Page 125 of Catch the Sun

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 broughtin, 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.

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