The Last Echo
Page 47
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Sara headed toward the admissions desk, and Gemma reached for Violet’s arm, her fingers digging in viciously. “You’d better not hurt him,” she hissed under her breath. “I mean it. He doesn’t need anyone else hurting him.”
Violet stared blankly at Gemma’s formidable expression as Gemma’s grip finally loosened. She wondered where, exactly, the threat had come from. She had no intention of hurting Rafe; why would Gemma even say something like that?
She felt weird leaving the other girl behind as she followed Sara to the counter, where her ID was scanned and printed onto a sticker that she had to wear on her shirt.
Sara led her in back, and they stopped outside a sliding glass door with a huge number 33 on it. Violet had expected they’d both be going inside, but Sara smiled feebly. “Go ahead. I get to take him home later; I’ll spend time with him then.” It was strange to be reminded that she was his sister. Then Sara touched Violet’s arm, her face screwed into a mask of . . . something. Apprehension. Concern. Both, maybe. “Don’t upset him, okay, Violet? He’s been through a lot today, and he’s worn out. Just let him say what he needs to say so he can get some rest.” In other words, Violet thought, don’t ask a lot of questions. Not yet, anyway.
Violet just nodded and left Sara standing outside as she entered the darkened room.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected: tubes down his throat, wires attached to noisy machines, full-body traction with casts and splints. But it wasn’t like that.
The room was quiet and the lights had been dimmed; there was just a small box light above his bed that cast a faint glow like an oversized night-light. Violet settled silently onto a rolling chair beside the metal-framed bed as she waited for Rafe to notice she was there.
His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and even. She’d watched Jay sleep before, and he was always restless, his breathing irregular. Sometimes he muttered in his sleep, sometimes he twitched, but always he looked disheveled, messy.
Not Rafe, though. Rafe looked peaceful. His hand lay across his chest, and Violet could see the tubes from his IV protruding from the back of it. Two clear bags of fluid hung from the tall silver stand looming beside his bed.
She jumped when a machine at her side beeped softly and the blood pressure cuff strapped around his upper arm inflated automatically, registering his vital signs. She wondered if there were nurses watching from monitors at their station.
“You came.” Rafe’s voice was gravelly and sluggish. There was a quality buried within it that Violet had never heard before from Rafe. Something raw and hopeful. He smiled lethargically, as if his facial muscles were heavy, leaden. Violet watched as he lifted his hand—the one with the IV tubes sticking into it—and his bleary eyes struggled to maintain focus on her face. His hand only made it halfway to her face before dropping back to the crisp white sheets again as if the effort had been too much for him. “I was hoping I’d see you again, Sophie.”
The slur of his words was almost charming, in a drunken sort of way, but Violet frowned over the last word he’d spoken, the name he’d called her. She leaned forward, afraid to touch him or even to jostle his bed as she carefully leaned her elbows against the firm hospital mattress. “Who’s Sophie, Rafe?”
Rafe startled then, his muscles tensing and the endearing smile melting from his lips, giving way to a perplexed scowl as his eyes swam into focus. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was still laced with fatigue. “What are you talking about?”
“You called me Sophie.”
Rafe shook his head, wincing as he did. “No, I didn’t,” he groaned. “You must have misheard.”
Had she? She was pretty sure she didn’t. But what difference did it make what he’d called her? She was relieved to see him awake. Alive, for that matter.
“I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry about what happened, Rafe.”
His expression softened, his brows drawing together. “It wasn’t your fault. Sara said it was the other driver—” He scowled again, but this time he seemed to be struggling to remember.
“It was,” Violet assured him. “She was making an illegal turn, and . . .” She hesitated. “She didn’t see you.”
Rafe nodded, and Violet wondered how much of the accident he recalled, if anything. She hoped he’d conveniently stricken it from his memory.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said at last, a pained frown making its way over her face.
“Pshh.” He tried to wave his hand to dismiss her concerns, but it fell again before he could make any real statement. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’ve never been better.”
Violet studied him—scrutinized every inch she could see. Scrapes covered his hands, his cheek, and his chin—at least where she could see them around the bandages. Even his elbows had been wrapped up, from where the asphalt had ripped through his leather jacket, she assumed. Bruises were forming too, even ones that she could see through the transparent IV tape across his knuckles. She didn’t think she wanted to know what might be hidden beneath the covers. “Yeah, you look great,” she quipped. “Seriously, how bad is it?”
“I got some stitches,” he said, pointing at the gauze on his forehead. “And some bruised ribs, but it must not be too bad; they’re just waiting for the doc to sign off and then I get to go. Besides—” He grinned, tapping the place where the IV tube disappeared beneath his skin. “I gotta say, if you’re gonna get hurt, this is the place to be. The drugs here aren’t half-bad.” His head sagged heavily against the pillow.
