Blink Once (11 page)

I stared at the clock and wished Olivia would open the wall and walk in. Maybe I could send her a subconscious message or something. She said she knew my thoughts. But it didn’t seem to work. Instead I just lay there feeling miserable until Mom showed up around six. “So happy you are feeling better!” she said brightly. “Look at you! I can just tell looking at your face that you are on the mend.” She pulled a chair over to the bed and held my hand. “So tomorrow, you can get back into the wheelchair, and I can even take you on a walk. Won’t that be exciting?”

It didn’t really sound that great to me, so I blinked no, but Mom went right on. “And I’m sure you’re curious about your surgery. Dr. Louis has been updated on how you’ve been doing, and he just needs to see your blood work before we schedule anything. He said maybe in a week or two,
okay? Once we get your white blood cell count back down to normal, and that shouldn’t take long.”

A week or two sounded like forever; I’d already been in here a month. I wanted my old life back. I was ready to do this now, not in two weeks.

“Well, since we finished
Harry Potter
, I picked up that book Allie said your class was reading.” Mom reached into her bag and pulled out a paperback. Just the thought of Allie, of reading the same thing she was reading, made me feel terrible. I didn’t want to think about her, about school, about English class, my old friends, my old life. I didn’t even remember Mom finishing
Harry Potter
.

Allie dumped me. Mike couldn’t even look at me. The one person who actually seemed to get it had suddenly disappeared. Where was Olivia? Why hadn’t I seen her for days? She said she needed a friend, and I thought I was one. Guess I was wrong. My world had gotten really small, and it felt like it was getting smaller.

“Oh, your eyes are still so watery.” Mom leaned over me with a tissue and cleaned up my face. She assumed it was just from being sick that my eyes were watering, and I was glad for the excuse.

Mom started to read
A Separate Peace
, about an older guy who goes back to visit where he went to high school. He’s walking around remembering things that happened to him, and I could just tell this guy had a sad story to
tell—something bad was going to happen to somebody, and I didn’t want to hear it. I tuned out the words Mom was reading. Two more weeks, that’s the goal. I had to focus on that, on getting out of here, on the surgery being successful. Two more weeks.

“West, wake up.” I heard a girl’s voice talking to me. “West.” Her hand was on my arm, just like in the dream, the little girl covered in blood.

“It’s just me,” Olivia said when I started. She was sitting on the side of my bed. “Are you better? I was worried about you.”

I blinked yes and she was visibly relieved. “I got a little busted myself.” She motioned to her feeding tube. “Infection. I guess a lady should wash her hands before pulling out an IV tube on a regular basis, huh?” She smiled and I felt something in my chest let go. Olivia was still here. She was okay.

“I wanted to come by, but they were checking you a lot, plus you were sort of out of it. But I was thinking about
you.” She sounded so serious, like a greeting card. “I couldn’t help thinking about you, especially when I was trying to read tonight and your friend was here blasting rap music.” She scowled at me. I was happy to have the sarcastic Olivia back.

“So.” She took a deep breath. “While you were busy being sick, I was busy being Harriet the Spy. Finally got a nurse on night duty who liked to smoke—a lot—so I had some time at the nurses’ station to do a little research.”

She scooted over on the bed, closer to me, and pushed the button to raise it up, so I was sitting looking at her. “Here’s the thing: I’m not sure you’re going to like what I found out.” She leaned in to me as she whispered. “Number one, I looked up the guy who was in this room before you, not a pretty picture. Remember how you told me you’re having bad dreams about a man?”

I blinked yes and she went on.

“Was he—I know this sounds gross—but was he, like, burned?”

No.

“Are you sure he wasn’t burned in a fire, or on fire or anything in your dream?”

Again I had to blink no. I had no idea where she was going with this.

“Hmmmmm.” This was obviously not what she wanted to hear. “The guy who was here before you, he was burned
really badly—that’s why he was in a coma. It was a medically induced coma; they were trying to fix his skin with grafts and stuff. But I guess he got a bad infection….” She trailed off. “Anyhow, it was gross reading his medical file. I just thought maybe you were dreaming about him, about that, about a fire or a burned guy?”

