Broken (5 page)

Suddenly, he goes from a Nobody to a Somebody and I’m wishing we’d gone to the Emergency Room instead. The doctor’s grip tightens on my hand enough to draw another wheeze from me. The thickness of his lenses sharpens his gaze to a scalpel as he scours my face. The pressure increases, knuckles grinding, tears burning in my eyes. Then, bones break with a
crunch
. I bite off a strangled cry as my head spins with the fresh pain. Mom steps closer with a sound of alarm.

“Well, Alex must be a lucky boy.” Doctor Somebody releases me, and jerks upright from the stool fast enough for his lab coat to snap with the motion. He steps closer, actually hovering above me, pinning me with a stare. “We’re going to need X-rays. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Now just wait a minute,” Mom barks, glowering.

“Of course not!” I snap at the same moment. He hurt me and I can’t shake the feeling it was intentional. But why?

“Sorry, Mrs. Gentry.” His voice is slick, quasi-comforting. “It’s protocol to ask.”

And he sweeps out of the room.

Mom and I stare wide-eyed at each other, neither of us breathe. When she finally exhales, her eyebrows sink, her color comes up, pinking her cheeks. Then, she storms out, on the hunt for Dr. Somebody, I’m sure.

The emptiness of the room presses in, threatening to crush me. Indentations of his fingers press into my swollen skin. Ache throbs deep in the joints and just behind, in the bones of my hand. My throat tightens, a lump rises I struggle to swallow.

I’ve never seen a stranger react so violently to a guy’s name. Unless, the doctor’s not a stranger to Alex…

Half-formed questions crowd my head.
Who is…why was he…what’s his problem?

Edgy, ugly pieces are starting to fit together in my head. I rise from the chair, pacing and puzzling. There has to be a connection between Dr. Somebody and Alex. Doesn’t there?

An orderly pops open the door, and whisks me through the twisty, short maze of halls to the X-Ray lab. A cold, dark, unfriendly room as unwilling to give up information on the doctor as my tired, stressed-out brain.The X-ray tech chatters amiably and emptily, using a practiced script of what she’s doing rather than engage in real conversation as she arranges my hand, slides films in to the machine, and steps behind the wall to take the picture.

“Hey, um… Tech Girl, do you know which physician ordered the X-rays?”

She mutters something on her side of the wall, then crosses the dim lit space and pulls the films. Holding them to the light board, she says, “He’s a brilliant surgeon. Donates his time here. Ah,” she nods, “two different sets of breaks. Looks like you’re getting an immobilizer.”

Two different sets?
“Oh goodie.”

Before I can ask her who the psychopath “brilliant surgeon” is who must have given me the second set, she says, “Dr. Franks.”

The name hits with a sick, sinking kind of weight. I didn’t hear her right. I couldn’t. At least, part of me does not want to believe it.There must be more Dr. Franks in Muskegon County, right?

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“The doctor who ordered your x-ray,” she answers. “His name is Dr. Franks. He volunteers time here.”

The bottom drops out of my gut. I blink at Tech Girl in a numb kind of shock.

That horrid man is Alex’s father?

Before I can ask if he has a son, she picks up her work phone, barking orders to someone and guides me back to the room. My feet drag, my brain churns. Disbelief rings in my hollowed core.

Mom’s waiting for me. Her eyebrows are crashed together and casting storm clouds in her eyes. The weight of her gaze strokes the back of my hand, but the doctor’s fingerprints are gone. She reaches out an arm, offering me shelter. The hurt and fear rising inside drives me to her side, a cub to a mother lioness. She’s nearly through explaining how she bitched out the ladies behind the desk and then lodged a formal complaint when another doctor opens the door.

This man is young, reedy, with dark hair and watery blue eyes. His embroidered lab coat proclaims him to be a D.O. by the name of Jonathan Yates.

A fraction of the tension wiring through me releases, but I can’t win free of the horrid shock snipping my thoughts short. Mom gives my shoulder a reassuring pat. Dr. Yates is gentle, considerate, and explains everything. He verifies Tech Girl’s comment about two different breaks, one close to the knuckles consistent with hitting something, and one’s further back in the carpal-somethings consistent with crushing. He continues with the reason he’s the one putting the hard metal brace under my hand and strapping it into a stiff immobilizer.

“I’ll be overseeing your visits now.” He pauses to rip open the Velcro straps on my new brace. “The surgeon who saw you earlier was called away on an emergency. Dr. Franks sends his apologies.”

He can send apologies. I don’t want them. I don’t ever want to see him again.

