Chapter 29 Ella

Chapter 29

Ella

When I wake again, it's not as loud. Not as violent. My mind is groggy, my eyelids heavy, as I allow my surroundings to take physical form. It feels like there are lemon peels over my eyes as I pry them open, one at a time.

I hear the beeping noise again.

Sunlight from my dreams mutates into brassy, artificial light and a white sheet stares down on me. As my eyes slowly crack open, I blink away the thick film, ceiling panels taking shape from above. I'm in a room, lying on my back. I move my fingers. Wiggle my toes. Noise sounds muffled as it seeps in from behind a…curtain.

I stare at it. It's cornflower blue, fluttering gently when shapes sweep past it on the other side.

I'm in a hospital bed.

There's a powder-white blanket pulled up to my chest and an assortment of IVs and needles attached to my body. When I splay my fingers on my right hand, a piece of tape stretches my skin. My mouth is dry, my muscles stiff, and the back of my head itches.

I've hardly registered my surroundings when a head of raven hair pokes through the curtain. "Miss Ella," says a soft voice. "I'm Naomi, one of your nurses."

I blink at her, taking in her big, braided bun and rose-stained lips. Purple eyeglasses rest on the bridge of her ebony nose as she steps farther into the room.

She smiles warmly. "It's so good to see those eyes of yours open. How are you feeling? Can you understand me?" Naomi glides over to me, adjusting the bed to make me more comfortable.

"I understand you," I reply, my voice raspy, barely audible. "What happened?"

"You're in the hospital. What do you remember?"

I close my eyes. My mind is a blank canvas, my urge to recall is the brushes and paint. Images drag across my memory as I lift my paintbrush and watch colors brim to life in careful strokes.

Orange.

Spatters of orange flicker across a night sky.

I'm staring up at shimmery streaks of light as loud booms echo through the darkness and mingle with far-off cheers.

"Fireworks," I murmur, my eyes still closed. "I remember fireworks."

"That's good, Miss Ella," Naomi responds, pulling a chair closer and sitting beside the bed. "You've been here for a while. Do you remember what happened before you got here?"

I pull from the deepest parts of my brain, but everything is a blurry cloud. Orange fireworks…and then darkness. "It all goes blank after that," I whisper.

"That's okay. Memories can take hours or days to return. Sometimes longer," she explains. "Do you remember anything before the fireworks?"

My breath hitches.

A kiss .

I remember kissing a beautiful boy. My back against a door, my hands in his hair. Pale blue eyes look hungry and adoring as he pulls back and smiles at me like I'm his truest treasure.

"Kissing you feels like catching the sun."

I exhale slowly. "A kiss," I tell her. "I think I'm in my room. I hear…Christmas music."

Naomi nods, assessing my vitals. "You were found at the bottom of a steep bluff. You took a hard fall," she says. "Some tree branches slowed you down and lessened the impact, making you a very lucky girl. That type of fall could have been a lot worse."

"How long have I been here?"

Her eyes soften with sympathy. "Four weeks."

A stab of panic slices through my chest.

Four weeks.

Four. Weeks.

Naomi presses a hand to my shoulder and squeezes gently. "I'll send the doctor in shortly. There's a lot to go over. We're going to prohibit visitors for a while as we monitor your condition. The first time you woke up, you were highly agitated, so we had to sedate you."

Four weeks.

It's all I can hear.

All I can process.

Tears burn my eyes as my body starts to tremble. "M-my mom…is she here?" I ask, voice quivering.

"She is. She's in the waiting room with your boyfriend. They've been here every day."

My boyfriend.

"Kissing you feels like catching the sun."

The tears fall as I shake my head back and forth and lift both hands to my hair. Cords tangle as the beeps on my machine quicken with urgency. When I sweep my hair back, I notice that it's not all there. Anxiety pokes me as I touch along the back of my head and hardly feel anything.

Half an inch of hair at most.

"My hair…" I croak, more panic taking over. "Where's my hair?"

Naomi stands to tinker with the machine. "Yes, honey. They had to shave the back of your head to perform surgery. It will grow back. You look beautiful."

I start to sob. "No…no."

"It's all right. You rest now. When you wake up, the doctor will be here to talk to you."

