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“He…was wearing…” I tried to explain, but I couldn’t remember, and every word I spoke, every movement I made only aggravated the pain, which stole that much more of my memory away. “His hair…brown…he was wearing—ahh!” I gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut until the pain passed.
“Please,” she said, her hand on my forehead. “Don’t move; just lie still.”
“Where is Atticus?! Tell me where—.” My head dizzied suddenly, and a cool sensation rushed through my arm as if there was ice in my veins, and in an instant, I was no longer afraid for Atticus. I smiled thinking about him as the drug worked its way through my bloodstream and settled in my brain.
“Where…where am I?” I asked instead.
“You’re in Shreveport,” the woman answered. “You’re safe.”
I could feel my face still smiling, accompanied by a tingling sensation.
“Did you…hear that, Atticus? We’re in Shreveport. We finally…made it. Atticus…we…” My eyes glazed over, and the last face I saw was the woman’s hovering over me.
72
THAIS
One week later…
I opened my eyes to sunlight and silence. The air in the room was neither cool nor warm, but perfect. The blanket that covered me from the waist down was soft against my body, and a fluffy pillow lay beneath my head. I was dressed in a sleeveless, white cotton nightgown; my hair had been washed and brushed so it lay like silk against my bare shoulders, and I smelled lightly of citrus shampoo and soap and lotion; my breath tasted of toothpaste, or mouthwash.
Aside from the few bandages and stitches, the only thing that made me uncomfortable was the IV in the bend of my arm. A little tube attached to a needle sitting in my vein ran along the edge of the bed into a clear plastic bag that hung from a hook above me. It was close to empty, I noticed. I touched the needle over the white tape and square of gauze that covered it, pressed my index finger against it until it hurt, and decided then that I was awake and very much alive.
On the other side of the cozy, spacious room was a tall, glass double-door that led out onto a balcony. The sky framed by the glass was mid-morning-blue unaccompanied by clouds, and fringed by the tops of buildings made of sparkling glass and shiny metal that reflected the sun.
And then it hit me, something clicked inside my brain and I suddenly remembered everything. I knew where I was.
“Shreveport…”
My mind raced as I sat up, with difficulty, in the center of the hospital bed, and my hands grasped the metal rails attached to the left side. I remembered what had happened in the field; flashes of Atticus carrying me in his arms, and of Marion, and of the scowling girl standing over me, went through my mind; I remembered hearing the shot; I remembered the gun Ona had given me, in my hand, so heavy it was, that even now I could still feel the weight of it. I remembered Atticus lying next to me, the way he struggled to touch me, and I remembered everything he said to me as we lay there dying.
“Everything under the sun…” I whispered to myself, and then said into the empty room as though he were with me: “We can change the world together, Atticus.”
And I remembered telling him that we’d made it, that we were finally home, in Shreveport, and I smiled thinking about him, and I ignored the strange feeling in my heart that threatened to destroy what was left of me, a lie, digging, burrowing inside my brain like an insect—I knew it was there, I could feel it, but I ignored it.
The door to the room opened, and I turned to see a familiar woman entering with a tray of food balanced on her hands.
“It’s time you get some solid food in that body,” the woman said. She walked over and set the tray down on a tall, wheeled table next to my bed. “You need to eat now more than ever.”
Absently, I glanced down at my ninety-something-pound body. I never looked at the food. I didn’t care about the food because disbelief was a powerful influence that exhausted my will to care about anything.
The woman—she had rescued me from the field—changed out my IV bag, and she checked my IV needle, and then my stitches and bandages, and she flashed a tiny light into my eyes and my ears and my mouth, and she took my temperature, and she listened to my heartbeat and my lungs with a stethoscope.
“You’re miraculously healthy for someone who’s been through what you’ve been through,” said the woman, presumably a doctor. “Except for the malnourishment, of course. The IV fluids have helped considerably, but you need to eat.”
The doctor pushed a button on the side of the bed and it raised behind me so I could sit in an upright position. I let her move the blanket down to my thighs, and lift my gown so she could examine the gunshot wound in my midsection.
“God was looking out for you,” she said, touching the tender skin around the wound close to my pelvic bone.
I looked up, almost commented about God in a way that Atticus might’ve, but I stopped myself. Disbelief was a sweet lie I wanted to taste a little while longer.
The doctor shuffled my gown back into place, and then pulled the blanket back to my waist. She moved around the bed and turned the wheeled tray so it suspended over my lap. Still, I did not look at the food.
“We’re in Shreveport?” I wanted to be sure.
After hesitation, the doctor nodded. “Yes,” she said, and smiled faintly. “You’re in the Southern Faction, led by the noblest man I know: Gordon Brant.” She blushed. “We’re getting married in a month.”
I forced a weak smile, but said nothing. Married…
