Sisters in the Wind(18)

—Western Fire Chiefs Association: How Fast Do Wildfires Spread?





POST-BLAST DAY ONE


JANUARY 2009

I’m surprised when I open my eyes and daylight has disappeared. A soft light from the lamp to my left shows my leg held in place with some sort of contraption. I’m not sure what happened to it. Everything is fuzzy. My head hurts. My leg hurts. A lot.

I moan.

A young woman sits next to me. I didn’t notice until now. Her wide smile overwhelms me. The joy in her expression makes my heart skip a beat. I have the oddest realization.

She loves me. This woman, whoever she is, doesn’t know me. But she wants to.

She rises, towering over me like an imposing colossus. Reading my expression, she sits quickly. My hospital bed is partially upright, but she’s an extremely tall person, with ramrod posture even more pronounced by sitting at the edge of the chair.

“Aaniin,” she begins, pronouncing the word slowly. Ah-NEE. “Hello, Lucy.” Her voice is strong and somewhat deep, though not husky. It fits her, this larger-than-life woman. Her dark eyes, prominent nose, and full lips are equally exaggerated on her square face. “My name is Daunis Fontaine. I was best friends with your sister, Lily.” Her eyes water. She smiles more broadly to compensate for the hint of sadness.

Was. Past tense.

“Sister?” I sound like a croaky old bullfrog. I already had a sister. She hated being called Elizabeth, so I called her Rachel Devery. Then just Devery. She was my first foster sister.

This Daunis person hands me a plastic cup.

Reaching with both hands, I notice the thin tube connecting one of them to an IV drip. Afraid of disconnecting something, I rest my right hand on the bed and take the cup with my left one.

The gulp of room-temperature water hurts as I swallow. My throat is sandpaper but feels immediately better. She waits for me to finish drinking.

“Yes. You have—had”—she corrects herself—“a sister named Lily. From the same mom, and—”

“Did my dad know about her?” I interrupt.

I need this answer before anything else.

“He found out about Lily when your mom was pregnant with you,” Daunis says, eyes welling up again.

I turn away from her emotions. It’s a crisp winter night on the other side of the window. I focus on the stars. Each one is the memory of an explosion. The galaxy is a map of pent-up anger that had to be set free.

“Your mom is Maggie Chippeway.”

A half sister named Lily, who is no longer alive. A birth mother named Maggie.

“Is she dead too?” I ask, still counting stars. I’d rather not face Daunis’s emotions, which, I suspect, are as supersized as everything else about her.

“No,” she says quickly. “Your mom’s alive. Oh, Lucy, she’s so eager to meet—”

I cut her off. “No. No thank you.” Then, only because I think Daunis might rush around to the other side of my bed to claim my view, I turn my head toward her. “I don’t want to know her. You and Mr. Jameson are wasting your time.”

She blinks. “Mr. Jameson?”

“The lawyer?” I’m surprised she needs an explanation, especially after overhearing their romantic reunion. “He helps Native American foster kids find their families.” I continue because she still looks confused. “That Jamie guy.”

Before I can describe his Prada boots and cashmere overcoat, Daunis must have connected the dots. Her smile is warm and satisfied somehow.

“I only know him as Jamie … Jamie Johnson,” she says, almost shy now.

“Well, whoever he is…” I glance over to where he stands in the doorway. “Whoever you are, John Jameson or Jamie Johnson, I’m not interested in anything from either of you.”

Each moment brings fresh clarity and more details from earlier in the day. Work. My plans to leave town. The person stalking me and why. The explosion. My leg snapping when I landed in the parking lot. Nancy telling me …

“Is Nancy okay?” I look from Daunis to Jamie. “You have to tell me. Please,” I beg, not caring that my voice cracks. “Is she alive?”

“Yes,” Jamie says, rushing toward me. “Yes, Lucy. She’s alive.” He holds my hand. I let him. “She was injured; one of her arms was badly burned. She hasn’t woken up yet, but a nurse promised to tell us as soon as she does.”

Nancy’s alive. But it’s all my fault. The people who are after me … they didn’t mind blowing up a diner. I thought they wanted me alive … at least for a while.

“Was anyone else hurt?” I ask, trying to remember who was there before we closed.

“No,” Jamie assures me. “You and Nancy were the only ones inside. The cook was behind the dumpster. He wasn’t injured at all. The other server left on schedule.” He turns to Daunis. “The diner was a small, standalone building. It was a single explosion from the kit—”

Daunis interrupts, voice trembling. “If she’d been any closer…”

“But she wasn’t.” Jamie speaks calmly. “Lucy’s alive.”

They’re full of concern and relief. They want me to stay alive.

“How soon can I leave?” It’s barely a question, more like a directive, because I do not intend to stick around. I grasp the remote control for the bed and attempt to decipher the arrows on each button. I guess correctly—the one I push raises my upper half until my leg throbs. I reverse the movement.