Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I don’t know.
I stare down at her. I have some good memories, even if I have to search way back to find them. Before the alcohol became her priority, before men became more important than me, back when . . .
A memory flits by. Mom in a yellow dress. We were in bayou country, thick with cypress trees, sluggish marshes, and the smell of seafood. I don’t remember too much, just us walking down a wooden dock, the planks hot beneath my feet. She picked me up, carried me on her hip, twirled us around while we laughed. It’s one of my last memories of feeling safe, loved. The memory fades, and I’m left wondering if maybe I dreamed it up. Maybe my imagination filled in gaps where I had no positive memories. If she wakes up, I think I’ll ask her if we took that trip.
There’s nothing to do now but wait, see if the antibiotics work, if the breathing machine can take some of the load so she can rest and grow stronger. My gaze skims the bags hanging from the IV pole yet again. There are six now—they added something called norepinephrine to keep her pressure up. She’s getting blood, too, pumped into another line they put in her.
I sigh, resigning myself to one fact: I can’t leave Louisiana.
I was fooling myself to think I could. Like it or not, this is where I’m supposed to be.
Maybe for more than one reason. This and . . . The IV bags blur as my mind wanders to the other reason. There are too many unanswered questions. About Noah and his father. I reach for my phone and send my department chair a quick email telling her I have a family emergency, that my mom is sick. I’m going to need a few more days off, maybe a week.
Hours pass, and I close my eyes, take a deep breath in, and exhale, trying to silence my swirling thoughts. And despite it all, Noah cuts through again. I invited him in. Kissed him again. Might have even—
“Ms. Davis?”
My whole body jolts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you . . .” I look up to find a new doctor in a white coat. She’s short, with blunt-cut hair framed around her tiny face, looking at me with concern. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Sorry, yes, I’m fine.”
“Would you like me to ask the nurse to bring in bedding? That chair converts.” She gestures to a stiff blue chair sitting under the tiny window.
“No. But thank you.” My gaze shifts to my mother, then back to the doctor. “How is she?”
“She’s stabilized for the time being. Her stats have come up since we started the antibiotics and put in the breathing tube. We’ll keep her sedated overnight. Hopefully, tomorrow we’ll see more improvement. I know it looks scary right now, but she’s getting everything she needs.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Thank you.”
I stay another hour, but when I yawn for the third time, I decide to call it a day. I can’t remember the last time I slept. Before I go, I check in with the nurses’ station and let them know I’ll be back tomorrow, make sure they have my number handy.
Outside, the air is damp, heavy. But at least the claustrophobia of the small ICU room fades. The sky glows with a smattering of stars, and I focus on breathing as I walk out to my rental car. My phone buzzes as soon as I start it up, and I look down and find a text.
Sam: Hey. Are you back from your trip to Louisiana? Get together this weekend?
I swipe it away, put my phone down, and start the car. Life is complicated enough at the moment.
When I reach the house, I take a shower and grab my laptop before climbing into bed. I need to check my email to see if my department chair has responded. Maryellen often takes a few days, so if she hasn’t, I’ll call her in the morning to make sure she has enough time to find a professor to fill in while I’m out. But the email at the top of my inbox is the old one from Hannah Greer, and I can’t help myself. I hit reply.
Hannah,
Your story has definitely caught my attention. I’d like to schedule a Zoom to discuss what might come next. Please let me know a date and time that is good for you.
Thank you,
Professor Davis
After I hit send, my finger hovers over the last chapter she submitted. I consider rereading it and looking for something—anything—I might have missed that could give me a clue who the hell is doing this to me. But today has been rough enough, and I wind up slamming the laptop shut. I’m not letting myself reread anything right now. Though maybe tomorrow it’s time I speak to the only other person on this planet who should know what happened twenty years ago.