Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (3 page)

She starts pulling at something and then I gag as a long tube scrapes its way up my throat and out of my mouth. It steals my breath and leaves me feeling like she’s just sandblasted my esophagus. The machine next to my head is going nuts, shrieking and beeping. The woman disappears from vision moments before the room falls quiet. I sigh in relief and attempt to sit up. My surroundings look completely sterile with a saccharine greenish blue tinge to it. Or maybe it has no color at all and it’s my blurred spotted vision that’s painting the room.

“Whoa, hold your horses, mister. Please lie back down. The doctor is on his way to see you.”

Doctor? What the hell is going on?

“Ethan honey,” Mom says softly as she leans over me and brushes my hair from my forehead.

“What’s going on?” I manage to ask. My throat is on fire, and nothing is making any sense to me.

“You were in an accident, honey. Do you not remember?”

I register her words, but it’s like someone has thrown a thick woolen blanket over my thoughts. I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“Ah, nice to see he’s awake.” A male voice booms through the room and I wince at the volume.

“My name is Doctor Moss, Ethan. How are you feeling?” I look over to see a short fat guy in a white coat that barely covers his plaid shirt and bright red bow tie. His curly red hair is combed to the side and he’s studying a chart before his eyes lift from behind the rim of his round golden spectacles to meet mine. He looks like a poster child for a nutty professor.

“Everything hurts,” I tell him. He smiles and reassures me that he can give me something to make me more comfortable. I don’t know what it is that he’s planning to give me, but I hope to fuck he gives me a truckload of it, and fast.

“Ethan can you tell me your full name, please?”

I look at him confused. I can see from here that the clipboard he’s holding has Ethan Jamison scrawled over it. Why the hell’s he asking?

“Ethan Jamison,” I reply.

“Excellent. Can you tell me what month and year we are in?”

What the hell? If he doesn’t know what year we are in he really has no business working in a hospital; he should be a patient.

“It’s February 2014. What’s with the questions?” I say as I bring my hand up to rub at my throat. I’m attached to wires and tubes and god only knows what else. They bite at my wrist where they disappear under a bandage. I move my attention back up to the doctor and catch the look he and my mom are sharing.

“Ethan, it’s not Feb—” Mom’s silenced by doctor what’s-his-face raising his hand. She rears her head back a little and looks concerned.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite correct; it’s June 2014,” he says eying me carefully.

“Oh…I, wait, I’m confused. June?”

“Yes, Ethan, June 2nd. Do you remember anything from the accident you were involved in?”

I’m officially starting to worry; nothing is making sense. It can’t be June and I have no idea what accident he’s talking about. I look over to my mom, who is looking about as confused as I feel, and then back at my wrist that’s aching like a bitch. I scan the room, although I have no clue what I’m looking for, and then try and shake the cloud that seems to have settled over my mind. I feel like I’m being suffocated in the swath of pale green cotton blankets that have me bound to the bed. “Sorry, I don’t know. I can’t think straight.”

“Not to worry, Ethan, the nurse will be right through with some medication for the pain. Just try and relax, and I’ll be back soon,” he says, placing the chart he was holding on the bottom of the bed.

“I’ll be right back, honey,” Mom calls as she hurries to follow the doctor out of the room.

Just relax—is that a fucking joke? How the hell does he expect me to relax? There isn’t a part of me that’s not hurting right now. I have no idea how or why I’ve woken up in here, and apparently I’ve just lost four months of my life somewhere. Relaxed is the last thing I’m feeling.

I’M GOING CRAZY being cooped up in this drab, depressing room. I shouldn’t complain; it could be worse, I guess. I could be out on the ward with only a flimsy lavender-colored curtain to provide any semblance of privacy. Having my own room must be costing my mom a fortune. She’s currently asleep in the chair by the side of my bed, and she looks so peaceful I don’t want to wake her. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t slept at all since I was brought in here two days ago. The doctors have apparently approved me to be released either tomorrow or the next day, providing that my stats are all good and the stitches from my surgery are healing as they should. They’re mistaken if they think I’m going anywhere without seeing Ethan. I’ve begged and pleaded for them to let me go and visit with him. I’m not family though, so they won't let me into the ICU. The nurse stationed at the end of the hall has escorted me back here twice already. I figured I could sneak out and go find him. I’m not as stealthy as I hoped I’d be, hooked up to this stupid IV. The wheels on the drip stand sound like a freaking freight train against the tiled floor. She told me that there was no use trying to creep into the high dependency unit, as you have to buzz through to gain access. Stupid hospital.

The afternoon sunlight is filtering through into my room; I’ve spent the last hour watching dust molecules float daintily through the streams the blinds make and then disappear as they move into the shade. I’m envious of them; I wish I could just vanish. Slip into the shadows like the dust, hiding in plain sight. That way I could go and find Ethan.

