Falling Under (Falling 3)
Page 55“Oz. My name is Oz.”
“Oz what?”
“Oz Hyde.”
I glance at Kylie, who is still taking short gasps for breath, her eyes hunting for me. I drop the phone, reach for her hand, squeeze. I hear a tinny voice calling my name. I fumble the phone back to my ear.
“Sir? Sir, are you there? Oz?”
“I’m—I’m here.”
The man asks me a series of questions, and I answer them all, but I’m only really paying attention to Kylie, to watching her face, her blue-tinged lips, her chest shifting shallowly with each tiny panting breath. Our eyes never leave each other, and her hand squeezes mine, weakly.
“Kylie? Keep squeezing my hand. I’m here. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” I blink, and this time the salty wetness sliding down my face is tears, not blood. I don’t care. I have no thoughts but that Kylie makes it through this okay.
I hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. Lights flash, tires skid and crunch, doors open, voices speak in calm tones, I see blue uniform-clad bodies crouching beside Kylie, shining a flashlight in her eyes, probing at her ribs, fitting an oxygen mask to her face. A young, clean-shaven, acne-scarred face fills my vision, calm brown eyes. “Sir? You’re Oz?”
He shines a light in my eyes. “Yes, sir. She’ll be okay, I promise.”
I twist to watch them load Kylie onto a stretcher, lift her into the ambulance. Now, finally, I can feel my own pain. And suddenly, whiteness and heat and pain shoot through me, as if it was waiting in the wings, waiting until I knew Kylie was okay, taken care of. And now it’s blazing through me, and I’m dizzy, can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t move, blinking, gasping, see stars, and they’re replaced by a roof, lights, walls, the interior of an ambulance. Something hard touches my nose, around my mouth, and I feel cool oxygen filling me, and I can almost see, almost breathe. Hands do things to me. Touch me, cut away my pants. My shirt. I’ve still got Kylie’s phone clutched in my hand.
There is a sense of motion. I need Kylie. Need to see her. Need to talk to her, need to know she’s okay. I need to call her parents, tell them I almost got her killed, that I got her hurt, that I couldn’t protect her, couldn’t keep her safe.
I replay what happened in my head. I can see each individual second of the accident, remember what I did, and think about what I could have done differently. Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. I couldn’t have done anything differently. But…if she hadn’t been on that bike with me, this wouldn’t have happened.
Guilt and fear and pain all twist together, form a shredding ball of barbed wire in my chest, and I’m barely cognizant as the ambulance interior is replaced briefly by the entrance of a hospital, and then the white walls of a hallway. I don’t know what’s happening, or what’s wrong with me, and I don’t care. All I know is Kylie is hurt, and I have to find her.
I see a face above me, female, older, care-lined eyes, sharp and gray and intelligent. “Kylie? Where is she?”
“She’s being attended to, Mr. Hyde. Please, be still. Let us take care of you.”
“I need…I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay. Will she be okay?” I’m begging, fighting to get off the bed, but hands hold me down. “Just tell me she’ll be okay.”
But I can’t calm down. Panic and desperation ripple through me, force me to move, to thrash, and I’m being held down; I feel a poke in my arm, and then darkness swallows me.
* * *
I wake up, and my arm is in a cast, resting on my chest. I’ve got bandages on my other arm, hands, on my legs. My forehead feels tight, burns. The pain is a vise, clenching all of me in an unrelenting grip. I try to breathe, and look around. I see Mom, asleep in a chair, her long legs stretched out, head lolling on her shoulder. She’s snoring gently, a light, feminine rasp. I can see the circles under her eyes from her, the worry on her face even as she sleeps.
My mouth is dry, tight, and my throat burns. My eyes are scratchy. I shift and twist on the bed, find the call button and press it. Within minutes a nurse appears, a small, compact woman with brown hair tied back in a bun.
“Mr. Hyde. How are you feeling?” Her voice is a low murmur.
“Like hell. It hurts. I’m thirsty.”
“I’ll get you something for the pain and some water.” She starts to turn away.
I grab her arm. “Kylie. I need—I need to see Kylie.”
I know better than to argue. My best bet is to cooperate and let them bring me to her. I slump back in the bed, blinking against the pain, watching Mom sleep.
What feels like an hour passes, and then the nurse returns, and I see her name tag hanging from a clamp attached to the pocket of her scrubs shirt. Marie King, RN, LPN. Her picture looks nothing like her, but such pictures rarely do. She hands me a small paper cup with two large white pills in it, and a cup of water. I swallow the pills, drink all of the water, and set it aside, shift higher in the bed.
“Your girlfriend just woke up as well. I’ll bring you to her.” Marie moves across the room and unfolds a wheelchair, brings it to me. “Now, don’t try to be a tough guy. Let me help you, okay?” She smiles at me, and I slide my legs over the side of the bed, let her put her shoulder underneath my arm.
She’s a hell of a lot stronger than her small frame would suggest, lifting me almost without my help off the bed, to my feet, and then keeping me balanced as I twist and lower myself into the chair. Any thoughts of walking myself to Kylie’s room vanish with that brief effort. Everything hurts. I’m sweating and out of breath. My chest aches and my ribs seem tight, sending rocketing lances of pain through me as I move. The pills are working, though, and I’m feeling less of the pain. I’m lighter, and a little dizzy. It’s nice.
Mom wakes up, stretches, yawns, and then sees me. “OZ!” She lurches to her feet, falls to her knees beside my wheelchair. “God, baby, I—I was so worried.”
I let her hug me, and I hug her back, and it’s the first time in at least ten years that a hug between us isn’t awkward. “I’m okay, Mom.”