“Where are my clothes?”
She glances at me, setting down the magazine. “I think they threw them away. They had to cut them off of you. They were ruined by blood. You wouldn’t believe how much those little cuts of yours bled!” She shakes her head in dismay, then reaches over and pats my hand. Like we are friends and she has the right to touch me.
Covered in blood. Thank God I changed after getting rid of Marcus.
“Is that why I was brought to the hospital?”
She shakes her head. “No. Your cuts were all superficial. They could have bandaged you up in the ambulance. But you went into shock pretty quickly. They subdued you, then you woke up. Started screaming about something and thrashing around. Kept arguing with the paramedic, saying she was saying things she wasn’t.” She blushes. “You got pretty violent. Went after her. They had to sedate you.”
I sit back. Try to remember anything after the explosion, but I can’t. It is all a blur of madness, probably washed over by sedatives. I can remember the ground shaking, the house swallowing me in its razor-sharp grip of chaos. Can remember screaming for Jeremy, my world ending in that moment when I thought I caused his death. Nothing else. Nothing else but this perky bitch and finding out that Jeremy is still alive.
What is taking so long? I twist in my wheelchair, turn to look at the receptionist, but sit back quickly. I shouldn’t rush. And I shouldn’t waste time chatting up SunshinePusher. I should think. I should plan. I should organize my words in a way that softens their truth.
CHAPTER 116
I FEEL A push on my shoulder. Soft, like a gentle sway from an ocean wave, rocking me back and then returning me to my upright state. Another push. Back and forth. Then the wave gets rude and I get poked, my eyes popping open.
“Deanna,” SunshinePusher coos. “It’s time to wake up. We can go in now.”
It’s time to wake up. Like I am six years old and she is my mother. I blink at her, willing the sleep from my eyes. I can’t believe I fell asleep.
“It’s the sedatives,” she says gently. “You’ll be groggy for a few hours.”
“I’m not groggy.” The room sways before me, her face turning blurry before refocusing. I smile, through the blur, and hope that it passes muster. My vision clears and she rolls me forward.
I watch the door open and pray for strength. Pray that when I see him, that I will be cool. Smile. Isn’t that what normal women do? Smile. I watch the door open and strain forward, wishing this infuriating woman would roll me faster.
I can see little of the man I love, but he is made no less handsome by the breathing tube through his nose, bandages on his face, the IV in his arm, and blankets covering his body. Sunshine pushes me to the side of his bed, my hand stealing out and under the blankets, grabbing his carefully, unsure of his level of injuries. His eyes open, green finding me, and his mouth tugs into a smile. “Deanna.”
His voice is scratchy, weak. But his hand squeezes mine, and it is strong. I stand, pushing the wheelchair back, and send Sunshine a pointed look. “Could we have some privacy?”
She smiles brightly. “Of course. I’ll be in the lobby. The receptionist asks that you limit this visit to thirty minutes.” I watch her, wait for the door to close behind her cupcake-covered scrubs, and turn back to him. My hand moves, shaky in its path, up his arm and down his side. “What’s hurt?”
He reaches over, pushing a button on the side of the bed that raises him slightly, his face tightening, a white flush of pain passing briefly through it. My heart seizes at the look. I caused that. I am the reason he is here.
“Nothing major.”
“You’re all bandaged up. Something major.”
He barely shrugs, the reduced movement my second clue that he is in pain. “Some internal injuries. I was caught—when the house collapsed—under part of it. I have a lot of bruising, some small burns.”
I frown. “And internal bleeding.”
“I don’t even know if I have that anymore. They took me straight into surgery. I haven’t talked to the doctor since.” He smiles. “Nothing for you to worry about.” His eyes sharpen, move to the chair. “Are you hurt?” He pushes himself up, worry making his movements too quick.
I shake my head quickly, push on his shoulders. “Lie back. Relax. I’m fine. The wheelchair is some stupid hospital policy thing.”
His eyes travel over my face. “But your face. The cuts…”
“Superficial,” I brush off. “Neosporin-worthy, nothing else.” I move closer to him, reach out and bend down. Hug his chest as gently as I can. Breathe in the scent that is not Jeremy. It is medicinal and sickly, yet I inhale as much of it as I can gather. I relax, rest my head on his chest. “Does this hurt?”
His hand comes up, brushes gently over my back. “Not in the least.”
We stay there, for long moment, and then I straighten. “Tell me what happened. I saw the house explode—you couldn’t have…”
His eyes study me. I don’t like how they look at me. As if they are fighting a war beneath the green. “First, what happened to your face?” His eyes drop down. “Your hands.” He pulls back the sleeve of my gown, flipping over my hands to reveal my shredded palms. “Jesus, Dee.”
I push his hands away. “It’s nothing. I pulled up to your house right before the explosion. Got scratched up from the blast. Tell me what happened.” I keep my eyes on his, my face so tight I feel as if my skin will rip.
He looks away. “I don’t really know. I came home from work. Walked in the house, don’t remember anything happening, but woke up and was tied up.”
“Tied up?” My voice is harsh. Harsher than I meant it to be, the anger pushing and pulling my vocal cords without my permission. His eyes return to mine, a bit of wariness in their depths.