Lane
Lane hovered in the doorway of Hannah’s hospital room, clutching the vase of flowers she’d just purchased at the gift shop. She hated hospitals. She’d been too preoccupied last night to register it, too worried about her friend to connect the dots back to the day she’d opened her eyes in a room like this one, cold and dim and unnaturally quiet, but today the reminders were everywhere. Every smell seemed to hold a memory, every memory to hold a knife. Time might have blunted the loss of her unborn child, but it hadn’t erased the days and weeks that came after, when the loss and the emptiness had threatened to swallow her.
There was always an aftermath after an accident, a putting-back-together of lost and broken pieces, the physical ones, and the not so physical. Hannah would have her own aftermath soon, when the bruises faded and the stitches came out, the uncomfortable reckoning of past and present, the unwelcome reentry into the life she had tried so desperately to leave behind.
And she was to blame. Michael was right about that, at least.
None of this would be happening if she hadn’t poked her nose where it didn’t belong. Hannah wouldn’t be lying on a hospital bed with a black eye, a dislocated shoulder, and a three-inch gash across her forehead. She’d still be Mary, Starry Point’s harmless old bag lady. Now, thanks to Lane, she could never go back. She had pushed so hard for a happy ending that she had endangered Hannah, and had driven Michael away in the process.
So much for fairy tales.
Forcing her feet to move, she stepped into the room’s gloomy interior, looking for somewhere to deposit her gift shop flowers, settling finally on the empty meal tray against the wall. She was rearranging a few bedraggled blooms when she heard a faint rustle behind her.
She was startled to find Hannah’s eyes on her when she turned, dazed and full of questions. She’d been hoping for more time to prepare, to school herself on what she should and shouldn’t say. Instead, she pasted on a smile and stepped to Hannah’s bedside.
It was all she could do to keep her face from betraying her as she surveyed the damage. She looked so vulnerable, so broken and pale, her lower lip split and swollen, the bruise on her cheek now the color of a ripe eggplant.
“You’re awake,” Lane said thickly. “Does it hurt very much?”
Hannah’s head moved back and forth on the pillow, but her wince gave her away. “Headache,” she mumbled. “And I can’t . . . move my arm.”
“You dislocated it in the accident,” Lane explained, realizing sheepishly that she was speaking rather loudly, which might prove helpful for a patient who’d lost her hearing, but was probably less so for one suffering from a concussion and a fractured skull. Lowering her voice, she tried again. “Do you need anything? Would you like me to buzz for a nurse?”
Hannah shook her head again, then lifted a hand to her forehead, prodding at the bandage there. Her eyes met Lane’s questioningly.
“They had to stitch you up. The doctor says you were very lucky. Do you . . . can you remember what happened?”
“The car,” Hannah said haltingly. “I didn’t see it.”
Lane’s throat tightened with a combination of guilt and relief. Not on purpose, then. “It was my fault. I should never have . . . I only meant . . . I’m so sorry.”
Hannah patted the sheets in protest. “Here, now. Stop that. I was the one running away, wasn’t I?”
“But I was the one who made you run, the one who made you remember Hannah.”
“Come, my girl. Surely you know I’ve never forgotten her. No matter . . . how I pretended, she’s been here all along.” There were tears in her eyes now, spilling past her pale lashes and onto her cheeks. “I need you to know what happened that night. I need someone . . . to know.”
“We can talk about that later. Right now you need to rest, and heal.”
“No!” Hannah said with surprising heat. “Someone has to know that I never meant to harm my boy . . . that I loved him.”
Lane briefly contemplated slipping down to the nurses’ station, asking them to give her something, but the ache in Hannah’s eyes told her it wouldn’t matter how many times they sedated her. She would come to, still needing to tell her story.
“Hannah, please. The doctor says you need to stay calm. If I promise to listen, will you promise to stay calm?”
Hannah nodded with visible relief. “Pull the chair close.”
Lane did as she was told, dragging the blue vinyl armchair up beside the bed. She was barely seated when Hannah began to speak.
“The night of the fire . . . I had taken some pills.”
“Yes,” Lane said. “And washed them down with a lot of scotch.”
“I thought that would do it. Neat and quiet this time. No blood.”
Lane suppressed a shudder but let her go on.
“Something woke me. The pills—I couldn’t get my bearings. I smelled smoke, could even taste it. Then I remembered the candle. There was a storm that night. I never would have taken the pills if I’d known a storm was coming. Peter was afraid of storms. He begged me to stay with him, to read to him. I went down and made some chocolate to help him sleep.” She paused, smiling sadly. “I used to float animal crackers on top instead of marshmallows. Evan liked the lions best, but Peter liked the elephants.”
Lane stared down at her hands, not sure whether to smile or cry. It all sounded so normal, so mother of the year. How could such a lovely scene have gone so terribly wrong?
