I Am Not Jessica Chen(49)
“Okay. Good.” The bright flashlight of a phone flicks on, almost blinding me. “Look over here,” he says quietly, raising a finger and moving it from one side to the other. “Follow my finger.”
I try to, my eyes watering, the white flare of the light the only thing I can see. After a few seconds, he turns it off again and nods. Then he grabs a bottle of water from the bag fastened around his waist, lifting it to my lips.
“Careful,” he tells me. “Slowly.”
The water is an immediate relief, cool on my tongue and sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted. While I drink, he motions for Leela to hold the bottle for me and turns his attention downward.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, and brings his black-gloved hand to my ankles, his touch light, barely brushing my skin, then up higher to my wrists. I don’t feel anything except the same dull throbbing in my muscles, the stinging in my arm. “Well, it doesn’t look like anything’s broken.”
Leela releases a loud sigh of relief. “Thank god.”
“I thought so,” Celine says, but there’s a slight tremor to her voice.
Then Aaron takes my left arm in two hands, turning it over so he can inspect the damage, and Leela makes a strangled sound. I can’t resist the morbid desire to look, either. Bile fills my mouth. Most of the skin stretching from the pit of my elbow up to my forearm has been scraped off. All that’s visible is my blood, Jessica’s blood, smeared everywhere.
“Fuck,” Celine whispers. “That . . . does not look good.”
I feel myself shudder. “Am I . . . am I going to lose this arm?” I blabber, my heart hammering inside my chest. “Will you have to saw it off or something? Do we need to go to the ER? Am I dying?”
Aaron shoots me a look that’s half curious, half amused. “Nothing so dramatic, I promise.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just take deep breaths and let me handle it. You’re lucky I have spare bandages in my bag.”
I force myself to inhale. Exhale. He unrolls a strip of gauze, and I’m struck by a dizzying sense of déjà vu, but I’m in too much pain to follow the memory, see where it leads. I just stay very still, as still as I can, and concentrate on my breathing. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three . . .
“Did you learn how to do this in Paris?” Leela asks as Aaron works, because she’s the kind of person who would strike up small talk at someone’s funeral.
“Partially,” he replies, wrapping the gauze around my arm. “I already knew some basic techniques, but I had more opportunities to practice.”
Inhale. Exhale.
“Did you learn to ride while you were there too? I don’t think I ever saw you at the stables before you left.”
“They encouraged extracurriculars. The sport’s grown on me, though. Helps me clear my head.” He stands up, tucking the remaining gauze away. His gloves are stained with blood, and that stirs an old memory as well, like a breeze over a still pool. “All done.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and maybe because it’s less embarrassing when I’m speaking as Jessica, I add, “You’ll make a great doctor, you know.”
He falters, just for the briefest moment, and frowns down at me. “Has this happened before? I mean . . .” He seems to be weighing out his words, trying to select the right ones. “I don’t know why, I just have this feeling of déjà vu.”
I feel a fresh spike of pain under my breastbone, but I shake my head.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he murmurs, almost too quiet for me to hear. “Strange, then . . . it feels like . . .” But he doesn’t finish his sentence. Just busies himself removing his gloves, his back turned to me, the sun tracing out the firm line of his shoulders, and I can only wonder what he was going to say. What else he’s remembered.
Eleven
When it has been made very clear that I will not die, the question becomes: How will I get home?
“We’re over two miles away from Lakesville Road,” Leela offers, tightening the reins as she stares out at our surroundings. It’s all tall, swaying grass and aureolin-yellow wildflowers, the early evening sky; the kind of scenery that would be clichéd as a backdrop for a painting. “Maybe we can ride back together.”
Aaron speaks up before I do. “I wouldn’t advise that she ride with her arm in its current state. Even if nothing’s broken, it’s still not a good idea for her to use it.”
“What if one of us rides with her?” Celine says. “Or Aaron—you can.”
He frowns slightly, then turns to me in consideration, and I feel a blaze of heat travel up my neck.
“No,” I blurt out, stepping in between them. “No, I’ll walk.”
Leela snaps on her riding gloves and blinks at me. “For two whole miles? And what about the horses? We can’t leave them here.”
“I can walk alone,” I say.
“It’ll be much faster if we ride,” Celine points out.
“Yes, but contrary to the popular saying, I don’t think I should get back in the saddle,” I tell her. “I’d be quite happy to not get back in the saddle for the foreseeable future.”