In the Likely Event(23)

I put the folder on the table and got the hell out of there.





CHAPTER EIGHT


IZZY


Saint Louis

November 2011

“Okay, I managed to scrounge up Twix, Butterfinger, and one very sketchy bag of SunChips,” Serena said as she walked into my dim hospital room, carrying her loot. “The vending machine is pretty slim pickings out there.” She did a double take at the television and snatched the remote off my bed. “Watching that isn’t going to help.”

I lunged for the remote and winced when she danced out of my reach. “Crap.” Falling back against the bed, I breathed through the pain that engulfed my entire left side.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Iz.” Serena grimaced and handed back the remote, then sat in the armchair next to my bed that she’d occupied ever since I’d woken up this morning, though she’d told me she’d been sitting there since last night. Two broken ribs and a ruptured spleen had done a number on my blood supply, but a couple of transfusions later . . . well, at least I wasn’t dead.

Thanks to him.

None of us had died in the crash, which was a miracle, considering the footage.

“I’m just hoping that watching the footage will help clear my memory up,” I told her, adjusting to sit up a little straighter and immediately regretting the decision. “God, it hurts.”

“Then push the little clicker thing.” She leaned over and put the pain-med pump in my hand. “You just had surgery yesterday—oh, and a plane crash. Give yourself a little break and clickity-click.”

“That’s not going to help. It’s only going to fog up my head more and put me to sleep.” I watched yet another replay of home video footage of the crash, shot by a fisherman who’d been on the Missouri. It was . . . horrifying.

We’d come out of nowhere, a roaring missile through the mist, barely missed that man’s boat, and rammed the water.

“You sure you want to remember everything?” Serena asked softly, handing me the Twix, my favorite.

I tore open the package and then sank my teeth into the sweet caramel goodness, thinking as I chewed and swallowed. “It’s mostly the stuff after getting out of the river that’s missing. I remember the takeoff, the moment I realized we were going to crash, and even the frenzy to get out of the plane. The water was so cold . . .” I shook my head. “I just can’t remember his name.”

Everything else was right there—the concern in his eyes, the feel of his hands pulling me up the bank. He’d kept me breathing and laughing, and then carried me to the ambulance, according to what the nurses had told me.

I would have bled out internally under that tree if he hadn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Serena sighed, tearing into the chips. “I wish I remembered, but I was in such a panic that I didn’t pay attention.” Her gaze darted sideways at me as I watched the coverage of our rescue—though I was long gone by the time news crews had shown up. “He was a hottie, though, I can say that much.”

“I remember what he looks like.” I rolled my eyes. And what he was reading, and that he’d grown up on a farm and was joining the army for college money. It was just his name that eluded me, and pretty much everything after sitting against the tree.

“And he cared enough to tell everyone he was your husband. Signed for your surgery and everything.” A teasing smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Miraculously knew your blood type and your allergies, too, which means you must have been conscious enough to tell him. And seriously.” She leveled a stare on me. “The doctor said you’re not supposed to be watching TV with a concussion.”

My sigh rose from the bottom of my blanketed toes, but I hit the off switch just as the nurse came in to do another round of vitals. Luckily, she kept the lights dimmed, since my head felt like it was about a billion pounds of pulsing TNT.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked, jotting down the numbers in the chart that hung from the end of my bed.

The chart.

“No, I’m okay, but thank you.” I gave her a smile, and she headed out of the room before closing the door behind her. “Serena, grab the chart.”

Two lines appeared between my sister’s eyebrows. “What?”

“The chart.” I waved my hand toward the end of the bed. “If he signed for the surgery, it must be in there.”

“Good idea!” She bolted out of her chair, abandoning her snacks on the bedside table. “You’d think you were the one studying journalism.”

Studying. Oh shit, I was going to have to get back to Syracuse, but the idea of getting on a plane was . . . there was just no freaking way. I’d have to be not only sedated, but fully unconscious with an escort, and even then I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to walk down the jet bridge anyway. “How am I going to get back to school?” The rhetorical question was a whisper.

Serena lowered the side rail of my bed and then sat on the edge, depressing the mattress as she handed me the chart. “We’ll figure it out. Just because they’re going to release you tomorrow doesn’t mean you have to go back to New York, Iz. There’s no rush. I’m sure Mom and Dad will understand if you decide to take some time off. And if you do want to go back, then I’ll just blow off some classes and we’ll drive.” She shrugged. “No biggie. Or I’m sure Mom and Dad will be here in a few days, and they can drive you home to Colorado if that’s what you want.”