I can’t take lying in here anymore. I cover Mom with one of the mint-colored cellular blankets from the bed and creep out of the room as quietly as I can without waking her, gingerly making my way down the hall towards Nurse Battleax. That’s not her actual name, although I think it should be. She’s not the vision you have in your head of a typical caregiver. In fact, she’s what your mind would conjure up at the phrase, ‘heavy metal groupie’: her hair is streaked with blues and greens—from her roots I’d guess she’s blonde—and piled messily on top of her head, showing off the tattoos that adorn the skin on the back of her neck. All I’ve been able to make out so far are a few swirls and a couple of tiny stars that disappear under her collar; it looks as though someone went to town on her with a pack of bright-colored Sharpies. I’m pretty intrigued as to what the full tattoo looks like. Her ears are pierced with those spacer earrings; I could probably push my pinky through the void in her lobe if I tried, although I guess she wouldn’t take kindly to it. Her whole appearance screams ‘stay away’. She has kind eyes, though; if you focus on those and not the permanent scowl her mouth seems to be set into.

“Miss Thomas, I don’t want to have to escort you back to your room again. Please accept that you are not allowed into the ICU,” she says in a bored tone as I approach the desk.

“Relax, I just want to go find the cafeteria. I’m bored and I need to stretch my legs.” She studies me for a few beats, no doubt trying to discern whether or not it’s a ploy to go on some twisted scavenger hunt for my boyfriend.

She narrows her eyes at me before dropping her shoulders a little. “Fine, but please don’t make me regret this,” she says standing and stretching to hold the door open for me.

I duck under her arm, but the top of my drip stand catches her and she glares at me like I’ve just tried to hurt her on purpose. “Sorry,” I utter, feeling the need to apologize, even though she’s the one that positioned herself so precariously. I make my way down the long barren corridor before coming to the bank of elevators. I study the enormous blue sign above the call buttons until I see that there’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. I’m wearing my spare glasses that I keep loose in my purse; my regular ones were lost in the accident. I busy myself rubbing the lenses with the hem of my shirt as I rock back and forth on my toes waiting for the elevator to descend. The glass is covered in tiny scratches where it’s scuffed against my keys and heaven knows what else lurking in the depths of my bag. The doors finally open, and I’m rapidly assaulted by the smell of freshly ground coffee. I inhale as much as my lungs can take and hold the bitter, rich aroma for a few seconds before breathing it out slowly. I hate the smell of hospitals; I have since the day Em was diagnosed. The coffee scent is masking the clinical bleach smell that the rest of the building holds, and I find myself wondering if they’ll let me sleep down here tonight. I join the back of the line and wait to place my order as some guy wearing sunglasses trips over the base of my drip stand. It teeters a little before he manages to grab hold of it and stop it toppling over completely.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he rushes to apologize as I look up and realize everyone in the line is staring.

“Blair!” Moira, Ethan’s mom, shouts from the front where she’s being served and ushers people out of the way as she makes her way back through the ten or so people in front of me.

“No worries, I’m fine,” I say, shooing the guy away and turning my attention back to my boyfriend’s mom.

“Moira, how…how’s Ethan?” I stammer as my mouth suddenly feels like it's been stuffed to capacity with cotton balls. I have an overwhelmingly unexpected urge to cry, and my throat constricts as I wait for her reply.

“Madam! Madam, excuse me. You’ve forgotten your drink,” the barista shouts and Moira holds her finger up to me, and then rushes back to the front of the line to collect her coffee. She’s back moments later and guides me to a window seat and sits down.

“He woke up a few hours ago,” she says with a small smile on her face that doesn’t look quite right; it’s a sad smile.

My stomach knots as I wait for her to continue. I can hear the blood rushing about in my ears, and I feel a chill run down my spine in anticipation of her next sentence. She looks down at her coffee before meeting my gaze and then lets out a small sigh. Shit, that can’t be a good sign. The coffee shop is painted a deep red and fitted out with rich eggplant and cherry-colored fabric seating and oak bistro tables. It has a warm and cozy atmosphere; or at least it did, until Moira’s expression gives me chills. I shiver involuntary and fold my arms across my chest in dreaded anticipation.

“He’s still very confused, and he doesn’t remember anything about the accident. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness, but the doctors have assured me that it’s a normal response,” she says softly.

I let out the breath I was holding and allow my shoulders to drop. “Thank god he’s awake,” I tell her, moving my glasses to rub my eyes in an effort to try and disperse the tears that are gathering in tiny pools. “I’m so relieved; the doctors wouldn’t tell me anything about his condition and refused to let me come see him because I’m not family.”

“You poor thing. I’m so sorry I didn’t come to find you and update you. It just didn’t cross my mind.” She reaches across the table and rubs my arm calmly in apology. I attempt to smile but it’s strained and weak as she places her hand over mine.

“He’s bruised and sore; he’d dislocated his shoulder, sprained one of his wrists, and he must have hit his head pretty hard in the accident. He had swelling around his brain, and they had to do a procedure to alleviate some of the pressure.” My eyes widen in horror as she squeezes my hand slightly. “No, no, he’s okay now—he’s stable. He’s just a little dazed and confused. Hopefully, he’ll be feeling a little better when he wakes up. He’s been given some pretty heavy-duty pain medication that’s got him slipping in and out of sleep.”