"No, please. I want… I need to…"

"It's okay. Just rest."

Her voice sounds far away as I tilt my head and stare out the window, everything fogging. A peaceful feeling reaches for me, eager to steal me away.

Before I black out, my eyes settle on the bedside table.

Orange roses. Red roses. Pink roses.

And beside them sits a tiny terra-cotta pot with an orange crayon sticking out of the dirt.

Memories trickle into my mind of a boy climbing through my window. Carrying me from the lake. Dancing with me, holding me, kissing me on an old bridge.

" Stay ," he says.

I reach for him.

I can't let him go.

"Max," I whisper as the world fades out.

***

There's a man in my room. The sunlight that was streaming in through the window has now been replaced with a pane of black. Even the fluorescent lights overhead have dimmed, telling me it's nighttime.

I pick at the scratchy bedcovers and lift my eyes to the figure standing over me.

"Hello, Ella. I'm Dr. Garcia, the neurologist overseeing your care." The doctor hovers near my bedside with a clipboard in his hand, donning a crisp-white set of scrubs. Bushy eyebrows pinch together as he studies me. "I'm sure you have many questions, so I'll start with your injuries and the treatment you've received over the past four weeks."

Four weeks .

I still can't believe it.

I've been in and out of consciousness for two days now.

Processing. Remembering.

Simmering in those memories.

Pieces have settled into place, one by one, hour by hour.

For a while, I was caught between dreams and reality. Fiction and truth. At one point, I swore I saw Jonah sitting at my bedside telling me I was going to be okay. But then I drifted again, and when I awoke, I was alone. It had only been a dream.

I squeeze the little white stone in my hand, the one that was placed next to the terra-cotta pot. "Okay," I respond in a rasp-laced voice. "Go ahead."

The doctor with tan skin and inky hair pauses as he stares at me, assessing my reaction. "You've been through a lot, young lady. When you were brought in, it was clear you had sustained a traumatic injury that caused significant swelling in your brain after a hard fall," he explains, monitoring my micro-expressions for any sign of stress. "We had to perform an occipital craniotomy. This surgery involves temporarily removing a part of your skull to allow the brain to swell without causing further damage. The piece was replaced once the swelling subsided."

What?

My eyes ping wider and I can't breathe.

The thought of my skull being removed and my brain being jabbed and prodded has nausea swirling in my gut. I try to keep my face impassive but my bottom lip quivers as I cling to the stone.

Dr. Garcia offers a reassuring smile, leaning over and pressing his hand to my bicep. "Your skull has been fully repaired now and you responded well to the surgery. You've also had multiple CT scans to monitor your brain's condition. As for your other injuries," he continues, "you suffered a fractured pelvis and a dislocated hip. You also broke a couple of ribs. You're very lucky you didn't puncture a lung." He takes a deep breath, his brown eyes warm as they skim my face. "The coma was induced initially due to the swelling in your brain. Your body then took over, keeping you in a natural coma for the remainder of the time, allowing it to heal. The good news is your other injuries have been recovering nicely. In a few more weeks, we'll transfer you to a rehabilitation facility."

I inhale a frayed breath. "I'm not…paralyzed?" I choke. It's clear that I'm not by the way my legs wriggle underneath the covers, but the notion still fills me with panic and dread.

"No, not at all," he says. "Your spine was remarkably unimpaired, save for bumps and bruises that have since healed. You can thank some tree branches and a patch of heavily weeded undergrowth for cushioning your fall."

He pauses, blinking down at me. "In terms of prognosis, every brain injury is unique. While we are hopeful given your current progress, there might be challenges ahead. You'll require physical therapy for your hip and pelvis, and possibly some occupational and speech therapy. As for cognitive or emotional changes, they can vary. Memory issues, mood fluctuations, and trouble with concentration are not uncommon. How are you feeling right now?"

Physically, it feels like I took a frying pan to the back of my head and I'm chewing on a wad of cotton balls. And mentally…

"Confused," I murmur. "Scared. Tired."

"That's perfectly normal," he says. "You've been through a lot. I'd like to ask you a few questions to understand your cognitive state. Would that be all right?"

Anxiety seeps inside me, but I swallow through a slow nod.

"Can you tell me your full name?"

"Ella Rose Sunbury."

