Break Away (Away, Book 1) (15 page)

No answer.

I was about to try and kick open the goddamn
door when Ian appeared next to me, pushed me aside and shoved his
foot on it several times, until the sound of splintering wood
reached my ears. The door cracked open and we were inside.

“Buffy?” She was lying on her bed with her
head tossed to the side, a book splayed open across her chest.
“Buffy?” I said louder this time, shaking her arm to wake her up.
Because that’s what it looked like, like she was sleeping. Her
breath was coming out in soft puffs and her face looked pleasantly
peaceful, as if she was having a nice dream. But how couldn’t she
have heard all the noise we’d made? There was something very wrong
about this. Very wrong.

“Buffy?” I repeated several times, shaking
her harder with each calling. Nothing. Ian joined me, voicing her
name with me, hope fading in his voice to despair and fear.

“Call 911,” I told him after a few
distressing tries.

Ian dashed out of the room without second
thoughts.

With my insides squeezed into a tight knot, I
pulled out my cell phone from my pocket and thanked God I had Gran
on speed dial. She picked up at the second ring.

“Dafne, honey, I still have one more round of
poker to—”

“I'm not calling for that.”

At the hardness and hurry in my tone, she
worried. “What’s the matter?”

“Gran, it’s Buffy.”

In a mumbled rush, I explained to her
everything, the fight we’d had, the weird feeling that had wrapped
my chest, the door being kicked open, Buffy not waking up…

“Calm down, honey. I’m on my way,” she told
me, and before hanging up, she added, “Stay with her.”

I did. I pulled her to me and laid her head
on my lap, caressing her fine hair while I asked her to come back.
Ian strode in the room somewhere in between, and I thought I heard
him say something like “they’re on their way,” but I couldn’t be
sure. I could only stare at Buffy and hope she would open her brown
eyes and chastise me for being mean to her.

The hoping took a long time, though, and
before I could realize, paramedics were surrounding us, talking and
moving and checking the sleeping rag doll that was my sister. I
remembered one of them asking me something and Ian answering him
back when I didn’t. I remembered somebody saying I was in shock and
then trying to pull me away from Buffy when I held on tighter to
her. But what I remembered the most, what took me out from the
haze, were the words “She’s in a coma.”

I heard someone scream and felt Ian’s arms
wrap from behind me to tug me up. The screams continued, long and
painful, filling the room with ache and sorrow, until Ian whispered
soothing words to my ear. That’s when I recognized the voice behind
the screams.

It was my voice.

T
he beeping sound of
the heart monitor was the only thing that soothed the anxious storm
crashing within me. Not even the shot of sedative they’d given me
before coming to the hospital had worked. I could barely blink. I
could barely move, afraid any motion would change the steady rhythm
of the
beeps
jogging across the room—if you could call it a
room. A square piece that boxed you in with sharp scents of bleach
and alcohol and lifeless colors wasn’t cozy in any way—four
identical walls, four equidistant corners, all layered with the
same pale shade. White-gray flooring, ivory sheets, eggshell
curtains—everything screamed insipid and…dead.

I let out a breath. God, I hated hospitals.
The coldness permeating the halls, the anguish imprinted in the
waiting areas, the sadness wrapping the chairs—I hated the whole
thing. I didn’t want Buffy to be here. But unlike my surroundings,
her body hummed, softly, with life. The warmth of her skin seeping
through the thin sheets and the singing of her heart were the only
connections I felt to the world in that moment. Everything else in
me was numb and hollow. A zombie would have looked more human than
me.

I heard footsteps. A faint breeze touched one
side of my face and a moment later, the light weight of a hand fell
on my shoulder. “You should rest, Dafne,” Gran said. “Let me take
over.”

“I'm fine,” I lied. I was rounding thirty-six
hours of sleeplessness with a dead empty stomach. I was far from
being fine. But the idea of leaving Buffy’s side wiped out my
body’s needs. All I cared for was her health. Mine be damned.

I changed the subject before Gran continued
with her quarrel. “Could you please ask someone to give Buffy a
room with a window? I don’t want her first sight to be a pale box
when she wakes up. At least a window will give her something bright
and colorful to look at.”