I blinked no. I could tell Olivia was disappointed. She thought she had a ghost story on her hands, and that she had solved it, and here I was letting her down. But then I started thinking, what if this guy had done something terrible to someone—what if that’s why he was burned? What if he attacked that girl, and then … who knows? Her boyfriend or her dad came and did something terrible to him, burned him? I motioned with my eyes to the drawer where Olivia kept the whiteboard.

“Oh, sorry, of course, I’m having a one-sided conversation here.” She pulled out the board and slipped the pen into my hand. I wrote
How
.

“How what?” Olivia said. “How did I find out? I looked up his records in the office. Trust me, it wasn’t easy. The nurse—”

I motioned to the board again and Olivia stopped talking and placed it by my hand.
Burn
, I wrote.

“
How. Burn.
How was he burned? I don’t know, it didn’t say … or maybe I didn’t look close enough. Should I try to find out? You think this is connected somehow?”

I blinked yes. It had to be. It made no sense that I would be having these violent dreams about this guy; there had to be a connection.

I looked at the board again, and Olivia wiped it off for me.
Photo
, I wrote this time.

“You’re a genius,” she said, smiling and touching my shoulder. “There were pictures in his file, pretty gruesome stuff, but I’ll get you one. If you recognize him …” She shivered visibly. “Creepy, right?”

I blinked yes. She was on to something, I could feel it.

Olivia sighed and closed her eyes for a second, like she was thinking. “There’s something else. While I was in the office, I looked at your file, too.” She paused, her face revealing nothing. “Do you want to know?” I blinked yes, and she went on.

“It’s not good news, I’m warning you,” she said sadly, taking the pen from my hand and holding my fingers in hers. “It looks like this doctor, Dr. Louis, wants to do this experimental surgery on you, but …”

I waited for her to tell me the stuff I already knew: it was risky, my mom didn’t want to do it, I had to wait two weeks, what?

“No one seems to think it will work. According to the files, he’s done it on only a few patients, and I guess it hasn’t gone that well.” She looked down at my hand, like she was inspecting my fingers. “I guess a few people have died, too.”
When she looked up, I could tell she was genuinely sad for me. “I’m sorry.”

This wasn’t really news to me; I had gotten the feeling from Mom’s attitude that this wasn’t a hundred percent chance at recovery for me, but I guess I also hadn’t known my chances were so bad.

“I only had about two minutes to look at both files, but from what I saw in yours, the doctors here think you should go a more natural route, see what sensation comes back on its own, try getting by with the wheelchair for now. They think the surgery is radical, and the risks aren’t worth it.”

I looked to the board and she put the pen back in my hand. I wrote one word:
You
.

Olivia took in a deep breath. “What do I think?” she asked, and I blinked yes. “I don’t know, to be honest with you, about the medical care here, about the doctors. Heck, I don’t trust
any
doctors anymore, I’ve been in hospitals for so long.” She sighed. “I mean, is it so terrible to wait a month or two and see what happens? You haven’t been here that long.” She looked at me with a small smile. “If you wait a few months and you’re still like this, have the surgery. But what if they’re right, and things come back on their own?” I thought of how I felt the needle the last time Norris drew my blood, felt the cold sting of the alcohol wipe. It was coming back, but how much would return, and how quickly? And what if it didn’t?

She leaned in and pushed my hair back from my forehead, like Mom always did. For a second it seemed like she was going to kiss me, and the dream about her in bed with me flashed through my mind. Why was Olivia suddenly being so sweet to me? What had she seen in the file that made her feel so damn sorry for me? It was weird for her to come and see me at night, to sit on my bed instead of in a chair. Maybe the odds were worse than Mom told me; maybe there was a chance I would have the surgery and still be like this, stuck like this forever. No one had talked about that.

My paranoia began to set in, and it was as if she could feel me growing cold to her. “You know, I almost didn’t tell you this, but … if the tables were turned, if you knew something like this about me, I would want to know.” She paused to meet my eyes. “So I decided to tell you. You’re the only person who really gets it in here, so we’ve got to look out for each other.” Her words echoed in my head. Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing a few hours ago, that Olivia was the one person who got it? It was a glimmer of hope that she felt the same way about me.

