“I get it. Liability. Lawyers. I’ll sign whatever I need to.” I shift, wince. Seven hours ago, Kyle and I were driving up the beach toward his house. The day was warm, the sun bright, and the ocean calm. I was nervous, in an excited kind of way.
Now Kyle’s blood smears my arm. “Are you sure about Kyle?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “What do you remember?”
“Arriving at the cottage.” It’s a stunning place and unexpectedly elegant on such a remote stretch of beach. Vaulted ceilings, large plush couches, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dunes and ocean, white granite kitchen counters, dazzling stainless-steel appliances, and modern art on the walls. Fresh red roses filled a crystal vase on the living room coffee table. I remember almost teasing it was a no-one-can-hear-you-scream kind of place but thinking better of the joke. My dark sense of humor is best reserved for people who’ve known me more than three and a half weeks.
“The EMTs responded to the house at one fifteen p.m. today. When did you arrive at the cottage?”
“About noon. I don’t remember much after we arrived.”
Doubts crease his brow. “It’s okay. Those memories should come back in time.”
I know better than anyone, the power of positive thinking is faulty at best. “I want to leave. Where are my clothes, purse, and phone?”
“I really would like you to stay overnight for observation.”
“No.” Panic constricts my chest. “I hate hospitals.”
“Most people do.”
I sit up straighter, wince as my hip protests. My head is clear. “I’ll call if something goes wrong.”
Dr. Jackson’s frown deepens as he shakes his head. “I’m going to hold you to that, Lane.”
I cross my chest. Hope not to die. “Promise.”
“Any signs of dizziness, nausea, or headaches, call me. No running, cycling, or jumping. If you don’t heed my advice, you’ll really screw up your hip and be in surgery by Valentine’s Day.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” A few days ago, I’d toyed with spending Valentine’s Day with Kyle. He might have come out of nowhere, but our relationship was headed somewhere. He was so into me. And now he’s dead.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Dr. Jackson asks.
“I’m fine, Doctor.” In an hour, Dr. Jackson will have seen five or six more patients, and I’ll recede into his distant memory. I’ll enter the hospital’s digital archives and reside alongside my foster care records, student loan debt accounts, college transcripts, and credit card scores. I’ve lived between the cracks all my life, and I’m comfortable with obscurity. “I just need to get out of here.”
“I’ll send in someone from administration to help you check out.”
I glance over the side rails to a small table outfitted with a phone. “Where are my purse and clothes? My pills are in my purse. I’ll show you the prescription bottle.”
“Let me check with the nurse.” He’s trying to care, but it won’t last long. At least I have his attention right now. “I’ll be right back.”
“Great. Thanks.” I lean my head back against the pillow. I breathe in deeply and slowly exhale. I feel light-headed. This small room feels as if it’s shrinking by the moment, and the hospital’s antiseptic smell makes deep breathing unsatisfying.
When I close my eyes, I hear the pop of Kyle’s skull as it splits like a melon. My stomach tumbles, and I think I’m going to get sick. The bathroom is across the room, but I’m hooked up to an IV, and my hip cries every time I move. Please, I cannot get sick. They’ll never let me out of here if I barf.
The curtain opens and closes, and Dr. Jackson reappears. “The nurse said your purse didn’t come with you.”
“What do you mean it didn’t come with me?” It contains my cell, my medications, and basically my life.
“The nurse contacted the EMTs, and they said your belongings were left behind at the beach house.”
“Are they still there?” I shift and grimace. “I remember setting my overnight bag and purse by the bed in the main bedroom.”
“The EMTs say the house was closed up,” Dr. Jackson says. “It must still be where you left it.”
Shit. I must get my phone and the pills that keep my insomnia and sleepwalking in check. “Where are my clothes?”
“The nurses bagged them. I understand they were badly stained. We also had to cut your pants off to examine your hip.”
“Stained with blood,” I say more to myself. My hands tremble. Blood stains forever, right?
“Let me talk to the nurse. She can get you a set of scrubs.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll call my neighbor.” I reach for the hospital phone.
“No running or long walks at all, Lane,” he warns. “I’m serious. Take it easy for a few months, or that small rip will go full-blown and will require surgery.”
“I’m not doing surgery.” The idea of a surgeon’s blade cutting my skin terrifies me.
“Then take care of yourself. Call me if you need me. I can also put you in touch with a psychologist.”
Kyle was a psychologist. I’m also a semester away from being one. “Thanks.”
He leaves, and I dial my neighbor Shelly’s landline. I remember it because it’s only two digits higher than my phone number when I was a kid. She’s not going to recognize the hospital number and won’t answer, but she has an old-school answering machine. The phone rings six times before the machine picks up. “This is Shelly. Don’t leave a message.”
“Shelly, this is Lane. I’m in the hospital. I need you to go by my place, use your spare key, and get a few things.” I rattle off a list and tell her where I am.
I hang up, shift my weight off my left hip, and lie back on the bed. My body aches, and I still can’t believe Kyle is gone. Kyle. Is. Dead. I should be doing something for him. Calling someone. But my eyes drift closed.
“It’s going to be a great weekend,” Kyle says. We’ve stopped at the redbrick Currituck Lighthouse Historic Park, and we’re parked next to a row of air tire pumps in the shadow of the lighthouse. He reaches across me, removes an air gauge from the glove box, and kisses me on the lips. “Can’t wait to get you alone. Be right back.”
“What are you doing?”
“Letting air out of the tires. It’s called airing down,” he explains. “You can only drive on the beach with deflated tires. Better traction. Don’t want us getting stuck in the sand.”
“We’re leaving the hard surface road?”
“Only way to get where we’re going.”
My nerves ripple, but I can’t tell if it’s with worry or anticipation. Maybe both. This is going to be our big weekend. “I’ve never driven on sand before.”
“It’s a sight to see.” He gets out of the car, and I follow, mostly because I like being close to him.
“Are we headed to the middle of nowhere?” The wind is brisk, but the sun is warm as I watch him kneel by the front driver’s-side tire. Kyle has a long, lean body earned in a gym and by consuming two protein shakes a day. He’s always careful with his appearance. He’s a far cry from the underpaid social workers I’ve worked with as part of my dissertation. Social workers and grad students favor faded jeans, graphic T-shirts, and hiking boots. Court days mean a wardrobe upgrade to khakis and a slightly rumpled button-down shirt.