Hannah’s eyes were clearer now, though strangely lit, and not focused on Lane at all. Her voice was chillingly detached. “I had only gone two pages when the lights went out. Poor Peter. He was so scared. I lit a candle and kept going, but it was hard. The pills were starting to work, and the words were sliding all over the page. I opened the window next to the bed to let in some air to keep me awake . . . until I could get Peter to sleep. I don’t remember leaving his room, but when I woke I was on the bathroom floor . . . covered with vomit. I could hardly see for the smoke.”
Instinctively, Lane reached for her hand. Hannah seemed not to notice.
“I had forgotten the candle.” The tears were coming faster now, her words sticking in her throat. “They say the drapes caught. By the time I realized Peter was crying for me, it was too late. I tried . . . I couldn’t . . . the smoke was everywhere, but I couldn’t stay on my feet.” Her eyes froze open then, glazed with the horror of what she had seen that night. “I was trying to get to him when Evan came . . . I don’t know where he came from. He was always running off, always hiding somewhere.”
The greenhouse. He was out in the greenhouse, wishing on a flower.
Lane closed her eyes, waiting. There was nothing to do now but let her finish.
“The stairs were already burning. He wouldn’t let me go to Peter. He grabbed me and . . . dragged me down the stairs. He was on his way back up again when the stairs gave way. It was days before anyone would tell me if he was alive or dead. I . . . never saw him again.”
Lane stood abruptly. Knowing what she did, she found it impossible to endure another word while sitting down. A son lost, another burned, scarred because their mother had tried to take her own life. The surviving son racked with guilt, for the brother he couldn’t save, and the mother he couldn’t forgive. She’d seen the scars with her own eyes, even had a vague idea of how he’d earned them, but until now she hadn’t truly grasped just how deep those scars ran. Not just for the son, but for the mother as well.
“You must miss him terribly,” was all Lane could trust herself to say.
Hannah’s eyes fluttered closed, her breath coming in short, hiccupping bursts. “They took him . . . the gray birds and that judge. And they put him up in your tower, way up high where no one could get at him. And then they . . . gave him away.”
Lane looked away, but there was nothing else to focus on, no way to sidestep Hannah’s anguish. She thought about the brand of desperation required to wash down a handful of pills while your children slept in the next room. She was beginning to see why Hannah had chosen to become someone else.
“I didn’t know,” Hannah choked out. “If I had I never would have . . .” Her voice trailed away as she reached for Lane’s hand. “Can you forgive me?”
Startled, Lane sank back into her chair. “It isn’t my place to forgive you, Hannah. It’s yours. And it’s time.”
Hannah sighed, letting her head loll against the pillows. “You’re all I have, my girl. Please, just once, before I leave this world . . . I need to hear someone say it.”
Lane hesitated. She was neither eager nor qualified to grant this woman absolution, especially for something that had clearly been beyond her control. And yet her eyes were so desperate, so full of tears and grief.
“Yes, Hannah. I forgive you.”
Hannah’s face softened as she relaxed against her pillows, but the moment was broken when a slender brunette in purple scrubs bustled in with a plastic rack lined with collection vials.
“She’s awake,” the woman said brightly, aiming the observation at Lane. “How is she?”
“I think she’s in some pain, but she’s been talking.”
“I’ll stop by the nurses’ station and let them know. It’s probably time for some more good stuff. But first I need to take a few vials of blood. Won’t take me a minute. Hannah, honey, can I borrow your arm?”
Lane stood, sidling discreetly toward the door. “I’m just going to slip out for some coffee while you do your thing.”
“Sure. No prob. I’ll be out of your hair in two shakes.”
In the cafeteria, Lane bought a cup of coffee and a bagel, then headed back to the gift shop, where she selected an armload of magazines and the only two paperbacks whose covers didn’t boast an expanse of rippling abs.
Leaving the shop, she paused to dig her cell out of her purse. Against her better judgment, she dialed the inn. She didn’t expect him to answer—he was probably already gone—but she had to at least try. After eight rings she gave up and tried his cell. It went straight to voice mail. She imagined him recognizing her and hitting IGNORE CALL, and felt her throat tighten.
She really was pathetic.
Hannah was dozing when she stepped back into the room. Lane stacked the books and magazines within arm’s reach on the bedside table, chose one for herself, then tiptoed back to her chair. After a few minutes she closed the Christmas issue of Coastal Living, opting for a catnap instead.
She had just begun to drift off when something made her open her eyes, not a sound exactly, as much as an awareness that she was no longer alone with Hannah. She was expecting to see a nurse when she opened her eyes, or even Dr. Ashton. Instead, Michael hovered in the doorway, shoulders squared, legs wide apart—a man prepared to do battle.