Unexpected

Chapter 48

Mallory

A steady beep seeps into my consciousness. I'm cold . . . and sore. I feel like I weigh a thousand pounds. Even my eyelids are too heavy to lift. My tongue is like sand paper, and it takes so much effort to move it. The beeping has picked up speed now. A part of me wonders if it is somehow connected to me. I try once again to open my eyes to confirm it. I succeeded in opening them a tiny slit, but it's enough to cause pain to radiate across my scalp from the bright light, and I moan in agony.

"Mallory?!"

I hear my mother's anxious voice beside me now.

"John, go get the nurse!"

She grabs my cold hand with her warm one. Her warmth travels through me. It's comforting.

"Mallory, Momma's here, Sweetie. I love you." She chokes back a sob.

"Mom . . ." I manage to croak out in a voice that is unrecognizable to even my own ears. "It . . . hurts."

"What, baby? What hurts?"

"The light . . .

She eases her hand out of mine, making me long for the contact of her, but I soon realize why she left. The room quickly darkens with the close of some window blinds, and she returns to my side, grasping my hand once more.

"Is that better?" she questions softly.

I reattempt to open my eyes and find it much easier to do. The first thing I see is her tired face, the concern evident in her expression.

"Mom . . ."

"Yes, I'm here. It's going to be alright now."

She swipes at tears, trying to run down her cheeks. Then, a herd of people are entering the room. Doctors and nurses ask questions, poking and prodding me. I learned that I was placed in a medically induced coma due to having brain swelling from a head injury and that I supposedly died while in transport to the hospital but was revived by the EMS team. I remember nothing. My last memory is getting ready and feeling excited or scared about something. It's all so blurry, and I'm too tired to think too much about it right now. Once the hospital staff seems satisfied and leaves, my father takes a turn to hold my other hand.

"I'm so grateful to have you back, Peanut. You really scared us for a while there."

"What happened, Dad? I can't remember."

He looks at my mother, who seems hesitant to answer, but after taking a big deep breath, she does so anyway.

"You were attacked in your home. If it wasn't for your neighbor, you would have surely died," she states solemnly.

"Dane?" I question, and she nods.

"He's here in the waiting room. He hasn't left, refuses to," she adds.

"Why isn't he in here, with us?" I ask.

"Only family allowed in the ICU," my father clarifies.

"Can I see him? I . . . I want to thank him." I, suddenly, have this overwhelming desire to be with him. I NEED to see him. It feels urgent. A memory just out of my grasp, but I somehow know HE is the answer. "Please, go get him!" I say in a panic.

"Okay, okay. Calm down. We will ask and see."

They leave, and I sit anxiously listening to the ticking of a wall clock, and the annoying beep that I now know is me, or at least, the machines attached to me. It feels like an eternity passes. I stare at the doorway waiting, and then he appears. He is in shadow with the light from the hallway behind him, but I know it's him instinctively. He pauses before entering the room, as if he's afraid to come any closer.

"Please, come in. I can't see you . . . and I need to see you."

Slowly, he comes closer, and I then see his red-rimmed eyes. I reach my hand out towards him, silently begging him to come near. He gently grabs my hand and sits down on the bed facing me.

"I thought I lost you," he whispers.

"I'm told you saved me," I counter.

"Do you remember any of it?" he asks worriedly.

"No, nothing."

"That's probably a good thing. I wish I could forget."

"Who was it?"

He pauses debating if he should answer but then goes ahead.

"Your ex, Josh."

I lean my head back onto my pillow, willing myself to remember, but nothing comes. Just this feeling of something important, something I was about to do . . .

"Why did you come over that night?"

He looks surprised and then sad.

"You don't remember even that?"

I shake my head no with an apologetic frown.

"You invited me to come over for dinner."

"But there is more . . . I can feel it . . ." I say, becoming more frustrated.

"You said you wanted to talk to me in private, but I'm not sure what it was going to be about. We hadn't really been speaking to each other a whole lot. I was hoping that maybe that was about to change."

He looks me in the eyes, and I look deeply into his. Then I feel the revelation rising up out of the mist of my memories. I remember why I was so anxious. Why I desperately needed to see him. It feels me with warmth, a certainty of the rightness of it.

"I remember now," I say, amazed.

He looks back up at me from previously watching our hands and how I had intertwined our fingers as my memory came to the surface. My eyes roam his handsome face, and the feeling is so strong, no more doubt. I see the gift he is offering me . . . I only have to accept it.

"I know why I invited you to dinner," I state confidently. Then I helplessly, hopelessly, and maybe even recklessly say, "I needed to tell you that . . . I love you."

THE END