Lone Girl (The Wolfling Saga) (12 page)

You’re telling me
, I thought to myself.

“It’s just … ever since she left me I feel like I’ve been searching for something. Some way to …
numb the pain,” Frank continued. “Some way to find inner peace.”

“Maybe try yoga,” I suggested.

“I keep thinking of what I would do if I saw her again. What
would
I do? Fuck. I don’t even know.”

“You wouldn’t take her back, would you?”

Frank scoffed derisively. “I’d rather throw her out of a moving vehicle.” He gave a breathless laugh, as though he’d told a hilarious joke. I griped my seat tightly, not wanting to appear alarmed or afraid.

Frank flexed the fingers on his left hand before gripping the steering wheel tightly and saying,
“There’s only one good thing that came out of that marriage and that’s my son. Oh, but guess what? She won’t even let me fucking see him. She even got a restraining order against me, saying I’m dangerous. What a load of bullshit.”

“Why’d she do that?” I asked, my mouth dry.

“It’s all lies,” said Frank. “That’s what women do. They lie, cheat and steal.” His face was turning a nasty shade of purple. Was it rage bottled up inside him?

“Not – not
all
women,” I stammered.

He gave a snort of derision
and I felt a little offended. My initial impression of Frank being a nice guy was quickly vanishing. Instead, fear and apprehension replaced it.

He was taking short, sharp breaths
and flexing his left arm as though about to throttle someone. 

“Hey … are you all right?” I asked, backing against the passenger door.

“Huh? Yeah,” he rubbed his chest. “Just a little heart-burn.”

“Maybe you should pull over-” I began, but was abruptly cut off by the sound of Frank letting out a strangled cry.

I stared at the middle-aged man as he grabbed a fistful of his shirt, his face contorted in agony.

“Fuck! My – my chest!”

“What’s happening?” I demanded, leaning forwards.

Frank wheezed, spittle flying from his mouth, before he slumped in his seat, unmoving.

“Frank!”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t move.

He was dead.

I grabbed the steering wheel of the truck, which had begun to swerve into oncoming traffic. Frank’s dead weight pressed the accelerator to the floor and the truck was gradually gaining speed as we began to drive downhill.

“Shit, shit shit!”

I kicked the dead man’s foot from the pedal and reached my own legs over to the driver’
s side. I stomped on the breaks and the tyres screeched along the tarmac. The trailer behind the cab kicked out, swerving from side to side.

I had one last glimpse of an oncoming stone wall, before the dashboard came to meet my face.

Friday
– 8 days to go

Pain. Everything hurt.

My head, face, body and legs ached. I was hyper-aware of every muscle and bone in my body because they were screaming in agony. But at least I could feel everything.

Sunlight assaulted my eyelids, making my vision red. Somewhere nearby was a faint beeping noise. Was it the truck? I could hear someone breathing heavily. Was it Frank? Was he alive?

I wanted to open my eyelids, but I was too drowsy. My head throbbed and told me that it was time to sleep, that I should just relax and let myself drift away.

Move
, I told myself.
Move
.

I prised my eyes apart and the sunlight blinded me. It took several seconds for my vision to adjust. I expected to see the cracked windshield of the truck, or perhaps the wet tarmac. But no. The late afternoon sun streamed in through grey shutters. I was in a plain room with white walls and the beeping sound came from a heart monitor.

I was in the hospital.

I couldn’t be sure what day it was, or how much time had passed. I turned my head and my neck throbbed painfully. On the other side of my hospital bed a man in his fifties sat hunched in an armchair, his head lolling and drool hanging from his mouth.

“Dad?” I croaked.

My father smacked his lips together in his slumber and began to fidget. He looked up with blood-shot eyes, scanning the room as though he’d forgotten where he was.

Eventually, his gaze fell upon me and it took him several seconds to
realize that I was indeed staring back at him.

“Rose!” he gasped, sitting up immediately.

“Hey.”

“You’re awake!”

“I think so.” I felt incredibly groggy. Was this real?

My father was on his feet, standing by my bedside. He leaned down to give me a whiskery kiss and a hug. I grimaced in pain and allowed him to embrace me. As he pulled away, I was able to see the state he was in; unshaved, unwashed
and exhausted. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“
You all right?” I asked a little hoarsely. It seemed I’d lost much use of my voice.

