The Secrets We Keep(11)

With each beep came a recollection, a flash so jumbled and terrifying that I screamed inside my head, begging to be set free. The rain, the spinning of the tires, and the smell … the caustic, burning smell of gas. The hail coating the road, blurring the lane lines. Me jerking the wheel. The screech of brakes. The tree and the sound of our panicked cries as the branch shattered the windshield.

I could still hear the music playing on the radio, the annoying jingle for the local car wash circling in my brain like a rusted-out hamster wheel. I wanted it to stop, wanted to claw out my ears, my burning throat, and my hiccuping mind with a spoon.

I tried to call for help, but no sound came out. My hands grasped at the empty air as I tried to pull myself from the memories, from the smell of blood and burned rubber and the sharp sting of glass shards embedded in my skin. I could feel my arms and legs. They were tight, as if someone had tied a rope around them and pulled, to be cruel.

Something snapped, my body and mind realigning themselves in one horrifying jolt. I found my voice and cried out, stuck in an imaginary world so vivid, so toxic, that I would have sworn it was real.

“Hey, calm down. You’re alive. You’re safe.”

Oh thank God. I knew that voice. It was distantly familiar.

Blinking, I took in the room. I could move now, whatever had had me trapped inside my mind was gone. Cursing the dull ache in my head, I turned toward his words, his face blurring into view. I knew him, or at least, I knew I should know him. His eyes, his gentle tone, everything about him poked at something locked deep in my pounding head.

He’d pulled a chair up beside my bed and was sitting in it, his head cradled in his hands. His shoulders sagged and his hands shook. He was pale, and judging from the sunken quality of his eyes, I gathered he hadn’t slept in days. Wait … days?

“Hey, beautiful. Welcome back,” he whispered.

I reached to wipe my eyes, but a searing pain blasted up my arm. Black spots flashed across my vision. I could feel the tears streaming down my face, but I couldn’t do anything about them. The boy placed a gentle hand over mine and used the other to wipe away my tears before kissing my forehead.

It didn’t fix my vision completely. I blinked a few more times, hoping to clear the last of the shadows, but all that did was squeeze more tears out and down my cheeks. The machines, the call button on my bed … the entire room around me was off balance, and trying to focus on it made my head ache more.

The boy pulled back, and I searched his face for a spark of knowledge. I hoped he’d tell me his name, prayed he’d say my name. I desperately needed him to remind me who I was and why I was here.

“You scared me. You scared everyone. We thought we’d lost you,” he continued. His eyes were glossy, and one tear managed to slip out before he blinked more of them back. Why was he crying?

I fought against the heavy fog settling over my body and moved my head, thinking for sure I would see someone else in the room. I clearly remembered two screams—one mine, one not—and eyes staring at me. But there was no other bed, no other girl, just a long windowsill and a small table on wheels, both of which were buried underneath flowers. Maybe it was a dream, a horribly vivid, warped dream.

I counted fifteen vases of flowers on the windowsill alone before I gave up and looked at the arrangement closest to me. It was sitting on the rolling table, the card tucked into a massive display of white roses.

The boy followed my line of sight. “Here,” he said as he handed me the card. “They’re from me.”

I opened the envelope, not bothering to skim the handwritten message. What I wanted was to know who he was: Alex.

I turned that name over in my mind. It sounded familiar. I didn’t know how or why, but it was a place to start.

“Alex.” My voice cracked, and I had to swallow twice to accomplish that weak sound.

“Shh … relax. Don’t try to talk,” he said as he smoothed the hair off my face. “You broke some ribs and dislocated your shoulder, you hit your head pretty hard, too. They had to do surgery to set your wrist, but the doctors said it should be fine.”

My eyes widened as I listened to him talk about my injuries, automatically thinking about the other girl, sitting in the car’s passenger seat. I wondered if she was as banged up as me, if she was here, in the same hospital.

Turning my head, I saw the tubes, four of them in total, attached to me. I followed one to my finger, flexing my hand around the plastic device that held it trapped. There was one adhered to my chest, and one running into my nose. The last one was jammed into my arm.

When I blinked, I could feel a pull above my right eye. It stung more than anything. I guessed there was a bandage there, stitches maybe, but I would need a mirror to confirm. My left arm was heavy, like it was encased in bricks, and my wrist ached with a dull, throbbing pain that was bone deep.

Carefully, I reached my good arm behind me and tried to push myself up. My head spun, everything around me—the flowers, Alex, my own body—dissolving in a blur. My stomach churned, and I fought against the pain, swallowing hard to keep the bile-tinged water coming up my throat from spilling out.

Unwilling to move an inch, I frantically searched the room with my eyes. I needed a bathroom, a trash can, a plastic bag, anything to unload the contents of my stomach in. Alex noticed and shoved a small plastic bowl underneath my chin and grabbed for my hair. I didn’t care about my hair or who was holding the bowl, I wanted the pain to end.