Brother's Keeper (26 page)

I now crumble to the floor, unable to support my body any longer. As kick after kick lands, I continue to beg my body to take in air, but with every second I’m losing a fighting battle, and what little air I manage to gulp down is horribly expelled from my chest every time his foot makes contact with my abdomen. With every kick, I’m getting further and further away from consciousness. And as my consciousness fades, so, too, does the pain, and I’m only slightly aware of the thudding sound that his foot makes as it meets my body.

Suddenly the dull thudding stops, and I can feel myself being pulled by my ponytail across the carpet. The carpet is burning my face, and I’m losing hair in ripping clumps as he pulls me along. But every sense is dulled, and while I know what I should be feeling is excruciating, I’m struggling to feel anything at all at this point. And a very sad and defeated part of my mind is resigned to the fact this likely means the end must be near. Logan’s face comes to the front of my mind, and as my father’s torment continues I focus on Logan. I know now I won’t see him again, and I regret in a way that is nearly unbearable that I ever let him slip away. But relief is coming soon.

Death will take me and end the pain and sadness I feel for my loss, and I’m thankful the suffering will be over soon. I hear the zing of scissor blades as he pulls me by my ponytail upright. I’m hanging limply from my ponytail, the hairs tearing from my scalp as the weight of my body is too much for the thin strands to bear. And as I wait for the stab of the scissors, wondering where he’ll mutilate me and how he’ll kill me, I hear instead the scissors releasing me from the hanging force of my ponytail. Once he’s cut through my ponytail, shearing off my long hair, I collapse back to the floor. In my numb haze, I wonder why he cut my hair off. Perhaps he wants me as ugly and repulsive as possible in my casket.

He throws the scissors against the wall, yelling every awful thing he thinks about me. He then returns to me and pulls me to an awkward sitting position by the remaining hair of my head. My arms are slack at my side, and I can’t even move them. There is a warm burning in the lower part of my diaphragm I’m sure is bad news. And as I gaze foggily up into his monstrous face, I block it out and focus on Logan. His smile. I will miss it above all else. This will be hard on him. I can feel his anguish already. He’ll feel responsible, and I won’t be here to reassure him he’s not. As my father’s face comes back into focus, I hear him call me a particularly ugly string of epithets before backhanding me across the face so hard my head sails into the very same file cabinet I was kicking mere minutes ago.

My vision is blurring with every passing second and darkness is crowding in from the periphery of my sight. I crave the darkness, the end, and I spend the last of my consciousness remembering my favorite parts of life—my mother, meeting Sara, the day I found out about my scholarship, Grand Haven, and every other amazing night I spent with Logan. And as I drift off to the dull incessant thud of my limp body being kicked repeatedly, the pulsing electric buzzing in my brain returns, and my world fades to black.

Chapter 26

I’ve been immersed in pre-trial research on a fairly high profile case for the better part of the past few weeks, and it has been a relief to keep busy. My life revolves around work, and I leave no time for anything else because everything else means misery. Work at least gives me something to focus on other than Rowan.

One of the partners has become determined to set me up with her daughter, and while I dodge the question as often as I can, she doesn’t seem to be taking the hint. I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before I’m ready to meet people, date, or even start a relationship. The idea of being with anyone but Rowan right now is offensive and sickening, but at some point that feeling must go away. At some point I have to get past this, don’t I? But not yet. Not even close.

I sit in my office overlooking the skyline of Denver and zone out, thinking about her for a while. Immersion in work only gets you so far. Sometimes she enters my mind, and I’m powerless to do anything but give into it and enjoy the memories—even if only temporarily. But the joy of her memory ends when reality creeps back up on me, and it is then the depression hits the hardest. But this Rowan memory spell is interrupted as my phone rings, jolting me back to reality. I pick up, resenting the asshole on the other end of the line who has interrupted my fantasies.

“Hello.” I fight to keep the irritation from coming through in my voice, but I’m sure it does.

“Hi Logan.” The voice is choked up and emotional—exhausted even. It’s my mom.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Is Sara okay? Where’s dad?”