Even without looking, I knew Gran was
smiling. “They’ll transfer her upstairs tomorrow—a nice room with a
big window.”

I turned to look at her. “Really?”

She placed two fingers forming a V shape,
like a peace and love sign over her heart. It was her own wacky,
hippie way of pledging something. “I promise,” she said.

I wanted to smile but the skin around my
mouth was too stiff. Gran noticed and the smile disappeared from
her face. “Dafne, please,” she insisted. “Get some rest. I don’t
want to have both of my granddaughters in the hospital. One is more
than enough.”

I leaned back in the stiff chair and ran a
desperate hand through my hair. “I can't leave her, Gran,” I
sighed. “I can’t. I’ve done too much of that already. She needs
me.”

“Yes. But she needs you to stay healthy, too,
not half alive.”

I understood her reasoning. I understood her
words, the worry behind them. I knew the sleeping bulk my sister
had turned into wasn’t even aware I was here, waiting for the
slightest movement of her fingers, of her eyes. The real Buffy was
far away, somewhere between this world and her mind’s eye, floating
into visions that couldn’t be shared. I wondered if in this world,
she could see the other people that had fallen into unbroken sleep,
like her, leaving loved ones with the sour embrace of hope while
waiting for the dreamy journey to end.

I wondered if she could see Mom and Dad.

A tear escaped my eyes. “She's not dead,
Dafne,” Gran said with a soft voice. “She hasn’t left us.”

Yet
, I thought with images of her
taking Mom’s and Dad’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” I told her,
my chest tight with heavy emotion. “So you can go and sit on that
couch if you’re planning to stay.”

I heard a quiet sigh and a few seconds later
the squeak of leather. I made a mental note to write the hospital
about the vile use of dead animal skin. Why people insisted on
using leather furniture, I had no clue. Especially a hospital.
Wasn’t death saturating this place enough?

I wondered how doctors and nurses could cope
with all these layers of murky emotions coating the air, how they
could work amid all the draining imprints of passing humans. Some
people say that ghosts don’t exist, that the noises we hear in the
hours of darkness are only lingering echoes, strong impressions of
those who have crossed to the other side. True or not, I could feel
those impressions crowding every single space, pressing down my
chest with an unknown weight. I wanted to leave. I wanted to feel
the lightness of fresh air. I wanted the warmth of the sun against
my skin.

I wanted Buffy.

My mind reeled.

The door opened behind me, snapping me out of
the chaos of my thoughts. Before I could turn, the sweet scent of
roses and cinnamon hit my nose, revealing the identity of the woman
standing still a few feet away from me. If my chest had felt heavy,
it weighed tons now, as if a huge ten-wheeled truck full of gravel
had just settled on it. The pressure was suffocating me, almost
unbearable.

“Morgan,” Gran said with bright surprise,
happiness brimming in her eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

In one of Mom's many travels to Africa, a
villager told her that eating a wild yam named Cassava increased
ovulation and, therefore, the possibilities of having twins.
Apparently in a region where this root was a staple of the local
diet, women had the highest rate of twins found anywhere in the
world. Since she wanted to have twins really badly, she started
eating Cassava root, and taking folic acid daily to increase her
chances—some foolish idea one of her friends had given her. Not
that eating some African root wasn’t crazy, but folic acid sounded
more dangerous, like something that could burn your insides. I
didn’t trust pills, or anything that was written in a prescription,
or anything that was sold in a pharmacy. I didn’t trust the FDA.
Period. I was all for holistic, home and herbal remedies, anything
that nature provided. Naturopathic medicine was the real deal. The
FDA wasn't.

Dad loved Mom, was crazy about her. He agreed
on everything she proposed or said. If he rejected her methods for
conceiving twins, he never said anything. The only thing that
mattered was Mom being happy, so when a radiant smile stretched
upon her face the day two heartbeats touched her doctor's
stethoscope, Dad had felt complete, a king among men.

I’d asked her once why she’d focused her mind
and body on having twins, and her answer had been obvious, one I
should have expected, “I wanted to make sure my kids would have the
wonderful experience of sharing life with another half of
themselves, like I did,” she’d said with that radiant smile Dad had
loved.

