Reaction (18 page)

“Heather,” he could barely get the words out, “I’m going to hurt you. Please,” He was battling, the war raging inside of him, his voice desperate. “I can’t let myself…”

“I…” So many thoughts were swirling inside of me: death, love, hate, lies, remorse, the coma.
I have to fix this
, I told myself.
I can fix this.
I was so close; I was in his arms. And yet the regret was excruciating.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, and then my hands held to his waist and my eyes closed as my forehead collapsed deeper into his.

I heard a heavy breath, and felt his head shift to the side. His face turned and leaned into my hair. Lower, lower, until his face nuzzled against my neck in a safe, intimate embrace.

His lips were touching my neck, not in a kiss because they weren’t pressed against me.

“You have the same, fruity smell,” his lips said, moving against my neck in a way that scrambled my brain and took the earth out from under me.

“My shampoo,” I said in a ragged voice.

As if responding to my words, his hand tangled into my hair. It wasn’t rough, but it also wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. I wanted so much more. I wanted his lips pressing hard on mine. My morals needed to disappear for only a moment. All I had to do was turn my head. His lips were inches….

But my infuriating conscience nudged me and my thoughts stumbled. He was engaged for Heaven’s sake. What was I doing?

I know exactly what I’m doing. I want him.

We slowly pulled back in unison, and our eyes joined. When his hand fell to my cheek and his fingers swept across my chin, and even after all the gaps in my apology, the words left him.

“I forgive you,” he said. Then he leaned in, and his lips pecked mine.

It was the best peck-of-a-kiss I’d ever experienced. All I could think of on the ride home was the possibility of that being the first of many. How I would feel the euphoria of his lips on mine again. How his love would heal all my sorrows and injuries and weaknesses. That the bandage of his love would someday completely cover me again.

Chapter 8

It seemed I had a gift for designing refurbished jewelry. So far Liz had taken twenty-two pieces, and she’d sold every one of them from right off her neck. Six orders were pending, two as customs, and all in a ten-day period. It would have been unbelievable had she not brought the money back each night and taken a few more pieces.

Vintage jewelry, who would have guessed something so frivolous could help keep me distracted?

I was in the middle of these thoughts—having spent the last four hours making necklaces and trying to lose myself in exhaustion until I was too tired to think or feel—when I picked up my laptop with sore hands, found the white CD, plopped on my bed, and propped my back on two pillows.

Yesterday I’d gone for my second appointment to see Doc. I’d remembered to tell him how tired I’d been lately—daily naps were no longer an indulgence, they were a necessity—and he’d given me a lecture on getting to bed at a reasonable time. He’d also reminded me that I wasn’t out of the woods yet since Persistent Reflective State Comas, or PRS as it’s commonly referred to, generally took a long time for a body to fully heal from. And then he’d given me a copy of a CD he’d received from a colleague on the aftermath of PRS. He thought it would do me some good to see how other patients “took special care of themselves” post PRS comas, with regard to nutrition, sleep, steady exercise, yada, yada.

Last month, I had started jogging again. But lately I didn’t feel up to it. And every time I thought to go, the excitement was lost in creating more jewelry.

Though I wasn’t too excited to watch the documentary either, I was interested to see people who had gone through the same thing I had. Comfort in numbers, there was something to that.

As suspected, the documentary was slow, talking details about a condition I already knew too much about. And if I yawned one more time, I would possibly pull a muscle in my throat. Too exhausted to focus on the medical lingo of each specialist who came on screen, I nodded off to their mumblings…and a memory:

An early California vacation morning, at Nick’s parent’s home, laying in Nick’s childhood bed in a tank top and cozy pajama bottoms, teeth freshly brushed, and a sleepy-eyed, messy haired hottie—whose principles slept him on the couch last night—having come into his room five minutes prior to say good morning with a brawny, warm, full-bodied hug.

“Sorry you had to see it,” he continued the conversation about the other night.

“You didn’t have to stick up for me,” she told him, wondering if he’d fallen asleep again the way he was face planted into the pillow. “I care what your dad thinks of me, but I care more that you guys get along. I didn’t want you to fight with him. And if I’d known he’d get so mad about our motorcycle ride—”

“It’s inevitable,” his squashed lips mumbled into the pillow. “If there’s nothing to get mad about, he’ll find something.”

“Well, I don’t ever want it to be about me, especially with your father.”

“I don’t care who it is, it could be my father or the guy down the street; I’m always going to protect you. Get used to it.” And his heavy, protective arm lifted and then lay across her midsection.

“Nick, people will say what they’ll say. I can handle it.”
Well, I can handle most things
, she thought disappointedly.
Except facing my past.

His head shook into the pillow. “It’s like talking bad about an angel.”

“Come on, seriously? Did you really just call me that? You’re still asleep, huh? I’m not an angel.”

“What are you, then?” The hand that wrapped around her waist squeezed lightly.

“A fallen angel,” she challenged.

That got a sleepy chuckle from him. “I’m liking the sound of that.” He turned onto his side and yanked her close by the drawstring of her pajama bottoms. “I’m not sure I believe you, though,” he said when she giggled. “You might have to prove it.”

She was definitely up to the challenge. Quickly, before he could stop her, she rolled him onto his back and straddled his torso. “Torture game time,” she announced. “But you have some rules to follow.”

“I don’t play by rules,” he said in a sleepy, rasped voice that almost made her change her mind about what she wanted to play.

She put his arms under her knees. “No moving your arms. I can’t hold them down and that’s not fair, so play fair.” He chuckled at her logic. “Okay, question one, on a scale of one to ten, how good of a kisser am I?”