“Logan, it’s Row. Something’s happened. She’s in intensive care. Yesterday afternoon … I should have called sooner. I’m sorry, it’s just … it’s just been so hectic. It was touch and go last night, and Sara is so upset and won’t leave the hospital. Um…”

My heart is thudding in my chest and my ears are buzzing. I’m ready to pass out, but I have to hear the rest, and I’m too weak to even interrupt her.

“Her father did it. Just … tried to kill her. She’s got a couple of cracked ribs, but the worst of it was the internal bleeding. She has a lacerated liver and spleen, and they had to resect part of her abdominal aorta. She was in surgery for hours last night before they could get the bleeding under control. She had to have a blood transfusion, and they almost lost her a couple of times during the operation before they could control the bleeding. But Logan, she’s going to be okay.”

She’s going to be okay? She
has
to be okay!

“Now that she’s stable and her blood volume is good, they’re going to take her off sedation later tonight and let her wake up when she’s ready… Did you hear me? The doctors say that she’s going to make it. All of their tests show that the internal bleeding is now under control, and the cracked ribs didn’t shift, so her lungs are fine. She’s going to be hurting for a while though… But she’s going to make a full recovery.”

My mother has barely taken a breath since she started talking and neither have I. I’m holding my breath in stunned silence, my heart screaming in pain. I say the only thing I need to say before hanging up quickly. “I’ll be on the next flight. I’ll let you know when I land.”

And as I hang up, I catch her last comment. “I thought as much. We’ll see you soon.”

I walk hastily and numbly out the building without speaking to anyone. I speed to the airport without stopping at home to pack, and dump my Jeep in long-term parking. I stop at the ticket counter hoping God will cut me some slack. And he does. The next flight out is in an hour and will require only one fairly quick layover in Kansas City. I should be home by mid-evening. And as I slump into my seat on the airplane forty-five minutes later, the first tears start to prick my eyes.

Once in KC, I call my mom and let her know my flight number and arrival time. She hands the phone to Sara who is waiting with her at the hospital, and Sara spends the next couple of minutes sobbing into the phone as I try not to join her. I finally ask her to hand the phone back to mom, and when she does, I discover that my mom is now crying, too. I finally give up and tell her I’ll see her soon.

As I sit waiting to board in Kansas City, my mind starts to get away from me again. I can’t imagine what Rowan endured, but it must have been hell. What was she thinking going back there? What if she had died? I don’t think I could survive that. I’m in love with her, completely and utterly. How could I have ever left her? My life has been hell the past month and a half I’ve been away, and now I’ve nearly lost her. I’m not supposed to be apart from her, yet I live halfway across the country and am only returning because she nearly died. How truly fucked up has my life become?

The last leg of my flight is excruciatingly long, and my anxiety builds with each passing minute. I want to see her so desperately, but I’m terrified to see her, too. Seeing her hurt is hard. Seeing her when I don’t know if she’ll want to see me adds fear to my pain. And by the time I de-board in Grand Rapids, I’m trying to gulp down calming breaths of air to calm my body. My father picks me up at the curb, and in less than ten minutes we’re pulling in at the hospital. More calming breaths on the elevator ride up, and when we emerge Sara tackles me and the sob fest starts all over again. My mother eventually pulls her off of me, pulling me into a warm hug. She whispers that Rowan is sleeping, but I can go in and sit with her for a while. Sara immediately jumps up to go with me, but my mom quickly pulls her back and nods slightly at me to go on in. Thank God for my mom and her intuition.

I’m trembling as I approach her door, and as I make my way through and into the small room, I get my first glimpse of her, and I have to grasp the door frame of the bathroom door just to stay standing. She’s pale, her skin has the pallor of a dead person, ghostly white, and I have to remind myself she’s going to be okay. She looks so frail, and it adds to her terribly vulnerable appearance. This isn’t her. I fall apart and sink into the chair beside her bed.

I cry. I cry for her pain and what has been done to her. I cry for my own pain and the sadness of losing her. And as my tears slowly start to dry on my cheeks, I look to her again. I want to touch her so much, but I don’t want to disturb her. So I stare at her—taking in every last detail of her. Her hair has been chopped off, her left eye is swollen and bruised, and her right cheek is abraded. Her throat shows dark bruises where she’s obviously been choked. She’s gowned, but I know beneath her gown the beautiful body I used to worship so incessantly is covered in bruises where she was kicked and bandages and sutures where her body was opened up. Her slender fingers and frail hand are dwarfed by the tubes of the IV line attached to the top of it. She is breathing gently, and her face, though bruised and injured, is peaceful. She’s beautiful—broken and battered, still the most beautiful woman in the world to me—the only woman in the world for me.

