Survivor (7 page)

I fingered my plastic badge curiously, impressed.  It
was a real badge; not just one of those stickers you write your name on.  Peter
had obviously put some thought into this.  I took a deep breath and told myself
to relax.  He seemed to want to share this part of his life.  It was a good
gesture.  S
uck it up
.

We got off on the fifth floor.  I wheeled off the
elevator, taking in the Disney characters painted on the walls.  
Oh.
 

 Peter led the way to a small play area in the
middle of the floor.  A group of kids were waiting for him.  They were all
smiles and crazy energy- even the ones with bandages and I.V. poles.  I could
see a nurses’ station on one side of the area.  Hallways with patient rooms
stretched out in each direction, with brightly colored figures painted on the
windows.

A pretty blond nurse was rounding up the kids.  She
gave me a brief, friendly smile before turning to beam at Peter.  “What will it
be today?”

Peter smiled in response, and shot a questioning
glance at the kids “Paint?”  At a chorus of agreement, the nurse hurried off to
get us some supplies.  Peter introduced me around and greeted some new
patients.  Then we painted.

It was the most fun, and the most heartbreaking,
thing I had ever done.  The children ranged from toddlers barely able to walk,
and attended by strained parents, to one hesitant teenager with one side of his
head shaved.  The sutures stuck out like dark railroad tracks spanning the
entire side of his scalp.  The little ones seemed to love the fact that my
wheelchair put me on their level.  One adorable little girl of about five or so
asked to sit on my lap.  I was scared to let her, afraid I might disrupt the long
IV trailing from her arm.  But Peter stooped and picked her up, raising her
high then plopping her in my lap amid a chorus of giggles.

I watched his green eyes sparkle with joy as the
children swarmed him.  I was as enraptured as everyone else in the area.  The
staff all managed to stop and sneak a peek at our group at some point in the
afternoon- not that I blamed them.  Peter came to the children’s wing about
once a week.  Sometimes he visited the various adult floors too.  “I’ve been
blessed with this life,” he explained on the way home.  “You must make the most
of the precious life you’ve been given.”

I mulled this over on the ride home.  Sure, my life
wasn’t as far-reaching as Peter’s, but the depth of his sentiment touched me.  My
life had been forever altered by my accident, but nonetheless, I had survived. 
For what purpose?  What would the world be like if everyone sought to make more
of their lives by enriching the lives of others?

*****

When I was a little girl, I used to write stories and
poems in my journal.  My best friends and I would act them out, running around
the house and yard like little fiends, driving my parents crazy with our
antics.  When I got older, more important things took up my time, things like
school, and homework, and boys.  I stopped writing for some time.

And then fate bitch-slapped me.  When I started to
wake up a little, and get some awareness of what had happened, I was angry,
hurt, and confused.  My brain was feverishly working to make new neuronal
connections as I learned to do even the most basic tasks all over again.  I
needed an escape, something outside the walls of the rehab unit.  During one of
my therapy sessions my mother mentioned, in an off- hand sort of way, how I
used to write.  That’s when my Occupational therapist handed me a pen and a
little notebook.

My psychologist had urged me to journal, but it held
no interest for me.  I could barely hold a pencil, and typing was a chore.  I
spent all day processing what had happened to me; I didn’t want to spend my
free time that way too.  But writing fiction was different.  This was escape-
something I could immerse myself in until the next therapy session, the next
trial.

It was very difficult at first.  I started with
single words.  Eventually I wrote short poems, then stories.  As I emerged from
the fog, they even started to make sense.

In the years since my accident, I wrote almost
daily.  I kept most of my work on my computer, but the really good stuff- the
poems and stories and little bits of insight that had deeper meaning to me- I
printed and put in a binder on my bookshelf.  That way they were easy to grab
when I want to look at them without starting up the computer.

I dreamed of the color green that night.  My mind
was filled with the soothing color of nature and growing things.  Bright green
grass, muted green moss growing on a rock, green leaves dancing overhead, green
birds twittering in the branches of the trees, a deep green sea of wild grasses
where I lay down and watched an iridescent green butterfly dance across the sky
as soft tendrils of grass caressed my cheek.

