Page 113 of Something Like Sunflowers

Present

Beep, Beep, Beep.

Devyn’s machines haven’t stopped beeping since I got here. But I’m told that’s a good thing. It measures her breathing. She’s been out of it for two days now, concussed.

The doctors say she sustained a traumatic brain injury. Along with a total shoulder tear and several minor injuries that needed stitching.

She’s stable, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me every time I hear that word.

But she hasn’t woken up yet.

I won’t forgive myself if she’s not the same when she does.

I’m the reason she was on the road. Again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, brushing soft yellow strands away from her face. A deep cut runs from the top of her ear to the bottom of her chin on the right side of her face now, and I count the stitches.

Ten.

That’s just the one side. I feel another round of tears welling up in my eyes, and I wonder how much a man can cry before he depletes his sources. Is there a limit?

There never seems to be one for my tears, nor her scars.

I know she can’t hear me, but I need to get the words out of my head, so they’ll stop their torment, even if I’m the only one who ever hears them spoken. Speaking them aloud makes them real.

“This is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Dustin’s voice blares in from the hallway. I turn, giving him a look that tells him I’m not in the mood for anything even remotely related to sarcasm, and he nods as I rise for a hug.

“It’s not your fault, Hunter. You’re my best friend. She’s my sister. I don’t want to see anything happen to her any more than you do, but I also can’t sit by and watch you blame yourself all over again for something you had no control over.”

I back away from him and scrub my hand down my face, shaking my head in disagreement.

“You say that, but the only reason she was driving there so quickly was because of that marriage license, and you know it. And the only reason for that was me.”

Dustin shakes his head. “No, my friend.” He smiles sadly, wrapping his arm around me and hauling me out toward the hallway. “The reason for that was not you. The reason is right there.” He points his finger into the waiting room where Ellie is waiting anxiously on the small bench by the fire extinguisher, her legs crossed at the ankles where her foot bounces uncontrollably.

“Papa!” She cries when she sees me, running into my arms and knocking me off balance as I wobble to catch my footing on the slippery white floors.

She wastes no time, wiggling her way out of my hold and throwing me a look of alarm, her eyes red-rimmed and shiny, and my heart breaks even further for the pain she feels.

I feel it, too.

“Let me see her!” she says, running into the hospital room, shoving her way through anything and anyone in her path until she gets to Devyn. We run after her, Dusty and I, but she’s too fast. We’re only to the doorway by the time she’s pressed her body against the gurney.

She leans on her tiptoes to see, and gasps when she takes her in. She’s pale, stitched up and bruised, lying unconscious on the hospital bed, lips cracked and dry, hooked to those fucking machines.

I feel the grief drape over me like a coat, the guilt a searing belt, secure and snug as my head rings terrors through my skull.

She’s barely alive again. Because of you, she’s barely alive.

And I can’t bear it. I swing my arm out in front of Ellie and scoop her into my arms, holding my hand over her eyes.

“You don’t have to look. I’m so sorry.” But she shoves away.

“I need to look, Papa.”

Her red eyes burn, pleading with me, and she’s right. This child standing here who was once just a handful of flesh and bones, not even mine, handed to me in a room much like this.

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