I stare at her for what seems like forever. I study every bruise, every swollen spot of skin, every cut and abrasion, and as I look at every visible part of her body, I curse myself for ever leaving her. I want to wake her so desperately. I want to hear her voice and see her eyes. I want to kiss her and promise her I’ll never leave her again, but it would be a lie. My obligations are elsewhere… And I ache for her deeply and agonizingly. There is no denying I’m once again complete in her presence. This is my place. I belong to her and my place is by her side. And the absoluteness of that statement is profound, and it begs to rewrite my life.

Chapter 27

I didn’t expect to wake up. In fact, it actually comes as quite a surprise when I open my eyes and don’t see the pearly gates. Instead I’m looking at a terribly white and boring-looking ceiling. The stench of the trailer, though, is blessedly gone, replaced instead with the tell tale antiseptic smell of a hospital. This ceiling doesn’t match the dirty and faded ceiling of the trailer either. Bonus for me. But I feel numb, and I can’t understand why I’m alive. I shouldn’t be. I’m sure I should hurt, and I can feel where my body should hurt: my cheek, my eye, the area below my left breast that wraps around to my side. But the pain I know should be there is dull and faded. My brain is likewise dull. I feel lucid, but so incredibly and comfortably tired. It’s euphoric… It must be drugs. I like these drugs. But in addition to this blessedly content feeling, I also feel safe, and I feel warm. I try to move my hand, but my hand doesn’t respond to the signal that my brain is sending it. I wonder for a moment if perhaps I’m paralyzed, and then I decide I’m not sure I care enough to worry about it—drugs, good drugs.

The first face I see is Sara’s. She looks beautiful as always, though puffy and splotchy from crying. Wow, I must look like hell for her to be this upset. When she sees my open eyes, she starts sobbing and shrieking, and as the room fills with nurses I start to think perhaps I should have just kept my eyes closed for awhile longer. The doctor that enters ushers everyone out of the room, including the nurses, almost immediately before she takes a seat by the bed. She introduces herself as Dr. Ahmari, and she instantly has me at ease when she says that she’s
“the only heavy set, middle aged, Indian Doctor in Michigan”
so I should feel very privileged she’s my doctor. I do.

She’s kind and motherly, and as she goes through all the different injuries I sustained, I’m glad to have her there as I start to cry. My pain medication starts to wear off, and I’m suddenly nervous. The ache in my side where my ribs are broken and where my many internal injuries were repaired is building, and it hurts. Bad. Dr. Ahmari gives me another dose of pain medication as we talk, seeing the discomfort on my face. She assures me the hurting is normal, and I shouldn’t expect it to go away immediately. The cracked ribs will take a considerable time to heal and will cause me the most pain, but she thinks there’s a better than good chance I’ll be ready for dance in the fall.

She’s going to schedule time with a physical therapist to help keep my strength and flexibility up while I heal, and she has no problem with my training with Anthony as soon as the physical therapist gives the go ahead—though she cautions that Anthony will need to follow the advice of the therapist to avoid any injury to me. I’m relieved I’ll be able to train, at least, and should be back up to par by the time school starts. My education depends on it, after all, and that’s really the only thing I have going for me at this point. Truth be told, I’ve been desperate to get through the summer so I can throw myself into dance and forget about the past year. I’m looking forward to school as much as I have in a long time just for the distraction and the escape of it. I have to fill the void Logan left in some way, and Allendale has just been one awful memory after another.

As Dr. Ahmari stands to leave, she pauses at the door and turns back to me. “You know, Rowan, you’re a very lucky young lady to have survived this. You lost a lot of blood, and your blood pressure kept dropping so low during surgery that I thought we’d lost you for sure. We almost did a few times. Take good care of yourself.” And as an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and apparently I’m not the only one who’s been waiting patiently for you to wake up. The detectives have been showing up regularly to see if you’re ready for visitors.”