Т Нован - Exposure Season 2

"How?" I ask. I don’t even want to imagine how she obtained his gun. If he had it near her, it means he was planning on using it. We were almost too late. Almost.

Bear shrugs. "I dunno. We’ll have to ask her later what happened."

I look through the doors at Kelsey. She killed him? My mind can’t even picture Kels holding a gun, let alone pulling the trigger fourteen plus times.

"It probably saved her life, Harper." Bear must sense my distress.

I nod. "Of course, it did. She wouldn’t have done it otherwise. She’s not that kind of person." I, on the other hand, had I encountered the bastard and had a gun in my hand would not have hesitated even a second. I’m sorry Mama and Papa, but some people don’t deserve to live.

"I know," Bear agrees sympathetically.

It seems like it’s been hours, but I know it’s only been a short while that we’ve been sitting in the waiting room. The rest of the family arrived a few minutes after Robie and Bear did. Mama is sitting next to me, her hand on my back. Rene is on the other side of me, her hand wrapped around my upper arm. Clark in sleeping soundly in my embrace, baby drool staining my shirt. Papa and Robie have been sent to find food and coffee, not necessarily in that order.

"As soon as Kelsey is well enough, you both should come home," Mama says softly, glancing toward the trauma room doors, as she has every few minutes. She’s as worried as I am.

"If the doctors say it’s okay, and Kels wants to, we will," I agree, giving Clark a little kiss on the top of his head. He still has that baby soft spot, reminding me of how fragile life truly is.

"We’ll convince her." Mama smiles at me, holding out her hands for Clark. My Mama is the only person in this world I would give him up to right now. Once I am no longer holding him, I need to move around the room.

I find myself standing in front of the door again, peering through the window. The flurry of activity around Kels has stopped and only a doctor and a nurse remain. This is a good sign. It means soon I will be able to get to her. The doctor makes a note in his chart, while the nurse adjusts an IV drip. Finally, the doctor turns and heads toward us. At last.

"Are you with Ms. Stanton?" he asks me, letting the door close behind him, keeping me from her still.

"Yes. How is she?"

"She’s a remarkably strong woman. Right now, we have her stabilized, and we expect her condition to improve fairly quickly."

"Thank God," I murmur.

"She’s been through quite an ordeal, however. She’s dehydrated and malnourished. She has a concussion, three broken ribs, a broken right wrist and a badly damaged left knee. In addition, she has bruising to her liver and kidneys from when he beat her. But, given time and rest, I don’t expect she’ll suffer any complications from those injuries. She may need to have surgery on the knee, but I think we can do it orthoscopic when she’s healed up from her other injuries some."

"Can I see her now?"

"As soon as we get her settled in her room. She’s been sedated and she’s going to be groggy. She may not even know you’re there."

"She’ll know," I reply, confidently. I’ll make sure she knows. I don’t want to, but I have to ask. "Doctor, was she raped?"

"No. The rape kit came back negative."

The family has gone back to my place to rest and let the others in the family know the good news about Kelsey. Papa also could tell I needed time with Kelsey, alone, and he made sure I got it. I love my father.

Kels and I are in her room. She’s resting comfortably, even snoring a little. I think that’s my favorite sound now, and will be for the rest of my life. It tells me she’s alive.

I make myself at home here. I dare anyone to tell me I can’t stay with her. I’ll never understand a legal system which doesn’t guarantee me the right to be by my partner in time of crisis. Hell, maybe it is a good thing Mom is on that Committee for Same Sex Marriages. If anyone can beat sense into lawmakers, it’d be my Mama. I need to make sure Robie draws us up health care proxies and power of attorney, as soon as possible.

Taking my jacket off, I toss it over a chair, then take a seat next to the bed.

Lifting her uninjured hand, I give it a little kiss, resting my head on the mattress next to it. I feel her fingers move, brushing my cheek. Lifting my head up, I find her looking at me.

"Hey, Little Roo."

"I want a vacation." She struggles with the words and a smile.

"You got it, chér. I know just the place."

"Oh yeah? Tell me about it."

I smile, so glad to be enjoying easy conversation with this woman. "It’s a big, old house surrounded by magnolia trees. During the summer, and especially during a rainstorm, you can smell that sweet scent hanging heavy around you. In the house, there’s this amazing feather bed in an airy room on the third floor. The room has a fireplace and a balcony. And, there’s this bossy lady downstairs who cooks all the time and won’t let me into the kitchen."

Kelsey whispers, "You don’t belong in there."

"No, I suppose I don’t. But, you do."

I feel like I’ve been run over. And then the truck stopped, backed up, and ran over me again.

I try to decide what hurts worst — my knee or my wrist. My knee wins. Jesus, it hurts. I can feel every heartbeat in it, as blood passes through the huge swollen appendage. I couldn’t move it, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I don’t want to ever move it again. Not if hurts like this.

My nose itches. Carelessly, I reach up to scratch it and nearly give myself another concussion. Note to self: don’t scratch with the hand in the cast.

I study my right hand and wrist, encased in white plaster. I broke my arm once in grammar school. I had jumped out of a swing, a little too high, and landed rather badly. But it was fun for a couple days having everyone write on my arm. It made me feel a part of things for once.

I was sent to a new boarding school the next semester. Mother said this one, the one where I had friends, didn’t have a high enough standard of safety for her tastes. I think I hate my mother. And I am not surprised to not find her at my bedside right now.

A glance out the window tells me it’s either very late at night or very early in the morning. Either way, it’s dark outside. I can’t see the stars due to the light given off by Los Angeles. I miss the stars.

And I don’t mean the Hollywood kind.

I turn my head to the left and look down at the head nestled against my waist. Her long arm is wrapped around my hips, holding me in place securely, as if I could go anywhere. I can’t see her features, her hair has fallen over them, obscuring my view, but I imagine what she looks like in sleep. She looks unguarded, like she does when we’re in New Orleans, surrounded by people she loves. Her lips are always slightly parted and she breathes more through her mouth than her nose. When I closed her mouth one time, she began snoring and woke herself up. It was endearing.

With the free and unhurt fingers of my left hand, I gently comb her hair back so I can see her face. Her hair is silky under my fingertips, its darkness blending in with the shadows in the room. God, she’s beautiful. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.

I thought she had died.

That thought, even in the face of such obvious falsity, causes me to choke up. I can feel the tears streaming down my face, pooling in my ears. I hate that. I start to reach up to wipe it away, but catch myself in time. I nearly clocked myself again. This is going to take some getting used to.

"What’s wrong, Little Roo? Are you in pain?" she asks, awake now. She pushes herself up and looks down at me, her thumb wiping away my tears.