“You saved her life. Thank you for saving her life.”
It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Because this moment—getting to hold her again; knowing there’s still a future for her and me andus—is everything.
Twenty-Eight
Ava
I’m trapped.Stuck. Paralyzed.
The nurses and doctors, hidden and faceless underneath all their equipment are applauding, the sound bouncing off hard, cold, white walls. They’re cheering. It’s a celebration because I beat this disease, and now I get to go home.
“Good luck, Ava!”they’re shouting.
“I’m stuck.” My alarm-riddled plea is barely audible. They don’t know that I’m stuck and can’t move, and they just keep clapping.
“We’re so proud of you!”
“You don’t understand. I’m stuck. I can’t move. Help me.”
They wave at me from an ever-increasing distance and start disappearing.
“Come back.” They can’t hear me, and I try to scream, but my voice is silent. My limbs are trapped at my sides.
“Lucky loves you, Ava doll.” He’s seated at a piano in a far corner of this shapeless, white room, and he’s smiling proudly. “You did good, sweetie. We’re all so proud.”
“Lucky, I’m stuck. Help me.”
He draws the dramatic song to a satisfying close and stands up from the bench to take a bow for an invisible audience. Standing upright again, he lifts his hand to wave and then blows a kiss at me. “Lucky loves you.”
“Then HELP ME.” He still can’t hear me; nobody can hear me because my voice is gone. I can’t move any part of me.
“HELP.”
I pull strength from the very depths of my soul in an attempt to move or scream or both, but it does nothing.
At long last, a look crosses his face like he finally realizes something’s wrong. “Ava?”
“I can’t move, Lucky. Help me.”
He narrows his cobalt blue eyes to slits and crosses the room at a snail’s pace; his long, solid strides moving in slow motion. After what feels like a lifetime, he’s finally standing in front of me, but stops at a distance of about six feet. He tilts his head in confusion and flattens his palms against something I can’t see.
“I can’t get to you,” he says, his eyes flitting across the room and then landing on my face. “There’s a piece of glass.”
No.
It’salwaysthe stupid piece of glass.
“I’m sick of this stupid piece of glass!”
Lucky’s brow pulls low, and he pushes against it. “It won’t move, sweetie.”
“Then break it!”
He hauls back his fist and starts slamming against it. It’s silent. It’s still invisible. And he continues to slam his fists against it, his face contorting as his hands shred and break and bleed. “Ava...I’m trying.”
It’s not working. And it’s destroying his beautiful hands, and he’ll never play the piano again, and we’ll never be together again, and what was the point of me beating this disease if we can’t be together?
