The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) (14 page)

The smell of her putrid vomit, and my metallic odor of the blood, mixes with the sweat that hangs in the air.

Clad tugs a pair of shorts up my legs and over my thighs.

“Do I look decent?” I ask, my sense of humor intact.

He covers my towel wrapped head with the hood and says, “Keep your eyes closed; the lights will be bright. I will carry you now.”

He lifts me off the tile and cradles me in his arms. I catch a glimpse of the spot where I was lying, and see a pool of my blood; it is everywhere, running towards the shower, and dripping from the corner of the bench.

Alana opens the door for us, and leads the way to the school parking lot. I am squinting, I don’t want to close my eyes fully for fear that I will fall unconscious.
Head injuries can do that to you,
I remember my mom telling me once when I had suffered a concussion from falling off a playground swing.

A door swings open, and another, and then we are outside.

“Your mom is here sweetheart. She is going to take you to the hospital and then you won’t hurt anymore,” Clad says and kisses me on the lips.

“How bad?” my mom asks. “Hey baby, I’m going to take you to the emergency room, okay? Mommy’s here don’t worry.” She squeezes my hand.

“I will follow in my truck,” Clad says as he places me in the back seat of my mom’s Pontiac.

Another kiss on my lips, then he slams the door, and Mom speeds away from the school zone.

“Mommy, don’t worry,” I say, because I can hear her sobbing.

“Clad says, a brave man dies but once.”

Chapter 18

Clad

Sleeping beauty is what I thought Bailey would look like in her hospital bed, knocked out with drugs. In reality, she looks washed-out and lifeless with her black hair spilling over her bony shoulders and standing out in stark contrast against her white skin. She looks like the
Corpse Bride
not sleeping beauty.

Twelve staples are holding the skin on her head together, and the skull is cracked in three different places. Wrapped in layers of gauze, her arm looks twice its size against a splint. Alana hit her with a car; she never told me that, so her hip is also sprained.

I stand by her bed, breathing quietly so as not to wake her, and slip my warm hand into her tiny cold one that has wires and tubes twisting out of it. It is strange to be holding someone’s hand so tightly and not have them squeeze back.

Her chest rises ever so slightly, and I know she is breathing,
but barely
. I pull her hospital gown up that is falling off her petite frame. I tuck the blankets around her tighter, and then after that all I can do is wait.

I want her to wake up, but then again I hope she never does, because I won’t be able to ignore her crying in pain. I would harass every nurse in the hospital if she was feeling even the slightest of pain, because this girl has been through enough.
Don’t be stingy with the morphine
.

Bailey’s mom is in a chair, rocking to and fro. I try to hug her, but she starts to shake, and I think better of it.
I love your daughter
, I tell her. She nods, and says she loves her too. That’s how far our conversation gets before a boy walks into the room carrying a bouquet of flowers.

He looks lost.

“Can I help you?” I ask him as he edges closer to Bailey.

“I am here to visit Bailey,” the boy says.

“I don’t think she is up for a visit, maybe you two can meet up later when she’s not dying and have tea,” I say.

“That is not what I meant; I came to be with her. I have already lost one girl and I am not about to lose another.” His voice is too loud; I am worried he will wake her.

“Lower your voice damnit, we are not at a football game. And what do you mean by ‘girl’?” I ask.

“I lost my last girlfriend, she passed away from cancer. I really like Bailey, if she …you know, then I don’t know how I could go on.”

I laugh at him; this stupid boy with ugly cropped hair and tacky clothes is in love with Bailey,
my Bailey
.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asks, putting the flowers down by Bailey’s broken arm.

“It would appear so, yes,” I say deftly.

“When did you meet her?” I ask.

“A couple of days ago,” he says with trepidation.

“A couple of days? And you are in love with her?” I ask rhetorically. His puppy love amuses me.

“How long have you known her?”

The question is set up perfectly.

“Eleven years,” I say.

“I bet you loved her from the first day,” he says.

And I am speechless.
I did love Bailey the first time I saw her, who wouldn’t?

