Second Chance Hero (30 page)

I take the quickest route to Deacon’s house, along a
lane with no street lights and barely enough room to squeeze my little car down
it; I don't know what I’ll do if a car approaches in the opposite direction.
The family doesn't take this route; it’s the route Dominic took the night he
died, and I slow right down, battling the urge to speed to get to Deacon
quicker. I know he’ll go home, it’s his haven; the place he ran to when his dad
died, the place he kept himself hidden from the attention in Folquay. The place
he ran to after I thought he’d been beaten around by a trait girl. I know he’ll
be there.

But when I get to the house, the truck is missing
and I’m left disappointed; we’ve waited to be free to be together for too long
and I need to tell him how I. It can't be too late, can it?

I sit in the car for a while, parked up outside his
house, but remembering he never locks his door, I climb out and let myself in.
I settle on the sofa and try to watch a film, but I find myself looking at my
watch every five minutes, wondering where else he could have gone. I feel
uncomfortable in my dinner outfit, a vibrant pink dress I picked out because I
felt so happy about the journey my evening should have taken. I give up on the
TV, put the kettle on to make coffee, check my phone and climb the stairs when
I notice there’s radio silence from everyone. I rummage through Deacon’s
drawers when I get to his bedroom and dress in a pair of his boxers and an old
t-shirt of his. I lay on the bed, letting my eyes close for five minutes,
wishing away the time until he returns home. A place I’m hoping to call home
after tonight; I’m not going anywhere after the conversation I’m eager to have
with him.

I wake up to the sun bursting in the windows of
Deacon’s bedroom and the sounds of the birds in the trees outside. I’m
instantly paranoid that he didn’t come home. Deacon’s way of dealing with
emotional turmoil is to go and get laid – a ritual I’m all too familiar with,
although I favour baking after the reputation I got myself in my last year of
uni. I climb off the bed, straightening the duvet and pad downstairs to put the
kettle on and continue what I started last night. The house is cold and I’m
achingly aware of Deacon’s absence, and I notice my blanket folded over the
back of the sofa; I wrap it around my shoulders and tap my fingers on the
counter, waiting for the switch of the kettle – I’m still not brave enough to
use the coffee machine; especially without Deacon to come to the rescue if I
set it on fire. Where is he?

I take my coffee and go out into the garden,
eclipsed in shadows by the house, and sit at the picnic table. I take my first
sip of coffee and try to distract myself from the urge to check my phone. One
night away is enough to have people calling after me to see if I’ve ran away
again, and plenty of time for Kip to think I’ve had enough time to regret my
decision. I don't want to think of anything but Deacon. Even if he has text me
I’m not going to look. He’ll be home soon enough, and I’ll be waiting here,
ready to make everything right. I spot the little gym set-up out of the corner
of my eye, and curiosity, boredom and impatience have my mind catching up with
my feet on the way to the tree. I stand under the branch, remembering the way
Deacon looked when he was exercising, every pull and release of his body, his
muscles straining under the pressure. The way he pounded the punch bag swinging
in the breeze, before shoving me against the tree and taking me the way I’ve
always wanted to be taken. I run my hand down the trunk, and look up at the branch
again. Raising my arms I try to reach it, but after three attempts of jumping
as high as I can to grab hold of it, I give up, settling for measly punches on
the bag. Anything to keep the memories of the journey Deacon and I have taken
over the last few weeks. Even Emma letting herself into the house he created
and catching us in an uncompromising position, is a sweet memory of our
whirlwind time together.

My punches are weak and my knuckles hurt after a few
tries. And it’s too cold to not have my blanket comforting me. I need the
comfort more and more as time passes without Deacon’s presence in the house, so
I go back in to snuggle on the sofa and continue my torturous wait. But my
phone is waiting on the coffee table, where I left it the last time I checked
it and when I slide the screen open I notice a hoard of missed calls and a
voicemail. I don't know who the missed calls are from; I’m calling my voicemail
before I think about it, praying it’s not a stupid message from Kip, but a
message from Deac telling me he hasn’t ran away, and he’s on his way home to
find me.

“Jenna!” A voice panics as the message flows. It’s
my mum, “There’s been an accident. Deacon’s been hurt. Call me.”

Jenna

I don't call her; she didn’t need to tell me anything
more than she did. It’s a chilling reflection of the message I got from her the
night I got back to London, telling me Dom had been in an accident. She didn’t
know at that point that we would never see him again. Never tell him about the
feelings we took for granted.

I don't know what I do, but suddenly I’m running
through the entrance of the hospital in a haze of panic and regret and guilt. I
remember pulling on a pair of Deacon’s bottoms, and now I’m here, screaming at
the receptionist to tell me where he is.

            “Do you have permission to see him?” She
asks, looking at me over her glasses.

            “I'm... he’s... we’re family.”

            After a phone call to another
department, she looks at me, narrowing her eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Jenna.” I’m out of breath, hyperventilating and
this woman want to know my name?! “My name is Jenna Rivera. Please, you have to
let me see him.”