"And your mother's name?"

"Candice. Candice Sunbury."

"Good. What's the last date you remember?"

Fireworks and sparklers flicker through my mind.

A pink party dress. Music, laughter, noise.

"December thirty-first. New Year's Eve."

He jots down some notes. "It's currently February first. Do you recall any of the events leading up to your fall?"

I hesitate, drinking in a shaky breath. "I remember…going for a walk. I wanted a better view of the fireworks and…the party was loud. Crowded. I don't like parties, but I wanted to spend the night with my friend. She was going through a hard time." I swallow down more grit. "I wandered up to the bluffs a little before midnight. And…I tripped. That's the last thing I remember."

"Your blood results showed no alcohol in your system. No drugs. You were clean."

I nod. "I don't drink or do drugs."

"Was there anybody with you?"

My eyes slam shut as I pretend to recall the moment.

But I don't need to pretend.

The final pieces rushed back to me as I drifted awake an hour ago, my chest on fire, my stomach in knots, and my heart in pulpy fragments.

"Christ, hold still! Stop running!"

"Stop it, stop it! Help me!"

"No. I was alone," I lie.

"That's okay. Don't push yourself too hard," he assures me. "We can circle back when your mind is clearer."

"We don't have to. That's all I remember. I was alone when I fell."

Dr. Garcia studies me, folding one arm across his white scrubs while the clipboard dangles in his opposite hand. "There was a bruise on your cheek that wasn't consistent with the fall. It looked like a fresh impact, possibly from a hand or an object. Do you remember how you got that?"

Instinct has my fingertips lifting and coasting across my left cheekbone.

"Shut. Up!" he hisses.

My heart rate spikes as cold sweat forms on my brow. Memories flood me, but I push them down, trying to keep my face neutral. "I–I don't know. I can't remember. Maybe I bumped into someone at the party? Everything is a little hazy."

The doctor raises an eyebrow, not entirely convinced but not pressing further. "All right. Well, it's important for us to understand the events leading up to the fall, not just for medical reasons but for your safety as well. A detective will be stopping by with further questions as soon as you're ready."

"There's nothing else," I insist weakly. "I fell."

His smile is tight. "Do you feel ready for visitors? Your mother and your boyfriend are in the waiting room. If you prefer to rest, I'll let them know."

I think about my mother trudging through the past four weeks, sitting in a waiting room chair, uncertain of my prognosis. Unsure if I would ever wake up. Not knowing whether or not she would be living the rest of her life alone, with both of her children cruelly taken from her.

I roll the stone between my thumb and fingers and nod. "Can you bring them in one at a time? I'd like to see my mother first," I tell him.

"Of course. I'll send her in."

He walks out through the blue curtain and my mother rushes into the room two minutes later.

"Oh, Ella." She stops in place, her hand shooting to her mouth to hold in the cry. "My God…"

"Mom," I murmur.

For as distant as we've been over the past few years, somehow it feels like there is no distance at all. Only the few feet between us that she quickly erases when she dashes to my bedside and falls to her knees, taking my stone-clasped hand in both of hers. She kisses my knuckles, her tears falling freely. "My baby girl," she croaks out, forehead resting on our joined palms.

I haven't heard her call me that since I was fourteen. The nickname has my own tears escaping in warm rivulets down my cheeks.

We spend the next few minutes crying quietly, taking in the moment. Taking in all the moments missed over the last month. When my mother finally stands and drags over a chair, she gazes upon me like I've been brought back from the dead. Almost like I'm lying in a gold-encrusted coffin, sprinkled with floral arrangements, and then my eyes snap open.

I'm still alive. Please don't bury me.

Mom fills me in on the prior four weeks of lost time, informing me of my grandmother's ailing health, her own leave of absence from work, and the investigation into my mysterious fall.

She asks me what I remember.

I lie to her.

I don't know why I'm holding on to my memories. I've always prided myself on being honest and forthcoming. My rational voice says I should be shouting it from the rooftops.

It was McKay. McKay Manning attacked me in a drunken rage and let me fall to a presumed death. He could have caught me, grabbed me, pulled me back. But all he did was watch. He knew that a dead person was a silent person, and his secret would be safe.

His inaction was a silent assassination.