He tousles her hair that is poking out of her head bandage, and I feel myself becoming territorial.

“Leave her alone, she is sleeping. If you wake her up, I will beat the shit out of you,” I say.

“Oh hush, lover boy, she’ll be fine,” he says, moving his hand across hers. There are four tiny red gashes, across her knuckles.
Like she has been clawed
. Then I notice that the boy’s nails sharper than hers even,
longer
, line up with the gashes.

“You hurt her,” I say.

He looks down at his hand and swiftly shoves it in his pocket.

“It was an accident,” he says defensively.

“You accidently dug your nails into her skin? What did you think her hand was, fucking Play-Doh or something? Huh, jackass?”

“She did this. I know it,” he says swinging his head in the direction of Bailey’s mom.

“Whoa, buddy, don’t go blaming people for things they haven’t done when you have been caught red-handed.”

“
I’m not
. Bailey came to me the night her mom abused her, showed me the cuts, and showed my sister the bruises. I did cut her hand with my nails, but it was only to get the phone from her because she wouldn’t let me call Children and Families,” he tells me.

“I-,” Mrs. Sykes says.

“You should be in prison, abusing your kid like that. In fact, even being in your company is difficult, but I’m here for your daughter not you. She needs me,” the boy says.

Mrs. Sykes says something and scuttles out of the room.

“Her mom didn’t do this though, a girl at school did.
Miemah
. She has been bullying Bailey since kindergarten,” I inform him.

“The world is out to get her,” he sighs. “Look at what her mom did,” he says, brushing aside her hair and showing me a short thin cut on her neck. I don’t say anything, I am uncertain as to whether or not he is being honest.

“And pushed her down the stairs,” he adds when I fail to respond.

He reaches for her blankets, and pulls them down.

“What are you doing? Don’t, she’s cold,” I say, grabbing the blankets from him.

“I have to show you. I can tell by the look in your eyes, you don’t believe me.”

I release the blankets, giving him the benefit of a doubt.

“Okay, help me put her on her side,” he says, and doubt surfaces.

“This is so unethical,” I say turning her.

“What do you care about ethics? She’s on more drugs than Bob Marley, nothing could wake her.”

He reveals the small of her back, just above her underwear line, and I see it, a bruise twice the size of my hands.

“Oh,” I say, shocked.

He fixes her gown and layers the blankets back on her.

“She told you this? And what else did she tell you?” I say, disgruntled.

“Her mom is an alcoholic has been abusing her since she can remember, and her dad is in jail, and that’s it,” he says.

Bailey has told this guy more in two days than she has to me over the period of eleven years.

I am about to go on a rant when Bailey whimpers. Actually whimpers like a baby that is falling in and out of sleep. Her brow is furrowed in pain.

Out of nowhere the boy starts singing a lullaby. Bailey quiets down as he sings on, and her face relaxes: he has sung her back to sleep.

“What is the extent of her injuries?” he asks, breaking the soft tune that has me swaying where I stand.

“The bone in her arm, it broke through her skin. You could actually see her bone, it was unreal,” I say.

“What happened to her head?” he asks, pointing to the bandaging that is wrapped like a helmet on her head.

“I think the girl bashed it into the ground. I am not sure because she wasn’t conscious enough to tell us, but her skull is cracked.”

His face drains of all its color and I feel bad for speaking of her injuries in such a blasé fashion.

“Why do they do this to her?” he asks, pushing his fists into the bed, his face twisted in sorrow and rage.

They?
I wonder who they are.

“Isn’t that how the world is?” I say, realizing who he means. “The minute it finds something beautiful and precious, it destroys it.”

“My girlfriend was in this same hospital the last time I saw her. The only difference between her and Bailey is that Bailey can be saved. My girlfriend was already a lost cause,” he says holding back tears.

“Do you always give up on people like that? Your girlfriend probably didn’t think of herself as a lost cause.”

“She thought she would live,” he laughs. “Her skin was yellow, her hair was gone, every aspect of who she once was had disappeared. Her soul was gone before her heart stopped beating.”