Chapter Six

By the pinch of Mom’s mouth, she
’s way less than pleased
when I ask her to drop me off at the library instead of going home. Her glower is nearly as dark as the clouds lingering on the horizon, choking the late afternoon sun. “No, Emma.” She gives me an are-you-joking look. “You
r
hand is broken. We should be filling your prescription for pain meds and getting you home.”

“I’ve been hurting this long.” Lame argument, I know, but it’s worth a shot. I take my backpack, and drag it slowly across the seat, giving Mom the opportunity to get serious about denying me. “And you can fill my script while I get my book. Win-win. I have to have it read by the end of the week. I don’t want my grade to slip…”

She heaves a tired sigh, knowing she’s lost this round of the Nurture War. Number one in Mom’s world is my health, only slightly less important is my GPA.

“Fine.”
I know
I’ve won when
she turns off of Washington, away from home and toward the library.
She tur
ns the car into the l
ibrary parking lot. “
I’ll pick up our prescription and be back to
get
you
.
”

An argument rises in
my throat
,
but it can
’t
s
t
ruggle
p
ast the rawness tears left behind. I nod and turn from the car
.

After Mom
pulls away
, I lean against the brick façade and watch the
dying light
.
The empty bike rack stands like a frenched rib cage, a suspicious puddle beneath reflecting back the
sunset’s
bloody hues. Daniel always loved this time of day, we watched every sunset possible, from rooftops, beaches, and cemeteries.

T
he edges of loss gap
e
and suck in my chest.
God, I miss Daniel.

I push off the wall and step into the light, forcing myself off the mourning spiral. One-handed, I root around in my backpack, then revive my phone. The screen lights up with notifications of texts and missed calls. Bree’s been busy, probably alternating between text and dial, text and dial. Rather than listen to, or read the numerous messages, I press 2 for Bree. And then consider a snicker about her being my Number Two.

The first ring dies a fast death. “Emma, where have you been?” A frantic edge sharp
ens her voice. “I’ve called you,
like, a hundred times. Jason said Harmony told him that someone saw you holding hands with Alex Franks!”

“Whoa. Breathe, Bree. Breathe.” Nothing
stirs up the gossip mongers
better than a New Guy plus Depressed Girl equation. I lift my right hand, suddenly very aware
that
the white broken heart has been covered, and tuck the brace into the pocket of my hoodie. “We weren’t holding hands. He was just supporting my hand while he—”

“It’s TRUE!” she crows at the other end.

“It is
not
true,” I snap. Even though he did hold my hand, and brush his finger past my knuckles to what I didn’t need him touching. “End of story.”

“Oh no,” she says, voice thick with innuendo, “this story’s just starting.”

“Whatever.” I do not need this right now. I
heave
a
n
exasperated
sigh
. “Bree?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” I open my backpack, readying it for my phone as I turn back toward the library doors. “But shut up.”

“Only for now, girlfriend. I expect a full report later. Bye, Em.”

Of course she does. It’ll have to be over the phone. She claims actors are professional liars, so she can recognize a fibber when she sees one. Plus, Bree knows when I’m keeping things from her. I can’t tell her I felt electricity in his touch—she’d think I was crazy. I think I might be, though. It would be easy to blame the tingles on my oversensitive nerves, but I know better.

And what about his dad?

Like father, like son.
Why does it bother me that he might be like his father?

I shut my phone off before entering the library. The glass doors draw in
cool
air, then swing shut. The smell of captive words, glue and old carpets fills the space. The weight of hundreds of books press
es
on me. The guy behind the desk points to a sign on the wall beside him demanding all students show their ID cards before proceeding. I sigh, dig it out with no small amount of noise, making a big deal of following his demand with one hand, then wave it at him.

His dyed black hair shifts, thin and
greasy
, when he shrugs and makes an apologetic noise close to “sorry.”

Evening sun through the windows of the west wall falls thick and discolored from the stained glass. Splotches of gold, green and
red
splash across the shelves.

I spend a few minutes stroking book spines on my hunt for another gothic fiction novel to compare and contrast with Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, created monsters. After settling on another classic title by one of the Shelley authors—chosen out of desperation by using my school’s name as a guide—I
carry
it to the front desk, check it out and allow the geek behind the desk to stuff it in my backpack.

Outside, evening shadows have devoured most of the light. Jack-o’-lanterns cast their leering smiles of flame from doorways, splashes of fire in the anemic glow of twilight. Shouldering my backpack, and wishing I had some painkillers in me now, I
trudge to the gold sedan waiting for me.

