Keeper of Crows (Keeper of Crows #1)(68)

He was real.

Michael, the Keeper of Crows, was real.



“I know this is a lot to take in, Carmen, but you need to look, really look, at what’s in front of you. I can help you if you want to let me, but if you keep refusing, you’ll be in this hospital for a very long time.” She let out a sigh. “Do you want me to go over it with you again?”

I nodded numbly.

That was all I could feel: numbness. She showed me the accident report and medical records again, gently noting the facts and dates. She combed over every detail of Mom’s death certificate.

“Carmen, there isn’t a single fact here to support the story you’ve given me. And if you’ll listen, I think you’ll come to the same conclusion I have. You were in a very bad accident. Your body, its bones, your brain itself, was broken. You were broken. The hospital had to induce a coma to allow you to heal. The medication you were on was powerful, and what you experienced was an intense response to that medicine. It’s like when you fall asleep and your muscles begin to spasm—as everyone’s do—and your mind creates a scene where you’re kicking a soccer ball, for instance. Your mind makes your foot jerk forward and it wakes you.”

I nodded. I’d experienced that before. Mine was a dream about a shark shredding my leg into pieces and I’d woken with a Charlie horse. But still. Same thing.

“While in the coma,” she continued, “your mind created an entire world to cope with what you were experiencing. The mind is a terrible, powerful thing. We don’t understand why it does this, but perhaps it’s a shield to keep you from feeling pain or remembering the trauma before you’re able to cope with it. Whatever the reason, it does happen in cases like yours.”

“But you said near-death experiences were universal.”

“They are, because people with trauma respond in much the same way. The brain functions in the same way regardless of creed, color, zip code, or religious affiliation. That’s why the experiences are similar across the board; not because those places exist. It’s why people see different things. Some see a bright light, some feel happiness, and some feel despair and toil in the darkness. Everyone’s emotions are different. Their life experiences differ. You are different from everyone else who’s had such an experience, and so yours is unique to you. Theirs is unique to them. Do you understand what I’m saying? I don’t doubt you remember the dream you had and that it seemed very real to you, but it wasn’t real. When you accept that fact, we can make progress and strides in the right direction.”

I wanted to.

I wanted to get better.

I wanted to leave this place.

“I’ll try,” I muttered, my voice like gravel.

She smiled slightly. “That’s all I ask.”





32





Another month. Another session with Doctor Stein. She sat across her desk with a pensive look, creasing the deep wrinkle between her brows. “Over a month ago, you wrote this. Do you remember doing it?”

She pushed a piece of plain, white paper toward me, sliced with teal lines and slashed down the side with a red one. It had seen happier days. Crinkled and bent, it hadn’t been taken care of. I eased the paper closer and looked at the handwriting. My handwriting.

“Tell me what you remember now,” she instructed. “Which of these things do you recall from your dream? In fact,” she added, holding out a pen. “Cross through everything you don’t remember.”



My father was the antichrist.

I was dragged to Purgatory from the hospital after someone beat me almost to death.

The Keeper of Crows saved me.

And then we saved each other.

I slew my father and then the devil himself.

Purgatory’s balance has been restored, but my faith has been shattered.

I’m forbidden to see him until death claims me.

I long for death, but suicide forfeits the agreement. I have to wait for it, and they will make me wait for a very long time.

I love him.

He loves me.

Even through the distance between us, I feel him.

One day, we’ll be together. I will feel his fingers on my skin, his breath on my neck, his lips on mine, and it will all have been worth it.

When I woke, everyone thought I was crazy. They still do.

But I know something they don’t.

I’m not crazy at all.



“I’m sorry. I still remember some of it. It’s all fuzzy, sort of foggy, and I know it wasn’t real, but some of the memories of the dream linger. Mostly about my father.”

She smiled and nodded, accepting the pen from me.

“Good. You’re doing very well, Carmen. The medicine is working. I can’t tell you how proud I am of your progress.”





33





Two months and several intense sessions later, Doctor Stein smiled from the doorway of my room. I knew from the look on her face she was ready to give me the news I’d been waiting to hear.

“You’ve made great strides, and I believe you can continue your care on an outpatient basis. Your father has agreed. He ended his run for the Presidency and has resigned his position.”

My father wasn’t running for president? Would the paparazzi finally leave us alone?