“That doesn’t have to happen again,” I say. “You have a second chance; do with it what you want. But me, I’m in the business of saving Bailey.”

Bailey’s mom returns, her back hunched and her body quaking. Right on cue Bailey moans in pain.

“It’s okay to wake up, Bailey,” I say, and rub her shoulder.

Her eyes fly open, and my heart flutters as their deep blue takes effect on me.

She tries to sit up, so urgently that it takes both me and the boy to pin her to the bed.

“Stay down, rest your head,” Spencer says, and all at once I see what a big mistake we’ve made. She vomits all over herself and the bedspread. Spencer runs out of the room to get help.

Bailey’s mom and I try to comfort her, and keep her from rising again. The boy comes back with a nurse carrying a bucket of water, new sheets, and sponges.

“Choking on your own vomit is a fun way to wake,” I say, and cringe. “Sorry, sweetie, we didn’t know.”

The boy is either stifling a laugh or a sob, I can’t tell which.

The nurse pushes us aside, and begins to pull off her gown and blankets. I take that as my cue to exit. As I head towards the door, the boy is not far behind.

We sit in green plastic chairs, opposite of each other.

“What’s your name?” I ask, in an attempt to make small talk.

“Spencer.”

“Clad.”

“What were our parents thinking?” he says, and we both crack up.

“I think we should only be in the room one at a time, I don’t want her getting overwhelmed,” I suggest.

“You’re right, that’s a good idea,” he agrees.

I see the nurse exit Bailey’s room.

“I am going first,” I say. I have known her longer, and I feel that entitles me.

“Suit yourself,” Spencer says, popping vending-machine pretzels in his mouth.

“Oh, and there’s something you should know,” I say right before I leave him.

“Yeah?”

“It’s her birthday, singer boy.”

Chapter 19

I am like a cartoon character that has just bonked his head, except instead of stars and squiggles encircling me there are teddy bears and sailboats.

“Oh, make them stop spinning,” I moan to Clad when he walks back in the room.

“Heyyy,” he says softly.

“All better now?”

“No,” I mumble, and hold my head in my hands. “Teddy bears and sailboats are harassing me!”

He chuckles. “It is a pediatric room, and the wallpaper is a bit obnoxious.”

“Oh, they are on the walls?” I ask, rubbing my palms against my eye sockets.

“Uh, yeah,” he grins.

“Clad, this morphine is making me so sick. I feel like I am tripping.”

“I know, honey, but it is taking the pain away. You need it,” he says, his voice like silk.

“And I am so cold,” I complain. My skin feels like ice, but my head is pounding hot, like I have a fever.

“They only left you with one blanket,” he says somberly.

“Here take this.” He lifts his shirt off and lays it over me.

“No keep it,” I say. “You need to be warm too.”

“Use it please, you are shaking. I’ll get more blankets.”

I think he leaves the room, but I keep dipping in and out of consciousness, so I can’t remember. The pain resurfaces through the dissipating fog of morphine.

“Ah,” I howl.

Mom approaches my bed, taking tiny steps, hesitating, as if she thinks I am an apparition that might vanish into thin air.

“Honey,” she coos.

“M-om,” I stutter. My head is processing the words I want to say in a delayed matter.

“I don’t want-” I swallow: it is so hard to articulate what I want to say; my throat closes around each word.

“No morphine,” I force the words out.

She reaches for the black button at my wrist, disobeying my request.

“Nooo,” I shriek.

The medication takes away all the pain, but at the same time it cages me in a place that is so stifling that I feel like bricks have been laid on my chest. I can’t breathe, leaving me in a kind of darkness in which you can’t even see your hands. Only after an uphill battle can I break out of it, and enter an animated world where everything pops out at me, and objects like the telephone come to life.

“Okay,” she says, and hooks her hands together.

I bite my bottom lip, suppressing a scream. The pain is
unbearable
.

I don’t recall coming here. I do, however, remember being in the locker room, and seeing what seemed like buckets and buckets of blood, surrounding the imprint of where my head was, like it had been a tiny island in an ocean.
An ocean of blood
.

