When Sparks Fly

And how I would never hear their voices, feel their arms around me again, get to tell them I loved them one last time.

My sisters were still asleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had befallen us.

But I’d sat there with Gran that morning and watched her shine dim. And that had been the moment I’d realized that even though we’d all lost something that day, one of us had to make sure all of us could still shine, at least a little.

I blink several times and find myself back in reality, a personal hell of my own, and glance to the right. Declan is passed out awkwardly in a chair pulled up beside my bed. Based on the shadow of beard growth decorating his chin and cheeks, he’s been here for a while. His hair is all over the place, flattened in some spots and sticking up in others. The baseball cap in his lap accounts for that.

I open my mouth to speak, but it’s more of a rasp. My mouth is dry, and all I want is to drink a gallon of water. My stomach is roiling though, so I’m not sure it would be a great idea even though I’m horribly parched.

I clear my throat and try to wet my mouth so my tongue doesn’t feel so much like sandpaper. It helps, and this time I’m able to say Declan’s name. It’s barely more than a whisper, but he jolts as though he’s been Tasered. His ball cap falls to the floor and his wild eyes land on me.

“Ave? Oh, thank fucking God.” He clasps my hand between his, bows his head, and presses his lips to my knuckle. “I’m so glad you’re awake. I wasn’t sure … I didn’t think … I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t understand what he’s talking about. Or why he’d be sorry. I don’t have much in the way of memories. Just sounds I want to block out and pain that makes it hard to think. I note the needle in the back of my hand hooked up to an IV beside my bed. My right arm—the dominant one—is encased in a cast all the way past my elbow and is set in traction, keeping it raised and immobile. My left leg is also in a cast, all the way from my foot to the top of my thigh.

Real panic hits and the words are pitchy with fear. “What happened to me?”

“You were in a car accident. Thank God you’re awake. It’s been almost two days.” His voice cracks with emotion. “How do you feel? What hurts? What can I get you?”

“Thirsty.” Everything is too overwhelming to be able to get more than a single word out.

Declan clambers to his feet and almost face-plants into the nightstand beside the bed. He picks up a plastic glass of water with a bendy straw and brings it to my lips. I want to be able to do it myself, but I don’t feel strong enough to manage. As it is, I can barely muster the strength to suck the water through the straw.

Even tipping my head forward a fraction of an inch to meet the straw takes an incredible amount of energy. I rest back against the pillow, processing the various aches and pains. I’m foggy, and I don’t feel as if I’m quite connected to my body.

“How bad?” I don’t need to elaborate, considering my current state.

He sets the glass on the nightstand and takes my left hand in his, eyes flitting from my face back to the IV taped to my hand. “You have a broken ulna and radius in your right arm, and a fractured elbow. Your left tibia is broken and needed pins to keep everything in place while it heals. There’s a fracture in your fibula and femur. You also have a dislocated kneecap, bruised ribs, and some bruising and swelling in your face because the airbag deployed.”

“So really bad.” At least my sarcasm is still intact. It’s a deflection from the dread taking hold. Tiny fragments of memory filter in. The sound of metal scraping against metal. Starbursts of pain. Fear. Declan’s muffled voice. I can’t fit any of the pieces together, but I know it must be the accident that I’m remembering.

“I should’ve been with you. I don’t know what I was thinking. If we’d had my SUV, the rain wouldn’t have been a problem. I’m so sorry, Ave.” He chokes on the words and bows his head, fingers still wrapped around mine.

I want to be able to tell him it’s okay, but I’m in pretty rough shape by the look and feel of things. He’s not wrong. There’s a chance I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t flaked out on me. But at the same time, who knows if being in his car would’ve even made a difference.