Yes. Aunt Morgan was her twin. Not a
fraternal twin like me and Buffy, but an
identical
twin. She
was my mom’s mirror, her exact copy—same sandy blonde hair, same
sapphire eyes, same heart-shaped face, same rosebud lips. Looking
at her was like watching my mom’s ghost. The sight of her was a
punch in the stomach. She must have known how hard it was for Buffy
and I to lay our eyes on her. Sometimes I wondered if that was the
reason behind all that compulsive work and crammed schedule.
Sometimes I silently thanked her for that.

Today though, wasn't one of those days. I
couldn’t stand her presence in the confined room. The echo of my
mom’s death filled the entire place.

Leave. Please leave
.

“Don’t stay there, Morgan,” Gran said,
clearly wishing the opposite. “Come join us.”

The soft taps of her brown ballet flats
joined the beeps of Buffy’s heart, but somehow, Aunt Morgan’s
walking sounds had overlapped everything. My ears and all that was
sensory in my body were solely focused on her. I was like a lion
prowling quietly, waiting and sensing every move she made, and once
she came into view, watching warily every curve and hollow that
made her what she was: an aching reminder of death.

“How is she?” Aunt Morgan asked. She stopped
at the foot of the bed and stared at Buffy. The glint of sadness,
and something more that I would’ve bet was guilt, shone behind
black rimmed, squared glasses.

“All her vital signs are good,” Gran said,
looking at an angel-faced Buffy sleeping. “She just needs to come
back from wherever she is.”

Aunt Morgan gave a soft nod and dropped her
crossed arms. As we had come to know as a nervous glitch of hers,
her hand pinched a small piece of her long skirt between her
fingers and started rubbing the flimsy fabric.

Unlike us, Aunt Morgan and Mom were an exact
copy of each other. But like us, their wardrobe was completely and
entirely miles away from being similar. Mom used to wear jeans,
button up shirts and heels. Aunt Morgan always dressed with ankle
skirts, chiffon blouses and ballet flats, like one would imagine a
teacher would dress. And her clothing today didn’t disappoint—white
flowery chiffon blouse, brown ankle skirt, brown corduroy ballet
flats—it described her style to perfection.

Aunt Morgan’s eyes left Buffy’s face and
found mine. That unnervingly familiar sapphire, the same that had
put me to bed so many times when I was little, was searching the
indigo ocean filling my irises, looking for a connection that I
wasn’t ready to give.

I stood up and broke our stare. “I’m hungry.
I'll get something to eat.” Without looking in Aunt Morgan's
direction again, I told her with a wave of my hand, “Take my seat,”
and left the room eager to leave those eyes.

The brightly lit hallway had been recently
cleaned. The sharp scent of disinfectant still lingered on the
vinyl floor. Shadows of doors opening and carts strolling reflected
on its shiny surface, as if it was the mirror of a parallel
dimension. I sat down on a row of chairs outside Buffy's room and
waited, waited for my chest to lighten its weight, waited for
Gran's brain to pick up my pleading waves. I'd been telling the
truth. I was hungry, and I needed money. I'd spent all I had on
vending machines, and I wasn't going to enter that room until Aunt
Morgan left.

Suddenly, my jeans pocket vibrated. I fished
out my cell phone and saw Linda had sent me a message.

Forgot to tell you I
didn't find anything on Dan. But our conversation took an
interesting direction. Lol. He's actually pretty cool.

The ghost of a smile appeared on my lips and
I wrote back.

You'll have to tell me all
about it when you get back. Enjoy the trip!

Will do :)

I knew she would kill me later for not
telling her about Buffy, but I didn't want to spoil her spring
break with dark news, and honestly, I didn't have the energy to
talk about it.

The tips of a pair of battered boots appeared
under my eyes. I knew those boots.

I looked up, shoving back the cell phone in
my pocket, and saw a Milky Way bar a few inches away from my face.
“You must be hungry,” Ian said with bloodshot eyes. Dark rings
circled his eyes. He must've stayed in the hospital all this
time.