I guess I let the scream out, because mom is kissing my head and squeezing my hand all of the sudden. When you are drugged this heavily, everything seems to hang in suspension. My head tells my body to do something, and it responds, but it takes too long. My body decides to do something, but my head doesn’t know it until it has already happened.

“Baby, please take the medicine. You won’t feel anything anymore. What is the point of letting yourself suffer like this?” Mom asks, stroking my arm.

I need a flashlight inside my head, and then I could go into the darkness knowing I am safe.

“Hurts,” I mumble.

Clad bursts through the door, a stack of pink and blue blankets in his arms. He spreads them over me like a parachute. ‘It’s a girl!’ is written on the pink one, and ‘It’s a boy!’ is inscribed on the blue one. I would laugh but I feel too rotten.

“I bought them in the gift shop,” he says.

They are thick, much thicker than the flimsy hospital blankets.

“Thank you,” I manage to choke out. Then I erupt into tears.

“Try and convince her to take the morphine,” Mom pleads with him. “She is in so much pain, and I can’t understand why she doesn’t want to.”

“Why, Bailey? Why won’t you take your medicine?” he asks, his voice tender.

I can’t vocalize the reason, so I let out another sob instead.

He rubs the hand belonging to my un-broken arm between both of his.

“Is it scary?” he asks me in a whisper.

I nod, and I feel my head go light, my mind go blank, and that I very well might pass out again.

“Ohhh,” Mom laments. “It is dark, isn’t it?”

I kick my leg to say ‘yes.’ Nodding and speaking are out of the question.

“She is so afraid of the dark, she has panic attacks from it,” Mom says, staring at her feet.

Clad nods.

“But I can’t make it go away, Bailey,” she says to her feet.

“Maybe if you take a large dose, you won’t be in limbo. Instead of drifting in and out of sleep, it will be like you are in a coma,” Clad theorizes.

“A drug-induced coma,” Mom adds.

“What if she doesn’t wake up?” he asks fretfully.

“She will. You can only press the button so many times, and the IV will only let a safe amount of morphine into her system. It is a good idea, Clad. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” he says, and turns his attention back to me. “Soon you will be asleep, and it will be as if you are in your bed at home, like normal, your head not cracked, and your arm not broken, like it is nighttime and you are simply going to sleep.”

“Where Spencer?” I slur. I am talking like a drunk person, my tongue too big for my mouth.

“He is in the waiting room. He will come in soon,” he says, consoling me.

I lift my heavy arm and pick one of the flowers off the bouquet Spencer has left for me; I put it in Clad’s hand.

“Thank you darlin’,” he says and picks some flowers off too.

He strategically places them in my hair as I drift off to sleep.

“Clad,” I stammer. “I didn’t fight back.”

“I know, or you wouldn’t be in this bed right now,” he says.

“I couldn’t, my head,” I say and raise my hand to my head, but find only gauze.

“Did you hit your head before you could fight back?” he asks, trying to piece together what went down.

“Video,” I murmur.

“No,” he gasps.

“Yesss,” I hiss, angry tears springing to my eyes.
Yes, they taped it, soon the whole school will be watching my head crack open like an egg.

“That is…evil,” he says. “Illegal too. Surely we can get the tape back?”

“No,” I say.

“We have to,” he insists.

“No.”

“Bailey-”

“No!” My throat is sore from screaming. “You can’t.”

“Enough!” Mom butts in.

Spencer comes through the door, and Clad’s hand shoots to the morphine button. He hits it one, two, three….ten times. My eyelids grow heavy, but I am able to keep them up just long enough to see Spencer’s face.

“Lydia,” he says.

“
Bailey
,” I say.

Who is Lydia? Did I hear him wrong because of the drugs?

“Oh my God,” Spencer says, his mouth gaping open.

“I said that, yes, Bailey,” he says, his voice choppy, all wrong.

I search for his hand, and our fingers loop together.

“Happy sweet sixteen,” he says and begins to sing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear…”

A black stormy cloud gathers over me, and I am sucked into its ominous billows.