Violet stared blankly at Gemma’s formidable expression as Gemma’s grip finally loosened. She wondered where, exactly, the threat had come from. She had no intention of hurting Rafe; why would Gemma even say something like that?
She felt weird leaving the other girl behind as she followed Sara to the counter, where her ID was scanned and printed onto a sticker that she had to wear on her shirt.
Sara led her in back, and they stopped outside a sliding glass door with a huge number 33 on it. Violet had expected they’d both be going inside, but Sara smiled feebly. “Go ahead. I get to take him home later; I’ll spend time with him then.” It was strange to be reminded that she was his sister. Then Sara touched Violet’s arm, her face screwed into a mask of . . . something. Apprehension. Concern. Both, maybe. “Don’t upset him, okay, Violet? He’s been through a lot today, and he’s worn out. Just let him say what he needs to say so he can get some rest.” In other words, Violet thought, don’t ask a lot of questions. Not yet, anyway.
Violet just nodded and left Sara standing outside as she entered the darkened room.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected: tubes down his throat, wires attached to noisy machines, full-body traction with casts and splints. But it wasn’t like that.
The room was quiet and the lights had been dimmed; there was just a small box light above his bed that cast a faint glow like an oversized night-light. Violet settled silently onto a rolling chair beside the metal-framed bed as she waited for Rafe to notice she was there.
His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and even. She’d watched Jay sleep before, and he was always restless, his breathing irregular. Sometimes he muttered in his sleep, sometimes he twitched, but always he looked disheveled, messy.
Not Rafe, though. Rafe looked peaceful. His hand lay across his chest, and Violet could see the tubes from his IV protruding from the back of it. Two clear bags of fluid hung from the tall silver stand looming beside his bed.
She jumped when a machine at her side beeped softly and the blood pressure cuff strapped around his upper arm inflated automatically, registering his vital signs. She wondered if there were nurses watching from monitors at their station.
“You came.” Rafe’s voice was gravelly and sluggish. There was a quality buried within it that Violet had never heard before from Rafe. Something raw and hopeful. He smiled lethargically, as if his facial muscles were heavy, leaden. Violet watched as he lifted his hand—the one with the IV tubes sticking into it—and his bleary eyes struggled to maintain focus on her face. His hand only made it halfway to her face before dropping back to the crisp white sheets again as if the effort had been too much for him. “I was hoping I’d see you again, Sophie.”
The slur of his words was almost charming, in a drunken sort of way, but Violet frowned over the last word he’d spoken, the name he’d called her. She leaned forward, afraid to touch him or even to jostle his bed as she carefully leaned her elbows against the firm hospital mattress. “Who’s Sophie, Rafe?”
Rafe startled then, his muscles tensing and the endearing smile melting from his lips, giving way to a perplexed scowl as his eyes swam into focus. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was still laced with fatigue. “What are you talking about?”
“You called me Sophie.”
Rafe shook his head, wincing as he did. “No, I didn’t,” he groaned. “You must have misheard.”
Had she? She was pretty sure she didn’t. But what difference did it make what he’d called her? She was relieved to see him awake. Alive, for that matter.
“I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry about what happened, Rafe.”
His expression softened, his brows drawing together. “It wasn’t your fault. Sara said it was the other driver—” He scowled again, but this time he seemed to be struggling to remember.
“It was,” Violet assured him. “She was making an illegal turn, and . . .” She hesitated. “She didn’t see you.”
Rafe nodded, and Violet wondered how much of the accident he recalled, if anything. She hoped he’d conveniently stricken it from his memory.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said at last, a pained frown making its way over her face.
“Pshh.” He tried to wave his hand to dismiss her concerns, but it fell again before he could make any real statement. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’ve never been better.”
Violet studied him—scrutinized every inch she could see. Scrapes covered his hands, his cheek, and his chin—at least where she could see them around the bandages. Even his elbows had been wrapped up, from where the asphalt had ripped through his leather jacket, she assumed. Bruises were forming too, even ones that she could see through the transparent IV tape across his knuckles. She didn’t think she wanted to know what might be hidden beneath the covers. “Yeah, you look great,” she quipped. “Seriously, how bad is it?”
“I got some stitches,” he said, pointing at the gauze on his forehead. “And some bruised ribs, but it must not be too bad; they’re just waiting for the doc to sign off and then I get to go. Besides—” He grinned, tapping the place where the IV tube disappeared beneath his skin. “I gotta say, if you’re gonna get hurt, this is the place to be. The drugs here aren’t half-bad.” His head sagged heavily against the pillow.
