polka-dot silk dress.
When she was first released, she wanted to spend every possible minute with me, catching up on all the time we’d missed. We baked together, did laundry together, cleaned house … gardened. Things most people consider mundane or unpleasant became paradise, because I finally had my mom to do them with.