Remember Me? (Book 1) COMPLETED

Earthquake

KATHERINE

Betsy stopped me at the door of the hospital suite. She took my bags from me, but the burden remained.

My feet throbbed, having been subjected to cutting through city blocks and crunchy sidewalk only to barrel right into the hospital.

"Just, brace yourself, okay?" she said, hand on the doorknob. Her hair, tied up in a curt bun, had come undone in waves across her shoulders.

I swallowed. "Let me see her." My voice was dry and cracked, but I didn't care.

The door opened before Betsy could turn the knob. A nurse emerged and apologized to Betsy before her eyes fell on me. She gave me a look up and down, eyes lingering on my greasy hair and pants shredded at the knees from falling when turning the corner to the hospital.

"Ms. Malloy?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded, but my voice wouldn't cooperate. The end of the bed could be glimpsed through the crack in the door, two small hills where my mother's feet lay under the blanket. They trembled, like the aftershocks of an earthquake yet ravaged her world.

"This is Katherine, Camille's daughter." Betsy stepped in to speak for me. A wave of relief washed over me, quickly evaporating when the nurse disappeared, her pager going off.

Betsy's warm fingers went around my upper arm, sending ripples of sunlight through my veins. I gave her a sideways glance. She looked like a war-torn goddess, her flower print dress, purple and white, wrinkled, her face dusted with dirt and grime. When we entered the room, the vacuumed air stole any traces of friendly scents from Betsy's skin, and all that permeated the air was the sweet, disinfectant stench of the hospital.

The tubes coming out of her body mortified me, and my legs buckled beneath me. The chair Betsy had placed beside the bed caught me.

I stared at my mother, squinting my eyes at the pale figure and trying to see how this frail body was somehow related to the strong maternal presence I had come to know. Her head, shaved and bruised, was reminiscent of a hard boiled egg. I tasted it on my tongue, the sandwiches mother made before sending me off to school. That seemed a lifetime ago. The glasses of cool lemonade, beads of water condensed on the outside, evaporated like hope at my father's funeral. Erland, then only five, sobbed by the grave as they lowered the casket in. He gave a fatal screech when they began dumping dirt. He jumped into the pit, ran to the side, and rapped the coffin with his fist, praying that Dad might answer in their secret code.

Wake up, he rapped, knuckles turning red. Wake up. Wake up.

But Dad didn't wake up.

And the tears that spurred young Erland to cry even earned a few bright eyes from the crowd.

No one talked about what bad Dad had done. The bruises on my mother's arms and on my stomach were forgotten, fading with the threat of another beating, healing with the absence of his twisted love.

At least Dad had never touched Erland.

Erland was the only one to cry that day, though Lord knows I cried weeks after.

And here lay Mother, suffering the same fate, however dissimilar. Another car accident was tearing a parent away, only this time the jackass driving was in the other car. I stared at the bedrail, my mother's heartbeat on the monitor droning on in my ear.

Anger burst from within me. I got to my feet, startling Betsy on the other side of the bed.

She stood, eyes wide. "Is everything okay?"

I bit down on my tongue.

"Kat—"

"Who was the drunk who hit her car?" I whispered, hands curling into fists at my sides.

"I-I don't know, Kat, but the police are on it. They said—"

"Shut up." I hissed, whirling about to face my mother. Betsy's voice suddenly irritated me. Her presence, the glint of the ring on her finger, her unnecessary positivity.

"Kat, what's wrong?" Betsy stepped around, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Her touch calmed the rage within me, enough for my to understand what tumultuous emotions churned inside.

I was angry at my father, whose memory still made my body tremble. My skin burned red at the memory of my last embrace with Nicolas before the wedding, before I learned the truth. All the men I knew had hurt me. And here was Betsy, suffering through her own mental beating. But for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to feel compassion for her. Resentment weighed heavy in my chest, like a secret that could blow up the world.

"I need space." I murmured, feeling her presence far too close to mine. "You're too close, you're too close." My fingertips tingled as the dregs of friendship in me tried to fight the rising tide of rage. The smell of her perfume overpowered my senses. "Go, Betsy."

Her heels clicked on the tiles, unsure. "Kat, I know you're upset, but I can't leave you alone."

Air hissed through my teeth. I squeezed my eyes shut. "I'm not going to—" I swallowed hard, feeling the venom on my tongue. "—Go home, Betsy."

Betsy hesitated. "I-I'll just restock your fridge, Kat, okay?" The jingling of keys bombarded my ears. "I'll lock the door on my way out." She started to turn.

"Stop."

She paused in her step, like a meerkat under the gaze of a hawk.

"I never asked for your help." I spat, my voice too loud for the small room. Her shoulders tensed, fingers curling into fists, but she didn't turn around and she didn't reply. The door closed softly in her wake. Remorse tasted bitter on my tongue.

Five minutes passed in silence. A knock sounded on the door.

"Betsy?" I called, hopeful.

A dry voice answered. "No, it's Doctor Firland."

"And Mr. Collins." Another voice sounded, scratchy and nervous. "Your lawyer."