My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 17

17

WHEN I CAME TO, the pain in my head was so intense I couldn't open my eyes. I lay on my back on the cold stone floor and tried to focus, but my brain wasn't ready to function. The side of my face rested in a gooey puddle and my shirt collar was wet and sticky. As I lifted my head, nausea settled over me. Holding my breath and waiting for it to pass, I remembered going to rehearsal, talking with Dad, and finding the reporters all gone when I got home. Had someone struck me as I came through the door?

The house was dark except for the silvery moonlight coming in the windows. The room spun around me as if I'd pulled a cheap drunk. I sat up drawing deep breaths to clear my head. My hair, shirt, and jacket were wet. I pressed a hand against the back of my head and found a lump at the base of my skull. The room seemed to wheel up on its side. I braced myself to keep from tipping over and vomited between my knees.

I was shaking, dizzy, and weak. I couldn't see. I had lost a lot of blood and I needed help. I dragged myself across the floor to the telephone and fumbled around the end table for it. It wasn't in the cradle and looking for it exhausted me. Falling back against the floor, I gasped for air.

"What did you do with the money?" a voice boomed out of the darkness.

I railed up onto my elbows. "Who's there?"

"You heard me." The voice had a thick New Jersey accent. "What did you do with the fuckin' money?"

My arms gave way and I sank back to the floor panting. My mind edged toward unconsciousness and my voice dropped to a whisper. "What money are you talking about?"

"The money you took from the girl you killed, asshole."

The room swirled and faded to gray. My head rocked from side to side. I tried to think. "I haven't killed anyone."

"The police think you did."

My pulse faded and my breathing slowed. I exhaled slowly. "The police are wrong."

Suddenly, I was floating a foot above the floor. I grabbed his wrists to steady myself and fought against the heightened urge to vomit again. His face came close to mine. He had a thick mustache, heavy eyebrows, and smelled of mineral spirits and bourbon.

"Don't...screw...with...me...man!" he shrieked, the knuckles of his fist bearing down into my chest. "The bitch stole one hundred fifty thousand dollars from me and I'm willing to bet you stole it from her. It's a lot of money, Baimbridge, but I don't think you want to die for it."

The room swirled as I dangled from his grip. "I have...no idea...what you're—" Vomit erupted from my throat interrupting my reply. He released me and as I slammed back against the stone floor, light flashed through my head and I sank into a pool of darkness.

I AWOKE TO A CONCERT of chickadees, robins, and a bright morning sun in my eyes. I tried to rise, but fell back when pain fired around my head. Memories of the previous night flooded through my mind like a dream.

I felt the sticky floor, rose to a sitting position, and discovered the blood and puke on the floor, and the open wound on the back of my head. The house had been ransacked. The nightmare had been real. I stripped out of my clothes, used them to clean up the floor, and left them in a pile. I fixed a pot of strong coffee and drank about half of it sitting naked and bloody by the windows. Mrs. Winslow pretended not to notice as she shook the dust out of her mop, but kept stealing glances in my direction.

After a hot shower, I got dressed, tossed the clothes in the laundry, and mopped the floor. By 8:30 a.m., my eyesight had pulled back together.

Picking up the phone, I got a dial tone, called the office, and told Lizzy I wouldn't be in until later. I took the bike to the emergency room at New Hanover Hospital where they put eleven stitches in my head and charged me nine hundred dollars.