Just as my silence now betrays the truth.

But that truth catches in the back of my throat like an acidic knot. Pieces claw their way up, then die out on my tongue. I curse my own cowardice and squeeze the stone clutched in my hand, only half listening to my mother's voice as she drones on.

As time ticks by, Mom leans back in the chair and sweeps trembling fingers through her hair. She fidgets, her eyes panning around the room before settling back on me. Her usual bouncy curls hang flat and listless as they tease her shoulders, while her gaze gleams with trapped words.

"Ella…sweetheart," she says, her face a mess of tears and hesitation.

I blink at her, my chest tightening.

Squeezing my wrist, Mom presses her lips together and exhales through her nose. "There's something else. There's something you should know."

"What?" I whisper, anxiety prickling the back of my neck.

"I…" Her lips part but no more words leak out. Seconds sweep by. Wobbly, unsettled heartbeats.

Then she shakes her head, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. "Nothing, honey. I'll send Max in. He's dying to see you."

"No, wait. What were you going to say?"

She strains a smile, still shaking her head. "We'll talk when you're feeling better."

"I'm fine. I'm feeling fine." I reach for her hand as she scoots the chair back, preparing to leave. "Mom, please."

"It's okay, Ella. We'll talk later." Pulling free of my grip, she stands from her seat.

My throat burns as I watch her walk out of the room. She sends me a quick, nervous smile over her shoulder before the curtains flutter closed behind her.

It's the fall.

Everyone thinks I was pushed off that cliff…and God , how I wish it was some random bully from school who had been there. I wish Andy or Heath had been the one to have pried my legs apart, held me down, beaten and bruised me, then left me for dead at the bottom of the bluffs.

It would be so much easier.

I'm still swallowing down the true events when the curtain swings open again and my heart stutters, the beats tangling. I hear him before I see him. I hear the sound he makes.

A groan.

A tortured, audible groan of pain and relief.

My eyes close briefly as I suck in a breath, and then I open them, trailing my gaze up his denim-clad legs to his forest-green T-shirt before landing on his face. Weeks' worth of scruff lines his jaw. His eyes are rimmed with dark circles and his hair has grown out, making him look even more like McKay.

Our eyes lock. Our breaths hold.

Max stands at the foot of my bed, his expression painted in pure torment as he holds my orange backpack in one of his hands. He sets it down, his fists balling to stones. His balance teeters as he fights back tears. "Ella," he says softly.

I stare at him, not knowing what to say. I should tell him that he never left my mind for four weeks. He was there in every dream, in every haze-drenched reverie, refusing to let me forget. Refusing to let me go. Calling me back home.

My dry lips part to utter a single word. "Hi."

If he was searching for more, he doesn't say it. The lone syllable is enough to carry him toward me, his dark brows pinched together and his jaw tight with emotion. Max inches himself beside me on the bed with equal parts gentleness and urgency. He's careful of my cords and needles, yet desperate for my touch. I stiffen at first, the guilt of my secret keeping me guarded and sealed up tight. But when his hand lifts up to cup my cheek and his fingers tilt my face toward his, my tension deflates like a popped balloon.

Icy-blue eyes gaze back at me. And not icy like the cold dread trickling through me, but crystalline and clear. A peaceful lake on a winter morning. "Sunny," he says, dragging two fingers down my cheek with a featherlight touch that makes me tremble. "You remember me, right?"

I dip my chin, finding it hard to look at him. "Of course I do."

"Every time you woke up, you were afraid of me. You'd look right at me, but it was like you were looking at someone else," he says. "They kept having to sedate you."

"I want to know what my brother sees in you."

"Knock it off, Ella. Fuck…just hold still!"

Hot pressure burns behind my eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't remember that."

Max tips my chin up with his finger but my eyes remain squeezed shut. "The doctors were worried about amnesia." When my eyes still don't open, he drags his thumb along my damp cheekbone. "Hey…look at me, Ella. It's okay."

Goose bumps pimple along my skin at his touch. My body wants me to curl into him, inhale his scent, and kiss him until I can't breathe, but my muddled mind has me slamming on the brakes.

I shake my head a little.

"You're safe with me." His voice sounds pleading.