Olivia leaned in to me, laying her head on my chest. “I can hear your heart beating,” she whispered, putting her arms around me. She snuggled in and let out a sigh, curling her body next to mine.

Allie always smelled a little like strawberries, like
outdoors. She told me it was just her shampoo, but she smelled like summer to me. Olivia was different. She wasn’t like a high-school girl. The way she moved her body close to mine made me feel I was grown up. She smelled like perfume, like a woman would wear, something musky and rich. I heard her breathing grow more quiet and regular and realized that she had fallen asleep, holding me, her long hair falling softly over my chest and onto the white sheets.

There’s blood on my hands. It’s up to my wrists, splattered on my arms. I look all over my legs, my stomach, my shirt, my pants. Where’s the cut? I can’t find it. It’s so much blood. I open my palms and see that the blood has dried into the creases, the lines of my fingers; in places it’s turning dark brown. But I’m not bleeding. I have no pain. It’s not my blood. I hear sirens in the distance and know I have to run. They can’t catch me. Running feels so good. I’m so powerful, there’s no way that they can catch me. I’m too smart for them. I’m moving like I have superpowers, off the sidewalk now and through a yard, over a stone wall in one leap, through the back of a parking lot. I’m down behind a car, breathing hard when I see myself, a reflection in the car’s windows. Something isn’t right, my hair is black.
I move to the side mirror on the car. It’s dark out, but the security light from the parking lot is bright enough to see my face in the mirror. It isn’t my face, it’s his face. I’m him. I’m him.

I was finally wide awake. After so many hazy days, so many drugs and half-awake moments, I was completely awake, aware. I could feel the roughness of the sheets under my skin, hear and sense everything, the sound of the machines next to me. How could I ever sleep with that sound going on? My mind was racing, realizing that I hadn’t seen my face since the accident that put me here. I was still me, wasn’t I? Who was I? I was West. West Spencer. Junior at Marshall High School. I have blond hair, green eyes. Hazel eyes according to my girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. That was all real.

But what if it wasn’t real.

Did I have black hair and brown eyes—was I covered in someone else’s blood? Had I done something terrible that no one could tell me about, that I couldn’t even admit to myself? What if this was a mental institution and I was completely insane? Could I have created a whole new personality? I had to see a mirror to be sure I was who I thought I was. Olivia could get me one. Because Olivia was real. She was just here with me. She must have gotten up and gone back to her room, before the nurse checks.

I focused back on visits from my mom, my dad, the doctors, nurses, Olivia, Mike, Allie. She broke my heart. That happened. I’m not imagining it. And Olivia, falling asleep with me, holding me. The way that felt. That was real. I just had a dream, a dream that I was actually someone else. But that’s not me. I didn’t do anything to anyone. I didn’t hurt anyone. That person, that man with dark hair, he is not me. I need to see a photo of the man who was in this room before me, and a mirror. But I know already: he is not me. I’m not him. Unless … but no.

I didn’t do anything. I would remember.

I was in an accident, at the bike course, on the ramp at the quarry. I know that happened. I tried to replay it in my mind, and it was foggy, but it happened. It did.

I tried to change the images in my head: the dark-haired guy, his bloody hands, that feeling of being so powerful and strong and invincible. It was a great feeling, like the way I felt on the bike when everything was going great, the way I felt when I was in my first race and knew I was going to place. I wanted that feeling, I craved it, I wanted to have it again. Like the night I met Allie and I knew she liked me back. The way I felt when Olivia was in my room last night, when I hadn’t seen her in a few days, how good it felt to just look at her face, how my heart started to beat and I felt alive. Everyone wants to feel that way. But not with bloody hands, not as someone else. Maybe I was just
having this dream because I missed feeling alive. Maybe it has nothing to do with that guy, or with the guy who stayed in this room before me. But I had a nagging feeling in my gut that it was connected, somehow.