Page 5 of Ladybirds

God, this guy really was crazy. “Whatever. If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”

The corner of his mouth curls, crooked. “For the time being.”

The sound of sirens in the distance has her glancing back towards the highway. She can just see the flicker of red cresting over the sea of white headlights. “Fine. It’s a deal. Now will—”

He’s gone.

Baffled, she searches, but the parking lot is empty and there’s no way he could have made it to the door in the time she glanced away. He just couldn’t have. It’s impossible. How—

“Sara!” Mrs. Mclintock yells for her from the waiting room entrance, voice as watery as the tears streaming down her face. Sara’s stomach drops, fearing the worst, but the older woman pulls her into a hug so fierce, she can feel her ribs groaning under the pressure. “He’s going to be ok. The doctor said he’s going to be ok.”

Sara’s knees go weak, and she’s suddenly grateful for the strength of the other woman’s hold.

The doctor doesn’t let anyone back to see him for another hour. The waiting is still torturous, but the weight on her chest has loosened—a necklace instead of a noose. When she finally enters David’s room, sees the tangle of IVs and wires, she has to grip the doorframe to keep herself upright.

He’s pale. So, so pale. The small mole on the ridge of his cheek stands out like an ink spot on paper, and with all the bandages and tubes, he looks almost nothing like himself. She hates that his eyes are closed—that if it weren’t for the insistent beeping of the monitor, she would assume his heart wasn’t beating. Suddenly, she’s glad the doctor made them wait until they removed the intubation tube. At least they can see his face.

Mrs. Mclintock chokes on a sob, kneeling at the bedside and grasping his hand. “Oh, my baby boy.”

Numbly, Sara moves to his other side. She brushes the bangs from his face, breath hitching as she struggles to hold back a fresh wave of tears. When she laces their fingers, his skin is too cold to feel familiar.

David stirs, groaning. His eyes flutter open, voice slurring as he focuses on his mother’s face. “Mom?”

Mrs. Mclintock nods, bringing their clasped hands to her cheek. “It’s me, son. It’s me. You were in an accident, but I’m here, honey. Sara, too.”

“Sara?” He frowns, his head turning towards her. When he looks at her, his eyes are the exact shade of blue she fell in love with, but there’s something unfamiliar in his gaze. Something off. His mouth twists, but it’s not a smile—it’s a sneer. “Who the hell are you?”

CHAPTER THREE

After shuffling between her father’s and the hospital for the past two weeks, seeing Oma’s house feels like coming home.

Sara lingers in the car; the radio turned low and the engine humming. The bright teal rocking chairs she helped her paint three summers ago are still on the front porch and the house’s cheery yellow siding with white trim still makes Sara think of Better Homes & Garden magazines. She’s planted a mix of brightly colored dahlias and foxglove in the flower beds this year—petunias in the window boxes. Sara releases a heavy sigh, feeling the tension in her neck and shoulders relax. If happy were a place, it would be her grandmother’s house.

She turns off the engine and unplugs her phone from the charger. Sara doesn’t bother checking for messages—the last two weeks have had her phone on loud and her nerves so raw that missing a text is next to impossible. Jen, her best friend, reaches out at least once a day just to check in and let her know she’s only a drive or a phone call away. Sara responds to her faithfully, but never takes her up on her offer. It’s easier to hold herself together when she doesn’t have to explain her feelings out loud. Just typing out the words with her thumbs makes the tightness in her chest double and her eyes burn.

He still doesn’t remember me. They don’t know if he ever will.

He hates me. Why does he hate me?

What am I going to do?

Jen doesn’t give her any answers (how could she?) but every text she sends back is thoughtfully constructed; emphatic in a way that is neither pushy or dismissive. She takes care to address her every concern, validate her every fear, before soothing her with words of comfort. She knows, instinctively, that Miles is there too—his condolences are weaved between every line Jen writes. Outside of classes, they spend so much of their time together that messaging one is as good as messaging the other. Sara sometimes wonders if it’s an engaged couple thing or just them.

The morning after David’s accident, Miles sent her only one message.

‘We’re here.’

Somehow, those two words offer as much relief as all of Jen’s gentle assurances.

Sara didn’t ask him to elaborate; she understood what it meant. Jen is her best friend, but they’re more different than alike—a study in opposites. Miles and her? They’re cut from the same cloth. Stubborn with their pain; hoarding their trauma to themselves as if sharing it would mean letting it run wild. Jen calls it internalizing. Miles calls it handling his business and avoiding casualties.

Sara thinks it’s probably a bit of both, but she just calls it surviving. Right now, with the bruises under eyes and the aches in her limbs—evidence of all the sleep she’s missed—she thinks her definition feels the most fitting.

The first thing she notices when she steps out of the car is the smell. Oma’s windows are wide open, letting the evening breeze in and the scent of her cooking out. Sara inhales, letting the air rest in her lungs while her stomach gives a hungry lurch. She’s missed Oma’s cooking fiercely—has ever since she moved away for college—but the past week she’s been surviving almost solely off meals from the hospital cafeteria and protein bars. Neither provided anything more than calorie intake and wishes for something that didn’t come prepackaged.

Sara slides her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and closes the car door, leaving her keys in the ignition and her purse on the passenger seat. There’s no fear of theft when the only neighbors for miles are corn and cattle.

When she opens the front door, she calls out for her grandmother despite knowing where she’ll be. Oma answers back, confirming her suspicions, as she slips off her sandals.

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