Read something else. Something less fraught.
Another hazy flutter—light; dim and warm and inviting. Shapes. White wall. A blank TV screen.
Flutter of eyelashes obscuring the scene.
The light returns.
Felix sitting a couple feet away, ankle on knee, my battered, dog-eared, highlighted and underlined and written-in-the-margins library sale copy ofOn The Roadby Jack Kerouac in his big hard hands, a ratty, faded gray Detroit Tigers hat on his head, pushed up a touch so a few stray dark blond curls sweep his forehead beneath the brim. His jaw is shadowed by stubble so thick it's more beard than stubble, and he has dark purple bags under his eyes.
I try to say his name, but I feel as if I'm filled with lead—my tongue, my lips, my hands, every part of me feels so heavy. Even blinking requires effort—if I'm not careful, a blink could plunge me back into the darkness, and I don't want to go back down there.
The attempt at "Fee" ends up in a nearly silent breath between slightly pursed lips. He doesn't hear it.
My throat hurts. Breathing hurts.
Everything hurts.
I need to get his attention. Only, I can't even wiggle my toes. I feel them, but it's like when you first wake up after a long, deep nap in the sunshine, when you're heavy and drowsy and sun-warmed and lazy, and you could just lay there forever, because even opening your eyes just seems too hard and so pointless. It's like that, but times a thousand.
I try a sound in my throat, just a soft hum of air past my vocal cords. "Mmmm."
He doesn't hear it—it barely registered in my own ears.
C'mon, Ember. Try again.
Louder.
"Mmmm."
He hears it this time. He lets the book drop to his lap, his piercing blue eyes flicking to me. Shock sears through him as he realizes I'm awake.
"Em!" He lunges forward and takes my hand in his, kisses my knuckles. "You're awake!"
I try to smile at him, but I'm not sure it reaches my lips. I think maybe my eyes communicate it, though. "Mmmm."
His eyes shimmer. "Hi." He lets out a breath, a long, ragged sigh as if he's releasing a half-held breath pent up in his lungs for days. "Shit, the doctors. I gotta—I gotta—"
I manage to apply the slightest amount of pressure on his hand with mine—not yet. Don't go yet.
"Em, I—" he closes his eyes, and I think for a moment he's about to shed tears, but he shakes his head and gruffly clears his throat. "You're okay. You're okay."
It sounds like he's trying to convince both of us.
He presses the back of my hand to his lips, staring into my eyes with such intensity I wonder if he intends to look away ever again.
"F—" That much saps my energy. I try again anyway. "Fee."
"I'm here, honey. I'm here."
"W—" it's a twitch of the lips more than a sound. "Wha—"
"What happened?" he guesses. I blink hard, once, hoping he interprets that as a yes. “Once for yes, twice for no, huh?"
I blink once again.
"You got into a wreck. Broke some ribs, punctured a lung and collapsed it, broke your leg. Hit your head really hard, too, so you’ve been in a coma for three days. Well, two and a half. Almost three."
I can't remember. I wrack my brain, but I can only remember driving back from California, being so excited to get to Felix. It all goes gray, then.