My father gave a watery smile. “You wake up from a coma and ask
me
if
I’m
all right. Typical, Rose.”

“How long?” I managed to breathe.

“Sixteen days,” said a voice from the doorway. My father stepped aside to reveal my mother, who stood with her arms crossed against her chest, leaning on the doorframe.

Sixteen days.

“Hey,” I said timidly.

“Hey?” My mother repeated, her arms falling to her sides. She crossed the room and stood beside my father. “That’s all you have to say to me? We fly out here,
terrified
, not knowing what to expect and you say ‘
hey’
?”

“
Stop it
,” my father hissed under his breath. “She just woke up.”

“After everything she put us through, I think we deserve an explanation,” my mother snapped. She too looked older and more haggard than usual.

I was spared answering at that moment as a tall and rather handsome doctor walked briskly into the ward, smiling at me. “Good morning, Miss Goldman. Enjoy your nap?”

“
Needed my beauty sleep,” I muttered drowsily.

“Consider yourself sufficiently beautified,” the Doctor smiled.
“And it seems your sense of humour wasn’t affected.”

“Not sure I had one to begin with,” I grimaced.

He smiled kindly. “I’m Doctor Reid and I’ll be taking care of you. Do you know where you are, Rose?”

“In – in hospital. Washington?”

Doctor Reid nodded. “Great. Have your parents explained anything to you?”

I
exhaled slowly. “It’s been … sixteen days?”

“Since the accident?”
Doctor Reid finished.

“Right. The truck.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah
. The truckie – Frank – he had a heart attack. Did he die?”

“Unfortunately the driver of the truck
was already dead when paramedics arrived on the scene. We have since confirmed that he died of a heart attack. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know him,” I said, glancing at my parents. I saw a vein throb in my mother’s temple.

“Do you remember anything
surrounding the crash?”

“I remember grabbing the wheel … steering the truck. There was a wall. Then … my face.” I tried to lif
t my hand to touch my forehead which had collided with the dashboard but my arms felt like dead weight.”

“You’ll be glad to know your looks survived the accident,” said Doctor Reid
and I gave a snort of derision. “What do you remember before the accident?”

“I remember … I remember-”

I remembered everything, of course.

Tom
.

The heart monitor began to race.

He’d left me sixteen days ago. He could be anywhere by now – with anyone. Did he even know I was in hospital? Had he been caught? So many questions that I couldn’t ask ran through my mind. To me if felt like mere hours had passed since his abandonment, but for Tom it had been over two weeks. The pain was still fresh in my heart.

Perhaps it would be easier to feign amnesia to be spared answering any accusing questions my mother might have.

Doctor Reid glanced at the heart monitor as it continued to beep at an irregular rate. “Are you okay, Miss Goldman?”

“Yeah.” I took a de
ep breath and tried to remain calm. However, all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and feel sorry for myself until the pain ebbed away.

“Now,
I’m sure you’re wondering what the damage is. Lucky for you it wasn’t too extensive. There was some head trauma and bleeding on the brain which is why you were in an induced coma for two weeks.”

“My brain?” I heart the heart monitor pick up speed again.

“N
othing to concern yourself with. Taking a look at your scans there appears to be no permanent damage.”

“Short term?” I asked.

“That remains to be seen. We’ll have you up and out of bed to analyse you properly soon enough. We just need to conduct a few simple tests first. At most you might experience some memory loss, but that may come back in time.”

“Do you remember talking to daddy after the accident?”
My father edged towards the bed. He hadn’t referred to himself as ‘daddy’ since I was nine years old – when I was a regular human girl.

“No?” I said, unsure.
The last thing I remembered was hitting the dashboard with my face.

“You were conscious when we brought you into the hospital,” said Doctor Reid.

My mother’s nostrils flared and I knew at once that I’d said or done something wrong in my befuddled state.

“You were talking a lot,” my father said. “Not much of it made sense.”

“I don’t remember,” I admitted.

“It’s not important,” Doctor Reid waved a hand and picked up his clip-board. “Now, let’s have a look at you, eh?”

And so my recovery began. It wasn’t as bad as Doctor Reid had made it sound. There was bruising on my chest and neck where my seatbelt had dug into me, a cracked rib, minor head trauma
and some cuts and bruising to the face. I wished I had Tom’s accelerated healing abilities.