She asks about the bo
ok I chose. The cover rasp
s
against my backpack zipper when I
p
ull it out. Mom casts a sideways glance, then
nods and says she read it. Her words
, the whole trip home,
skirt my conscience. On s
o
me level I’m
here and talking
, but my mind is stuck on Daniel. Normally, I would be at the cemetery fence
right now
, wishing he had a grave.

At home, dinner is a rare take-out event, thanks to my locker-punching and clinic visit.
After dinner I make a lame excuse about needing some air, and ease out the front door before Mom can say no. I
drift through the neighborhood, drawn by an inexorable pull. Branches creak and groan above me, invisible in the dark before the street lights burn to life.

Lea
ve
s rustle and scud along the sidewalk, pushed by my feet and the breeze at my back ushering me toward that familiar stre
tch of graveyard fence.
The gate is not close enough—
it’s a wrou
ght
iron barrier between me and
Daniel’s memory
.

Tonight I don’t linger on the border between living and dead. My
shoes
take me among the headstones as I drift along their stationary parade route toward the mausoleums. One bone white porch beckons. If I close my eyes I can see Daniel sitting there, feet propped up on the banister.
Here, wandering between the dead, it’s impossible for me to think spirits don’t live on.
I can feel s
ome of them watching a trespasser walk on their resting places.

As every night before, not one
headstone
has the name I look for. No amount of fantasizing will create a grave for Daniel.

The round face of the moon peeks over the trees, shining milky light on the side porch of the crypt. My heart stutters, then resumes its pace. It looks the same as that night in June, the last time Daniel and I ever sat here together. He’s gone, and I know it, but I wish with everything in me to be able to see him, hold his hand, nestle in his arms again.

Blinking back a tear, I climb the cold railing, my s
oles
squeaking loudly. My backpack settles to the porch with a whisper of nylon and stone. I stand in the spot I’d sat months ago, with Daniel to my left. Closing my eyes, I wish for a glimmer of his ghost, and slide to my butt with my back against the wall. A
fter all the days spent with his
memory, I can picture him to the last tousled dark curl. He would be wearing Converse sneakers, faded jeans, maybe the pair with the hole in the knee. Covering his chest would be a soft white t-shirt, the collar peeking through his dark red zip-up hoodie. The last item I can see in exquisite
ly
painful cla
rity, because I sleep in it
every night.

Daniel.
My heart hurts for him.

His smile would almost glow against the tan of his cheeks. A playful, loving light would shine from his hazel eyes.

Would, if he were
alive
.

I slide my left hand, palm up along the floor beside me, offering it to the phantom I carry in my heart. Nothing but cold touches my skin. When I open my eyes, moonlight lies in a puddle on my palm, and pours down the side of the tomb, a perfect mimic for Daniel’s slouch.

I’ve never let him go, not really. If it is Daniel’s spirit, I hope he’ll be proud.

Hey, Em
ergizer Bunny…
His voice sounds in my mind
, using his favorite nickname for me
.
Why so sad?

“I miss you, Daniel.”
His whispered name strangles
into a sob, and
I
curl my fingers tighter over the hand that isn’t in mine. “It’s an ache I can’t escape. I’ve come here so many nights,
looking for your name
on one of these headstones. But it never is.”

Wasn’t supposed to end this way, was it?
The smile I imagined slides toward a frown on his face.
I’m so sorry I had to leave you.

The breeze picks up, whispering in the woods beyond the cemetery fence, blowing between my fingers. I peek at the moonlight cupped in my hand, then pinch my eyes closed.

“You never really left.
” The weight of his memory pushes on my shoulders, drags at the edges of emptiness inside me. “
I’ve carried you in my heart for so long, I don’t know anything else.”

You shouldn’t be here
.
His
voice darkens. When I look at his spectral image, he’s the Daniel after his fall, skull cracked, brain and blood in his hair, red trails over his forehead and in his eyes. One red slick rides over the black freckle in his iris.
I’m dead, Em. I don’t want you to keep dying inside for me.

“I don’t want it either.” Saying goodbye is like losing him all over again. My chest is a mass of hurt. My throat burns, and eyes brim with tears. “Help me let you go. Please, Daniel. I love you, always will, but I have to say goodbye.”

He smiles through the
red
coursing his face. A cool breeze blows a kiss on my cheek, damp with my tears. His voice is soft, sad and resigned.
You just did. Open your eyes…

His commands were never something I could ignore. My eyelids slide up, my
eyes
on the white light in my hand. The wind picks up, a cloud cutting across the moon, its beam fading from my hand until it’s gone.

And so is Daniel.