"I know, I just… It's a lot." Sniffling, I allow my eyes to slide open, revealing a fresh coat of tears. "A month of my life is gone. Half my hair is gone. I don't even know if I can walk."

"You'll walk."

"You can't know that."

He leans in until our noses touch. "Then I'll carry you if I have to."

My lips wobble with grief, fear, and trapped guilt. "Max…"

"I found you, you know," he says, curling his palm behind my neck and pulling our foreheads together. "I found you at the bottom of that cliff. Me, Brynn, and Kai. We thought you were dead. I thought I'd never see these eyes again. Never get to touch you, hold you… It killed me."

My whole body shakes as I cry. "I'm sorry."

" I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't there with you."

"You couldn't have known. Nobody could have known."

Inhaling a hard breath through his nose, Max's grip loosens on my neck as his head moves side to side. "Fuck, Sunny. I can't believe you're here."

Am I?

I feel half here, half gone. Half the girl I was and half this scared, empty shell. I must look terrible. Chalky and ghostlike, feeble and bruised.

I pull away from Max and roll onto my back, glancing at the bedside table. The potted crayon stares back at me. "I thought it would be a carrot by now," I whisper hoarsely. He doesn't respond and I wonder if he feels rejected. Shunned by my pullback. I keep my eyes pinned on the orange crayon and try to ignore the ache in my chest as I murmur, "You brought me my stone."

"Yeah," he says. "I thought it might help."

"It did." I curl my fingers around the little stone, letting it anchor me. Letting it soothe my anxious heart like it always has for some strange reason. "Where's McKay?" I inquire. The question falls out stupidly and out of place, so I quickly try to cover it up. "And Brynn? And Kai?"

He pauses before answering. "They've been here. They're worried about you."

I swallow. "All of them?"

"Of course. McKay asks about you every day. If you're awake, if you're making progress. And Brynn has been a mess. Every time I see her, she's crying."

My lips purse into a flat line as my eyes shift to the darkened window. I can see a sliver of moon peeking out through the treetops. I should reply but my lips feel numb. My tongue frozen.

McKay isn't worried about me, Max. He's worried about himself.

Another silent beat goes by and then Max asks, "Do you want me to go?"

His tone sounds wounded, and heartache grips me like a noose. He's waited a month for me to come back and I can hardly look at him. I can't look at him without seeing his brother, without feeling the heat of my secret burning into me like a red-hot poker.

And this is exactly why I never wanted any of this. I never wanted these feelings because I knew . I knew that falling leaves you with broken bones and shattered pieces. I knew that falling leaves you in ruins and sometimes dead.

I never wanted to be conquered, overthrown, another victim of love .

But I fell anyway, despite everything I knew. I fell for him.

I fell head over heels for Max Manning, and now I have to live with the knowledge that his twin brother tried to kill me.

My tongue darts out to catch a tear dangling on my upper lip. I refuse to look at him as I mutter, "I'm a little tired. I should probably rest."

Silence permeates the space between us. The kind that chafes and scratches like a mosquito bite that can't be soothed.

"All right," he finally says, inching his way off the mattress. "I'll let you sleep."

The bed shifts and his body heat dissolves, leaving me colder than ever. It takes all my effort not to look at him, not to pull him back to the bed and let him hold me until dawn.

A zipper whirrs and rustling ensues, but my eyes stay locked on the window. A solid minute ticks by before I feel something placed beside me on the bed.

"I brought this for you," Max tells me before his footfalls retract from the hospital cot. "I'll come see you tomorrow. If you want me to."

"Bye," I say quickly, snapping my mouth shut before a sob cuts loose.

I hear him sigh, a sigh of pure anguish. Just like the groan he made when he first walked into the room and saw me. My stomach swirls with nausea as I listen to him walk away. The curtain draws back with a swish and a metallic clink, and then he's gone.

I look to my right and discover what he left behind for me—it's a copy of The House at Pooh Corner .

Max brought me one of my favorite books.

Tears slide down my sallow cheeks as I open the book and flip through the pages, knowing a message is waiting for me. Knowing there's something he wants me to see.

I flip and skim and search, until my eyes land on a string of words about rivers and streams, highlighted in orange.

I read them.

I read them over and over again before I cry myself to sleep.

"There is no hurry. We shall get there someday."