She finishes her conversation quickly and gives me
his floor and room number and I’m running to the lift, ignoring the burning in
my chest and tears in my eyes that are threatening to consume me. It can't be
too late. It can’t be.

            “Mum!” I cry, running into my mother’s
arms when I reach the waiting room for Deacon’s ward, “What happened?”

~

Three days pass in a blur. I sit by Deacon’s bed,
waiting for him to come out of his medically induced coma, with Emma on the
opposite side of the bed. We sit in silence for the most part, and I know she
blames me for this. And that’s okay because it is my fault. I can accept her
anger, because I deserve the punishment. Not Deacon; he doesn’t deserve this,
not when all he did was want to be with me, and I had to make things
complicated. I never wanted anyone else, so why did I not jump at the chance to
live the fairytale life I dreamed of with him? And now he’s in hospital,
looking like my Red on the outside, but with the possibility that the inside
will be changed forever. There is no way of knowing what damage has been done
to him, until the doctors wake him up.

            He looks peaceful; there isn’t one
scratch on his beautiful skin, and it breaks my heart even more to think of him
suffering, alone on the inside, stuck in a comatose state and screaming to get
out.

            I should have gone with him; we would
have gone for a walk, or gone back to my place or back to Emma’s, too desperate
to be together to climb in his pick-up truck. If I had done what he asked and
gone with him, never looking back, he wouldn’t have driven his truck to get as
far away from me as possible. He wouldn’t have been on the road leading to his
house, the road that leads to his drive from the opposite side to the route I
took. He wouldn’t have been on the road with a drink driver. The drink driver
wouldn’t have misjudged his speed and positioning on the road. And Deacon
wouldn’t have been the victim of a head-on collision that resulted in him being
kept asleep in intensive care.

            I wipe a single tear and lean over to
hold his hand. It’s still warm like I remember, but there’s no reassuring
squeeze, and nothing other than the beeping of all the machines connected to
him by tubes and wires, to let me know he’s still with us, holding on.

            Brad comes to visit with Jonas during
morning visiting hours and they bring breakfast. Emma and I share the only little
eye-contact we’ve had since I got here Monday when we both pick at what we’ve
been given. When the boys have said their piece to Deacon, telling him he’s
missing Wimbledon, and that the maternity ward has fallen down without him,
they leave with one look at us as we stare back, pretending for a few long
seconds that we’re okay and not falling apart from the inside out. They leave
and I stand, knowing Emma is going to feel as sick as I at the sight of food,
and hold my hand out for her container of pancakes and bacon. She holds it out
to me, keeping her eyes on her youngest son’s resting form, and I throw both
tubs in the bin, not bothering to scrape the food out and keep the boxes.
They’re replaceable. Deacon Reid isn’t. Not to Emma, not to the rest of the
family who always rely on his sporting stories, or conquest stories, or any of
the other things that bring so much light to our lives when Deacon is in the
room. And not to me; there will never be another man who I grew up with, who
knows everything about me, right down to the blood cells pumping round my body.
There will never be another man who knows all my faults, and accepts me anyway.

            A doctor comes in for the morning checks
on Deacon and eyes us warily. I know he wonders if we’ve left, which we haven’t,
but knows better than to question two emotional women who are just about
keeping the dam in place.  

            “We want to give Mr. Reid one last CT
scan before we bring him out of his sleep.” The doctor says, looking between
the clipboard in his hand and the computer screens that show Deacon fighting,
as always.

            “Why do you need another one?” Emma
asks, reaching up her sleeve for a tissue.

            “The EEG patterns are looking good, Mrs.
Reid. We’re almost happy to retract the intravenous keeping Deacon asleep. We
just want to make sure that there are no hidden injuries before we do so.”

            Emma nods, as satisfied as one can be in
this situation. I can't imagine what she must be going through; she did this
once before and the result was the worst that could be expected. But to go
through it again, with the boy she gave birth to. I hope I have a hundred of
Deacon’s babies and never have to go through a fraction of her turmoil.

            “So he’s going to wake up?” I ask,
ignoring the daggers from Emma.

            “He’s a strong, healthy young man. We
have every reason to believe he will wake up.” The doctor says confidently,
“But we won't know for sure until we have performed the scan and withdrawn the
medication.”

            My turn to nod, as my lip trembles and I
know if Deacon was awake he would fight with everything he had, not to be
wheeled through the hospital for everyone to see, looking anything but his
strong, powerful best. The doctor leaves us, telling us we should get some
fresh air, which we both decline, and promises us he’ll be back within the hour
to take Deacon to have the scan.

            The doctor keeps his word and returns
with an assistant to take Deacon to wherever he has to go to have his brain
checked. I’m filled with hope, knowing they’re contemplating waking him up.
That must be a good sign, and for the first time in three horrendous days,
there is a flicker of light at the end of this tunnel.

