Neverworld Wake(76)

When I opened my eyes, I was propped up in a hospital bed. The room was in sharp focus: pale yellow walls, counters and tabletops, an air conditioner, a vase of flowers, a teddy bear with a helium balloon proclaiming GET WELL SOON. In front of me sat a plate of hospital food, a pink cup with a straw.

There was no longer something lodged in my throat, though it felt scratchy and raw.

“She’s awake,” blurted my mom, turning from the window.

“My dear sweet Bumble,” said my dad, stepping toward me.

They hurried over, peering anxiously at me. My mom was gripping a wad of Kleenex, her hair standing vertical in places from sleeping in a chair. My dad had more gray hair than I remembered.

“Don’t try to talk,” he said. “All is well. You’re at Miriam Hospital in Providence. You were in a car accident, and you sustained a head injury. Bleeding on the surface of the brain. The doctors took care of it, and you’re going to make a full recovery, okay, kiddo?”

I could tell my dad had instructed my mom not to talk very much, because she was nodding at everything he was saying, trying not to cry.

Just tell me my friends are still alive. They’re recovering in rooms down the hall.

“You’re going to rest,” said my mom, squeezing my hand.

I looked past her across the room, where there was a framed print of a beach scene on the wall and a dry-erase board sign reading Your nurse on duty is LAURIE.

A bony teenager with a mop of blond hair was sitting in a chair by the door, staring at me. It took me a moment to realize it was Sleepy Sam, the British teenage boy I’d scooped ice cream alongside all summer at the Crow.

My mom followed my gaze. “You remember Sam.”

“He’s come here every day to read to you,” said my dad.

Sam shuffled over.

“Really glad to see you open your eyes, Bee. Welcome back.”

My dad clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sam’s a world-class dramatic reader. Who knew? He does all the different voices. Fifty characters? No sweat. He could have a big future on the West End.”

It was then that I noticed the book under Sam’s arm. The cover was silver with a collage of birdcages and steam trains, rosy-cheeked characters wearing top hats. The legendary cult saga of future pasts. Present mysteries.

The title sent a shock of adrenaline through me.

The Dark House of Elsewhere Bend.

“Good morning, Beatrice.”

A silver-haired doctor in a white coat and green scrubs entered carrying a clipboard and a paper coffee cup. He was accompanied by an Asian woman, also wearing a white coat.

“Welcome back,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m one of your physicians. Dr. Miller. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

He was leaning over me, shining a light into my eyes. When I looked past it to his face, I gasped.

I’d recognize him anywhere. He was and would forever be etched into my brain, floating in front of me whenever I closed my eyes for the rest of my life: those green, all-seeing eyes, the mahogany baritone, the elegant, exhausted manner suggestive of a retired ballet dancer whose every step held thousands of hours of rehearsal and a faint ache.

It couldn’t be. It’s impossible.

“When can she move to the rehab facility?” asked my mom.

“A few days. The weakness on the left side of her body and some of the short-term-memory difficulties should improve over time. But it can take months.”

The Keeper.

He asked me to raise my arms, hold up three fingers, and bend my knees. He asked me if I knew what year it was, who the president of the United States was, my age. I was dizzy. I could hardly focus on anything he said, gaping as I was so incredulously at his face. He’d set down his paper cup on the tray in front of me. The tag on the tea bag dangled over the side.

He grabbed the cup, took a sip, turned on his heel. He whispered something to my parents as they moved after him to the door. Then he slipped out with the woman in tow, vanishing down the hall.





My mom and dad had no choice but to tell me, even though I knew.

Kipling St. John.

Whitley Lansing.

Cannon Beecham.

Martha Ziegler.

They were dead.

I moved to the rehab facility and spent six weeks there, wandering the linoleum hallways with my soft-grip adjustable cane, practicing going up and down stairs and raising my left arm, which trembled and shuddered with a mind of its own. I snuck onto the public computer after dinner the first night I was there and read about it.

The accident was reported in the Providence Journal, the Warwick Beacon, and USA Today. All the articles used the same phrase: “shocking loss of young life.” It also came up in a Republican Nation editorial about drunk driving and its prevalence in New England communities with a rising unemployment rate. Every story led with photos of Whitley, the textbook dead blond dream girl, then moved on to Cannon, Kipling, and Martha, always mentioning Martha’s full scholarship to MIT. My name was mentioned at the very end, the name of the lone survivor, the lucky one.

Their Facebooks became memorials. I wasn’t surprised. It had happened with Jim. Kids they barely knew at Darrow and friends from their hometowns posted messages like my heart’s broken and the world is empty now, littered with prayer emojis, anonymous comments of life is pain, and GIFs of Heath Ledger.