I woke up to deep green eyes the color of emeralds.  Peter
smiled down at me, his graceful fingers caressing my cheek.  “I brought you
breakfast.”  I stretched and grinned back.  Making my way out of the bathroom a
while later, I found orange juice and a breakfast sandwich waiting for me.  The
little deli down the street makes amazing breakfast biscuits, but I can never manage
get there in the morning and get to work on time.

Peter looked at me in surprise when I wheeled past
the table and turned on the computer.  I blushed self-consciously under his
silent questioning gaze.  I never shared my writing with anyone.  It was for
me.  And I had never written with company- it always felt very private.  But I
had to get my dream into words before the feeling of it left me.

Peter brought me the orange juice and I sipped it
while I waited for the computer to start up.  When I started to peck at the keyboard,
he looked over my shoulder curiously.  I gave him a warning look and he backed
off.  His eyes had a hint of silver to them-probably thanks to the intense
emotions I had been putting off since he woke me.

He paced to my bookshelf and took down one of the
thick binders where I store my writing.  Plopping down on the sofa, he lifted
it questioningly, “May I?”

I frowned.  “How did you know about that?”

He grinned slyly, “You kept glancing up there while
you were picking at that keyboard.”

I frowned.  I must have been unconsciously thinking that
the poem about his eyes belonged up there- with the important ones.

Peter flipped through my work as I typed.  Motor
control is not my strong point, so of course typing is slow, but it’s better
than hand writing things.

Finally, Peter stood and took down another binder.  “I
need to go to work,” he said, gathering his things.  “Can I take these?”  He
had several pounds of my writing tucked under his arm.

“Why?”

He dropped a kiss on my forehead.  “Because they’re
really good; I want to read them tonight.”

I shrugged.  “Fine,” I said, a bit fearful of what
he might find in there.  “Oh, hang on.”  I hit print, then handed him the
newest addition to the binder.  “This is what I was dreaming of when you woke
me up.”

He tucked it into his breast pocket to read later
and I smiled hesitantly, wondering what his face would look like when he
figured out it was about him.  My smile faded as a sliver of apprehension worked
its way in.  Every since my accident, I felt that if something good happened,
then something bad must surely follow.  I crushed the nagging voice that
wondered if I had the right to be happy, and went to see Peter out.

 
I
started to ask Peter about it, but it
was obvious he had already noticed.  His posture was a little tense and his
eyes were darker, sharper.  We left the diner in silence.  He pushed my chair
so we could move faster.

 The little group followed us.  If Peter had been
alone he could have gotten away, but I was slowing him down.  One of them, a
pretty blond woman, came alongside us.

“Good afternoon Pete,” she said brightly.  “Care for
a stroll in the park?”  He gave her a dark look.  “Sorry Cynthia, but I need to
be going.”

There were three men with her.  They were all nice
looking, graceful like dancers.  I was getting a bad feeling about this.  “Oh
come on Peetie,” one of the men said in a pretty British accent, “it’s a
beautiful day.”

They managed to herd us toward the entrance to the riverside
park that stretched along the rest of the block.  Peter wheeled me over to a
stone bench by a bank of purple petunias and bent down to lock both my brakes.  He
looked into my eyes for a moment.  “I need you to stay here, Melody.”  He was
very intent.  “No matter what, just stay here, okay?”

Sit and stay, huh?  I frowned at him, but nodded. 
He stood and went over to the others.  Other vampires.  They moved off the
paved path and made their way toward the grassy bank of the river.  I could see
that they were quietly arguing about something.  The woman had a cajoling look
on her face and the men’s expressions ranged from bored to irritated.  They
talked for some time, and the most irritated looking one- a short, stocky man
with brown hair- gestured wildly.  At last, the woman threw up her hands in
frustration and Peter walked away, heading back toward me.