            The doctor and assistant wheel the bed
out of the room Emma insisted on paying for out of her inheritance from Dom,
and it’s just us in the room, slumped lethargically in the wooden chairs, a
vast gulf where Deacon had been between us. He’s taken all the energy from the
room with him and it feels like the oxygen has followed. It’s the first time
since I got here after the accident that I’ve been away from him, apart from a
few minutes sleep at a time with my head resting on his bed, or the rushed
toilet breaks to the adjoining bathroom. Emma breaks down, keening into her
hands, her shoulders shaking violently. I close the space between us quickly
and wrap my arms around her slim frame, fighting against her as she tries to
push me away, until she relents and hugs my waist, crying freely into my chest.
I sit on her lap, the lack of food and adequate drink making my legs weak and
allow myself to cry too, quietly so she doesn’t hear me. No matter how angry
she is with me, I have to be strong and comfort her. My phone vibrates from the
counter next to the bed but I ignore it, holding Emma’s head in my hand and
stroking my hand through the blond locks her son inherited.

            “Your fiancé’s ringing.” She pushes me
from her lap and stands up, looking out of the window at the ward outside.

            “He’s not my fiancé.” I reach out and
turn my phone off, cutting off Kip’s call.

            “Since when? He was your fiancé when my
son got in his car Sunday night.”

            “Deac and I had a fight.” I confess, “I
made him go away so I could get rid of Kip for good.”

            I swipe my arm across my eyes.

            “I went straight to Deac’s to tell him
everything. How sorry I am, how much I love him. I wanted to tell him
everything I’ve wanted to tell him for years.” I let the tears fall, knowing
Emma isn’t looking at me, “but he didn’t come home. I thought he was angry but
he’d come back eventually. I didn’t realise he might leave me and I might never
get the chance to tell him I love him. I love him so much.”

            “You better hope it’s not too late
then.”

            She opens the door and steps outside,
slamming the door behind her. She stands with her back to the window and stares
out at the bustling medical energy. I can't help but think I might have lost
Deacon forever, but that I’ve lost my second mother, too. The only other person
who understands what I’m going through.
He
owns me. Completely, irrevocably. He always has. My heart, body and soul belong
to this man and I wouldn't have it any other way. I just hope I'm not too late.

            My parents arrive at lunchtime and
Deacon is still having his scan. Emma is still standing outside and I have
taken my seat, praying to God and Dom to get Deac through this. We had our
second chance at the precious first love people dream of and I blew it; but I
pray for a third, so I can spend the rest of my life making it up to Deacon.
I’ll fulfil every fantasy he has, give up everything I have to call him mine,
and introduce myself to everyone I ever meet as his. Only his.

            “Querida?” Dad comes into the room,
while my mum is outside, hugging Emma.

            “Hi, dad.”

            There’s a silence as he sits in Emma’s
seat; and he looks alien being in this room. Anything but Emma in her painful
silence, Deacon in his torturous slumber, and me in my autopilot mode,
shouldn’t be in here. Dad doesn’t know what to say, I see it written in his
eyes. What is there to say that will make this any better? Nothing. There is no
sound anyone other than Deacon could make that would cure this ache in every
cell of my body. So we sit in silence, Dad staring at me, me staring into the
space where Deacon’s face would normally be. It’s routine already; I sit in one
spot, drinking as little as possible to avoid needing the toilet, and keeping
myself awake by recalling every memory Deac and I ever made together, just to
keep myself sane.

            “I brought you a change of clothes.” Dad
finally says.

            “No.” I say, because I’m still wearing
what I put on Sunday night, except for the clean underwear I put on every day
after a record-breaking quick wash. They still smell of Deac and it helps me
remember when his scent was on my skin as he made love to me that I wish lasted
forever.

            “I went to Deacon’s house to bring you
some clothes.” Even someone else other than doctors saying his name feels
weird, “I brought dirty and clean ones.”

            I almost smile.

            “Thanks, Dad.”

            “Mum packed a few flannels and some
chocolate milk.” Dad slides the carton across the floor, seemingly noticing no
man’s land. It’s Deacon’s space, “You were so nervous when Deacon had his
tonsils out, it’s all you would drink.”

            I almost smile again. Dad can do that to
people in times of serious trauma. I love him for it, but it’s just not enough
right now. I had forgotten about my nerve-settling chocolate milk drinking
habit.

            “Thanks, Dad.”

            The door swings open and Emma and Mum
file in, followed by the doctor, the assistant and the love of my life. He
looks the same, still sleeping and still as stunning as ever. I don't think
I’ve ever told him how beautiful he is. It’s something else I will tell him
when he wakes up.

            “Everything went well with the scan.”
The doctor says as the nurse leaves the room, “We should have the results back
with you in an hour or so.”

            “Thank you.” Emma says, gripping onto my
mother for the support I’m desperate to give her.

            “Some families find that when in
situations like this, it helps to talk to the patient.” The doctor nods towards
Deac who is positioned back where he belongs. For now, “It can be comforting
for the family and there is the theory that the patients can hear you.”

            We thank him again, and he turns to
leave, shutting the door softly behind him.

            I stand with my hands behind my back and
stare at the blanket covering Deacon’s feet, suddenly feeling like I’m an
intruder. My body jerks in surprise when Emma cocoons me in her arms, squeezing
me tightly and I open my eyes to realise my parents have disappeared.