Stay Tuned

Chapter 38

The pillow under my head was soft as a cloud. The sheets smelled as clean as rain showers on a summer day. I snuggled deeper under the layers of blankets, drawing them up around my shoulders.

A few threads of light danced on the wall nearest my bed.

I slipped in and out of sleep, dreaming first about Kelly as a baby, then a toddler. My thoughts turned to Candace and Ella Marie. My mind wandered, finally turning to last night. Rick was there, and Chris, and Alyssa…

Alyssa. Oh my.

The gun. The gala. The newscast.

Certainly, it was a bad dream. No, not a bad dream. If it really happened, that would be a nightmare. Of the Chernobyl kind.

Slowly, I moved the covers down a few inches. I hesitated, and then squeezed my fingernails into my palm. I ran a hand along my chest, then my shoulders, and throat. No bandages or slings.

Mother always said I had a great imagination. She actually said I could write a book from all the silly stories I told her. Of course, I was vying with the television, book-signings, and movie stars who always won out for her attention.

No, I think it this was real.

I moved my hand further up, this time to my chin. Then, one finger extended, I patted my cheek.

Ouch! I winced in pain.

The skin under my eye was as tender as a child’s scraped knee. My arm looked like I had tangled myself in a barbed wire fence. I pushed back the covers and examined my legs. Bruised. Stomach? Black and blue.

Someone—I’m sure Chris—had managed to wrestle a tee-shirt over my head. It seemed like my bra and panties were in one piece.
 
Candace’s dress lay carefully draped on the over-stuffed chair in near the window. What was left of it. The hem looked like edges had been dipped into a food processor. A long rip traveled from one hip to the knee. Splatters of dirt covered the bodice. And was that…more blood?

Okay. I didn’t dream any of it.

Wait. I remembered getting into the car. And driving. Chris was there and I was so sleepy. I must have dozed off in the car…

I sat up in a flash. Who did the ten o’clock news? And where was Chris?

My head swam, and then started to pound with the intensity of a steel drum. I covered my face with my hands, trying to block it out. My stomach churned. Could I make it to the bathroom if I was sick?
One hand behind me, I eased back down to my pillow and tried to swallow the nausea that welled up in my throat. Okay, so I probably should have gone to the emergency room. Why had I insisted I was fine?

I brought the other pillow to my face, blocking out the minute amounts of sunshine that made my eyes hurt. The floorboards in the hallway creaked. Chris. What time was it? I couldn’t move to look at the clock.

“You’re awake?”

The down-filled pillow muffled my voice. “Barely,” I replied.

I slid the pillow out of the way and looked at the ceiling, then moved my head so that I could see him in the doorway. “What time is it?”

“It’s just before eight a.m. You’ve been sleeping well. Hey,” he said gently, his eyes on my cheek. “How does that bruise feel?”
 
“Mmm. Not great,” I replied and looked away. “How does it look?”

“Not good,” Chris agreed reluctantly. His face was pale, matching the white-blonde of his hair. There were bags under his eyes. Dressed in pressed shorts and a crisp polo shirt, he looked ready for the golf course, except on any other day, he’d have been gone an hour ago, if not sooner.