“If our kiss wasn’t good, that would be my fault, not yours.”

“So, what’s you’re answer?”

“Ten.”

“Huh. Using your logic, that makes you a cocky dude.”

He grinned against her appreciative eyes. “You’re not disagreeing.”

Definitely not
, she said to herself while looking down at his half smile. It just wasn’t right to have a face like his.

Which made her think of her next question. “Question two, what’s my best feature?”

“That’s easy, your feet.”

“What?”

He chuckled lazily again.

“Torture time,” she announced, grabbing his arms to lift them over his head for some tickle torture. His chuckle turned into a genuine laugh, something she rarely heard out of him, and it warmed her to no end.

“One more chance,” he said as they laughed, tugging and teasing on each other’s hands. Because he was the stronger one, straddling his chest quickly turned into their chests close together.

“My
feet
are my best feature?” she repeated grudgingly.

He tugged her the rest of the way down. “You’re smile,” he quietly responded, capturing hers in his.

“Isn’t it a little early for that, you two?”

All in one motion, Heather jumped out of his arms, almost falling off the bed in the process. He caught a wrist to steady her and she lifted a red face to see his mom, Sue Ellen standing in the doorway.

Nick muttered to Heather, “It’s not like we’re naked or anything.
Unfortunately
.” He mumbled the last word, but not very quietly.

“Nicholas Harold Richards!” Sue Ellen rebuked.

“I’m only being honest,” he teased with a grin.

Sue Ellen shook her head. “Good morning, Heather,” she said, changing the topic to a proper one. “How did you sleep?”

“Really good,” Heather smiled, shifting into a normal sitting position. “Thanks for asking.”

“Nicholas, let the poor girl get some rest.”

“I was trying,” he announced. “But she kept coming onto me and I couldn’t get her to stop.”

Oh, he was going to GET IT!

At that, Sue Ellen’s head shook again. “All right you two,” she smirked, and then walked out of the room.

Heather’s hand slapped against his shoulder. “I’m going to kill you!
Harold
.”

Sue Ellen yelled something from the hallway and Heather smacked her hand over her mouth, hoping to Heaven that Sue Ellen hadn’t heard her poke fun of the family name.

“You two are going to be tired today,” Sue Ellen finished.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d dozed off, but the documentary was still playing in my lap. The bright laptop screen featured a lady saying something about her work. Yet, instead of listening to her, I was thinking about the memory. It killed me to recall the times when I should have told him about my mom. Why hadn’t I? I wanted to shake the girl from my memory; she was so brainless and immature. I guess I would never know how I really felt inside back then. How much the loss of my mom affected me as a little girl, the little girl who bottled up her emotions in order to survive. And everyone has memories in their past that they feel severe regret about. Severe enough to torture the soul.

But Nick had forgiven me. I needed to find a way to get past it.

“I was so tired,” I absently watched the lady on the bright computer screen say.

Rubbing my eyes in order to clear my mind, I stopped punishing myself and began to listen to Doc’s CD. The lady was still talking about her job:

I went to the children’s hospital early that morning, only to find out there was no record of me volunteering there. Of course, I knew there was a mistake, so I phoned my sister, Patty, who also told me the same thing—I’d never volunteered there, or at any hospital in the state of New Jersey.

A doctor came on next. “Sally was experiencing what we call a ‘reaction’…”

Reaction. That word again. Doc had mentioned it on my first visit. What had he said about it? Something about making up a false world. Bringing fake objects from reflection-dreams into the real world. Curiosity stole my fatigue, and I went back to the beginning of the lady’s interview.

Maybe because it was late that odd thoughts began to work in my head. If reactions were real, and according to Sally they were, reactions were linked to fatigue. But what kind of psychologically messed up person couldn’t tell the difference between reality and a dream? I mean, come on. Sally thought she worked at a place she’d never worked at in her life? When she walked into the hospital that morning, didn’t she realize that no one looked familiar? It seemed a bit unlikely, and a lot hokey.

I turned off the computer and lay in bed, philosophizing on how bizarre life was, and how it could change in an instant, and how much simpler mine would be without fantasizing about a certain someone.

*******

“I was thinking, we should have put some sort of tag on the necklaces with your contact info so people know where to find you if they want to buy more,” Liz said as her and Creed looked over my newest jewelry creations strewn out across my little kitchen table.

“Ooh, great idea!” I told her. “Why didn’t you think of that sooner?”

“Because I didn’t think of that sooner,” she mumbled, and Creed chuckled.

“This one’s cool. How did you make the hole in the silver flower?” Creed held a necklace in front of his face, more interested in the workmanship than the design.

“I used a little drill I bought from a hardware store.” And I pointed to the kitchen counter where the little yellow drill stood in its charger.

Creed said exactly how I felt, proud of myself. “I’m so proud of you, Heath.” These are amazing.”
Anything to get my mind off Nick
, I almost responded.

“Liz,” Creed spoke up, “why don’t you be Heather’s marketing agent? Heather can make the jewelry and you can be in charge of sales and drumming up more business. You guys could start your own company.”

“Actually, I was thinking the same thing last night,” I admitted. “I could use some help making the necklaces; I’m already behind on orders. And we’ve sold a few hundred dollars worth already. If we got serious, maybe we could make something out of this. At least we’d have fun trying.”

“And we’d become pro jewelry makers!” she exclaimed. “People would commission us to make jewelry for them, and we could do special events and parties and shower gifts…”