It all happened in an instant.  The brown haired one
rushed up behind Peter in a movement so fast my eyes couldn’t follow.  Then next
thing I knew, Peter was flying through the air.  His body smacked into the side
of a cement footbridge before disappearing into the water.

I gasped, too shocked to find my voice.  They moved
so fast, no one had noticed.  A bicyclist on the other side of the river
glanced out at the water, hearing the splash.  He kept pedaling, probably chalking
it up to fish jumping or something.  The other vampires were leaving the park.  I
shrieked Peter’s name and unlocked my brakes, wheeling myself furiously down the
walkway toward the river.  No one was close enough to hear me- at least no one
human.  The woman, Cynthia, gave me an insulting look and continued on her way.

Peter’s body had surfaced beneath the bridge and was
floating toward the bank, carried along by the current.  Tears were sliding
down my cheeks unchecked.  Had they killed him?  I reached the end of the
sidewalk.  It didn’t go all the way to the river’s edge and I couldn’t propel
my wheelchair over the bumpy grass.  I pushed up out of my chair, standing
weakly, cursing my traitorous body as it failed to follow my commands to rush
to the water’s edge.

I tried to take a step and fell.  I hit the ground
hard.  Swearing, I started to crawl, dragging myself across the narrow swath of
grass that might as well have been a football field.  I clenched my teeth.  Even
if I did get there, what would I do?  I couldn’t swim.  He was drifting toward
the bank now.  Maybe I could catch him and keep him from floating away.  I
doubted I could get him up onto the shore.

I barely reached the edge of the water in time,
cursing as I tried to hurry.  I pushed myself up into an awkward sitting
position half in, half out of the water.  As I stretched out my hand, reaching
with all my might, he flipped over and spluttered to life.  I managed to snag a
handful of his shirt and he grasped my arm, almost pulling me into the river.  There
was a steep drop off just in front of me, but he made it up onto the bank.

He sat on the riverbank glaring out at the water, furious.
 I had never seen him mad before.  I could almost
see
the darkness
surrounding him.  It was scary.  Like goose bumps that probably weren’t from
the cold water scary.  Vampire, I reminded myself.  Beautiful, harmless-looking
man that I had been thrilled to call my boyfriend a few minutes ago.  Not a man
at all.  I was still crying, I noticed belatedly.  I lifted a sodden hand to
wipe my face, but stopped mid-way there.  Better tears than mud and river
water.

My movement seemed to startle Peter out of his black
contemplation.  Turning to me, he scooped me into his arms.  I clung to him as
he carried me back to my chair, glad he was alive.  My God, the brown haired
guy had just tossed him out there like a pebble.  He put me in my chair and
stood looking down at me, pissed.

“I told you to stay right there,” he said, pointing
back up the path.  His voice sounded odd.  Hallow almost.  Like some sort of
wind instrument.  I glared back at him.

“Sure, I’ll sit right here while you die.”  I was
still full of adrenaline.  So he was fine.  I hadn’t known that when I saw him
bounce off a concrete wall and hit the water.  And if he hadn’t been fine? 
What could I have done then?

“I’m already dead,” he said gruffly.  Then a little
more softly, “You were scared?”  

 Seeing my affirmative nod, he sighed.  “I’m sorry. 
It scared
me
to see you so close to the water.  It was only a prank.  They
didn’t intend any real harm.”

I stared at him.  A prank.  Sure.  It was just a
prank
.
 I hugged my arms around myself.  It was a warm day, but the water was cold and
the breeze was making my damp dress into a clinging, freezing thing.  Without a
word, Peter grabbed my wheel chair and started walking.

*****

When we got to my apartment, I went to the bedroom
and got a dry change of clothes, teeth chattering.  Taz sniffed at my damp
dress, snorted, and went to pester Peter.  I gave the bathroom, and my big
walk-in shower with the roomy bench, a wistful look.  It would be nice to get
warmed up right now, but Peter was standing in the living room dripping.  I
grabbed a big towel and took it to him.  He gave me a soft look, and I knew his
anger was mostly because he had been worried for me.