Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Twenty-Three | Part 1

| photo by Olga Kononenko from Unsplash |

Someone is holding my hand. Strong fingers threaded through mine. Pressure constant.

I keep my eyes closed, holding onto the idea—the possibility that it might be Noah sitting beside me.

But no. It can't be. He left before Mom got there.

My eyes sting and I squeeze them tighter, remembering: the relief and the shame of hearing her frantic voice in Drew's foyer. Retching the second migraine pill into a cheery orange dish towel. The rain soaking my clothes, yet again, as Mr. Watterson carried me out to Mom's van so she could bring me to the emergency room.

"Allyson?"

Dad?

I test the light with a cautious squint. And yes, it's Dad's sturdy hand holding mine. But his brown eyes are wide and anxious. "How can you be here?" I ask, but the words come out fractured. My voice is croaky. Like I haven't spoken in years.

"I left work as soon as I got your mom's message," he says.

Left North Carolina? But that's three hours away. I clear my throat and ask, "How long have I been here?"

And where is Mom—where's Lindsay? I know they were both here when the nurse brought me in because the neurologist I can't remember—because she's the doctor who took care of me right after my accident—asked Lindsay three times if she was sure I hadn't hit my head on anything.

I scan the small cluttered room, finding that Dad and I are alone and...also...that I can relax my eyelids. All the florescent light and shiny chrome seems to have lost its intensity. I mean, yeah. It still hurts my eyes, but not in a knife-stabbing, migraine kind of way.

Oh. That's because there's a clear tube taped to my arm. "What are they giving me?" I ask.

"They gave you a shot when you first got here," Dad says, nudging my hand away from the IV. "But that was more than four hours ago. Now you're on your second bag of saline. The doctor thinks dehydration may have played a role in the severity of your headache."

His tone is guarded, but there's an edge of...disappointment?

"Lindsay said you refused your medicine when she first offered it to you," he says. Definitely disappointed.

Crap. What else did she tell them?

Mom started pummeling her with questions the moment the three of us were alone in the car—that much I remember. But the migraine wouldn't let me focus, so I don't know if Lindsay told the truth.

Do I even know what the truth is?

The uncomfortable knot that lives in my chest goes sharp and burning. I close my eyes, but that only diverts the tears down the sides of my face and into my ears. "I was so stupid," I say. "So convinced I could be brave and strong—that I could fix her. But all I did was make things worse. I gave my little sister drugs. I taught her how to escape."

"Lindsay said she stole drugs out of that Watterson kid's car," Dad says, his tone significantly less guarded. And that edge in his tone has sharpened into frustration.

Drew's fuzzy face pops into my head, his eyes flighty with panic, his head shaking. It's a moment I desperately wish I did not remember. I open my eyes and focus on something I know is true.

"Lindsay is lying," I say. "Or just..." I try to sit up, but my brain refuses to relay the message to my body. "She's withholding information—like Mom did, trying to protect me. But that's not what we need, not any of us. That's how our family got so...just...messed up."