Ride by Cary Brothers has been the one song I've played most often while writing this series. The perfect moment appeared and I had to include it, though I didn't use the lyrics. I think of it as Sean and Ana's song—at least for where they've come to so far. Sometimes I imagine Sean's voice sounds similar to Cary's: soulful, passionate and intimate.
* * * * * * *
Thursday, December 7th 2006, 10:10 p.m.
"Y
ou forgot to list your emergency contact," the nurse huffed while he handed the clipboard back to Ana.
She hadn't forgotten. But the fittingly tart comeback ready to correct his assumption never left her mouth. She carefully let go of her left arm and fought to breathe through the grinding spasms. Her arm would fall off soon, she was sure of it. The freakish sight of her limb hanging awkwardly from her shoulder made her empty stomach revolt. An invisible spike dug deep into the back of her head when she looked away too quickly and took the clipboard.
Should she have filled in the allotted the spaces?
Sean would certainly come to the Emergency Room if she called.
Well, it's not like he'd have much choice. Do you really think he'd say: "sorry, can't make it"? And what makes you think he'll even pick up the phone this time?
Sean would come. Ana knew he would. But did she want to drag him down here, forced to leave his anger simmering on the backburner while he sat around waiting for Lord knows how long? Would he feel cornered or slightly manipulated?
Just let me fucking be. I can't look at you right now.
Ana winced and the spike dug in hard again. She fumbled with the pen and studied the blank boxes on the patient information form. Thankfully her right arm hadn't been hurt or she wouldn't have been able to fill it out. Her left arm felt like it had been ripped away from her body, leaving her with a sensation of carrying a dead weight. She offered the clipboard to the nurse.
"There isn't anyone," she whispered through the pain vibrating along the entire length of the left side of her back. It hurt to talk, to breathe and to even sit in this wheelchair. She shivered; her tank top and track pants were no match for the artic temperature. She looked around the familiar waiting lounge and wished she could blink herself away to somewhere else. Anywhere but this particular hospital.
The nurse's face softened. But Ana didn't want his pity. She just wanted someone to fix her arm and whatever else was broken and make the pain go away.
"Are you sure?"
Reason intervened. She only had her keys and a broken cell phone in her pocket—no money for the cab fare back home. "Wait," she croaked, feeling even more defeated.
* * * * *
The abrupt clatter sliced through the haze blanketing Ana's mind. The medication acted as a buffer between the pain and her awareness of it, leaving her slightly numb and disconnected from her body. She concentrated all her effort on opening her eyes and followed the soft thuds coming from the kitchen. The corners of her mouth quirked, despite the bruising physical and emotional plummet she'd taken today.
Simon's sheepish, brown eyes met hers and her mouth stretched into a smile. They shared the deepest, most profound bond humans could have, yet watching Simon Garret move around her kitchen was akin to watching an alien invasion play out from the comfort—well, the dulled discomfort—of her couch.
Anastudied him as he left the kitchen and set a saucer on the coffee table. He carefully placed a cup of Blueberry Bliss in her right hand. She inhaled the berry scent while curly steam ribbons floated up. If only Blueberry Bliss lived up to the second part of its name. If only a cup of tea had the power to magically undo the past—she looked at the DVD player—eh, day, she rounded off. Math skills were overrated when the remnants of morphine laced her blood.
The pedestal of books under the Guan Yin figurine drew Simon's attention.
"
The Prophet
," he read out loud.
"My mom gave it to me," Ana explained after the liquid slid down to warm her chest. She normally wouldn't have thought such a tiny, personal detail about her life interested Simon but he had been so...kind and attentive. And well, she wanted to fill the space with some sort of meaningful conversation lest they fall back into the reserved way they danced around each other. It must be the meds because it felt bizarre speaking about her mother to Simon when he knew the woman partially responsible for her existence.
In the laws of nature, he was her parent yet this was his first time in her home. He appeared curiously new among her familiar knick-knacks and furnishings. Ana found herself staring at him as she often did, scanning and cataloguing the traits she'd inherited from the forty-something man with tawny blond hair and deep set cognac-brown eyes. She'd gotten wavy curls, eye color, height and a dimple from him.
"I remember you quoting a few lines from
On Love
on the forum," His brown eyes twinkled with dark humor as his dimples creased the rough cut sides of his handsome face. The black shirt, rolled at the cuff, and trousers contrasted his unexpected playfulness.
His focus dropped to the shelf littered with artfully arranged silver frames. Ana knew when the dimples vanished he'd found the one of Sean and her taken after a Wired for Sound gig. Simon made the connection between the book and the photo instantly. If only it had taken her minutes instead of months to uncover the story linking the two seemingly random objects that meant so much to her. She doubted she'd have gone out with Sean if she'd known then. And she would have gone about her life not knowing how much she'd missed out on.