The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(97)

“Oh, my God, who is that? What happened?” my mother gasps.

I turn to her. “Ethan got hit by a car,” I say, and then the grass is under my face, damp and cold, and welcome, because at least now I don’t have to watch Ethan die.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ETHAN IS TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL. I, too, am transported, once again, to the Emergency Room, not at his side, as perhaps would be fitting, but in my mother’s car. By the time I’d come to, Ethan had already been packed up into the ambulance, and though I was repeatedly assured that he was conscious and talking, I couldn’t seem to stop screaming his name over and over in a voice so contorted by terror I didn’t recognize it as my own. My memory of those moments isn’t all that clear. I do recall Iris stepping in and slapping me rather hard, which stopped the screaming, at least.

I’m put in a cubicle, as I can’t seem to answer the question as to whether or not I’m okay. Unsurprisingly Dr. Hateswomen is the doctor on call. He asks me if I’m taking any more drugs, drinking or smoking anything illegal. My mother stands at my side, awkwardly patting my shoulder.

“Where is Ethan?” I ask hoarsely, my throat raw, my earlier screams echoing in my mind. I’m shaking uncontrollably, tears streak down my face, and I’ve thrown up twice so far. “Are you sure he’s okay? Is he dead? Are you just afraid to tell me?”

“He’s not dead, honey, but I’ll go check on him, okay?” my mother says. Her face is white but set.

“Have you taken any more of that medication I told you to throw out?” the doctor asks, bending down to peer into my eyes with a searing flash of penlight.

“Turn that light off or I’ll stuff it up your ass,” I snarl, batting his hand away.

“Patient exhibits aggressive tendencies,” he murmurs to himself. “Please control yourself, Miss, er—” he glances at my hospital bracelet “—Miss Mirabelli…or I’ll have to call for restraints.”

“He’s just a few doors down,” Mom says, bustling back into the room. “He’s got a bad cut on his head, but he’s talking and asked about you.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. My stomach convulses again, but I manage not to puke this time.

“Honey, he’s fine,” she murmurs, stroking my hair, such a foreign gesture of motherly love from her that I don’t believe her. Ethan’s dead, or horribly hurt, and no one’s telling me.

Dr. Hateswomen takes out his stethoscope. “If we could stop chatting and get on with this exam,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Leave her alone, you ass,” my mother snaps. “Her husband died in a car accident, she just watched her boyfriend get hit by a car and she fainted. She’ll be fine. Doesn’t take four years of medical school to figure that out.” She takes my arm in a firm grip. “Come on, honey. Let’s see Ethan. You’ll feel better.”

Ignoring Dr. Hateswomen’s outraged cry of “Patient leaving against medical advice!” Mom leads me down the hall to another examination room. My legs are shaking wildly, and my head seems to be disconnected from my body. Mom would tell me if he was dead, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t tell me he was okay and then bring me to his body, would she? The tears continue to pour out of my eyes almost without me noticing.

There he is, lying on a gurney, holding a wad of bloody gauze to his head. A woman is pressing on his abdomen. His shirt is open and streaked with blood. His blood. My knees threaten to give out, but I stay upright somehow. “Ethan,” I say in a strangled whisper.

“Hey,” he says, making a move to sit up. The doctor tuts and pushes him gently back on the bed.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I just got banged up, honey,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Hi there,” says the woman. “I’m Dr. Pierce. Your husband’s going to be okay, from the looks of it.”

“We’re not married,” I answer woodenly. There’s blood all over the side of Ethan’s face. The pebble is back, and I give a choking cough.

“Ethan, I’ll go find your folks and tell them you’re okay,” my mom says, patting his leg.

“Thanks, Daisy,” he says, sounding reassuringly normal. “Lucy, I’m really sorry I scared you, honey.” His eyes are worried.

“I think you’re one lucky bastard,” Dr. Pierce says cheerfully, “but let’s get you down to Radiology and make sure. We’ll do a CAT scan, just in case we’re missing any internal injuries.” My vision grays momentarily, then clears. Internal injuries. Jimmy’s official cause of death was massive internal injuries. “Sometimes shock camouflages the pain,” the doctor continues, “so we’ll take a look and make sure that spleen is okay.”

Ethan looks at me steadily. More than likely, he knows what I’m thinking. I can’t take my eyes off his bloody face. My hands buzz, and my knees are water.

The doctor glances at me. “Lucy, is it? Have a seat, hon. You’re white as a ghost.” She gives me a squeeze on the shoulder, then leaves the room, calling someone named Karen to transport a patient.

Ethan reaches out the hand not holding the gauze to his head. “You okay, honey?” he asks.

I teeter to the edge of his bed and take his hand. “I’m fine,” I say around the stone. “Are you really all right?”