Stalking Around The Christmas Tree

Chapter 1

One

Henry

“Ready to go, babe?” Travis kisses my cheek, taking my arm in his.

With my eyes locked on my latest sculpture that has a giant sold sign on top, I smile and nod. “Yeah. I think it’s time you take me to that celebratory dinner you promised me.”

“My stomach agrees.” He rubs it, sending me a wink, and I laugh, tugging him past a group of people. We exit the exhibit and I shiver, holding an arm around my chest.

“I told you to run back into the house and grab your jacket earlier, didn’t I?” He cocks his head, picking up his steps with me to the car.

“Yeah, but I was hoping you’d go get it for me.”

“I don’t ever make you go back for my jacket, do I?”

We both slide into the car at the same time and I sigh, cranking up the heat as soon as he starts the engine. “No, but I would get it if you asked me to.”

His lips press together and he glares at me. “You’d get mine if I asked but not yours when you need it?”

He doesn’t get it. I wanted him to show any type of effort that he cares about me.

That he hates the idea of me being cold.

I could have gotten it myself, of course, but I was hoping that for once he’d do something for me without me asking.

I’m always doing stuff for him. I’m always making an effort.

And yes, I care more about him getting cold than I do myself.

I know he has his own way of showing me he loves me, but I can’t help but want more.

Like him offering me his coat when he didn’t flinch once after we stepped outside.

If I thought he needed it as much as me or more, I wouldn’t have taken it, but I just wanted him for once to show an ounce of thoughtfulness. Now I’m even sounding silly to myself. It’s true, I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, but I don’t think my expectations are too unrealistic.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sounding insane right now. Just ignore me.”

Lifting my hand, he kisses the back. “You’re hungry is all. We’ll get some food in you and you’ll start thinking rationally again.”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip, my stomach tightening. “That’s what it is.”

He pulls his hand away, setting it on the wheel, and backs out of the parking lot without another word. I put on the radio, turning it up when a Christmas song I like is playing.

He grunts, side-eyeing me. “You know I hate Christmas music altogether, but especially in November.”

“I know. I just really like this song.”

“I’ll tell you what.” He presses his lips into a tight smile, slowing down at a stoplight. “Since it’s your big day, I’ll let you pick anything else and I won’t complain.”

My lips twitch. “But I want to hear this.”

“Yes, but I’m driving and it’s giving me a headache.”

It’s always about what it’s doing to him. “Just this one. Please. It’s halfway over.”

His fingers squeeze the wheel. “Yeah, I’m sorry, but I can’t take another second.” He reaches his hand toward the knob, and I block him with my finger, smirking.

Laughing, he elbows me. “Stop. I’m trying to be serious here about me possibly getting us into a car wreck from lack of concentration.”

“You’re being dramatic. It’s one song.”

“It’s more than just about the song. It’s like you’re purposely trying to piss me off now.

” His face pulls tight and he swerves, pushing my hand away.

Only seconds of him taking his eyes off the road is all it takes.

The car spins on the icy road. Travis pulls the emergency break and we stop.

He sighs in relief, and as he’s turning his head to look at me, a car slams into us from behind and we slide off the road.

Our vehicle flips over, and my head knocks against the glass so hard my whole world goes black.

***

“Baby?” a rough voice says, a finger swiping over my cheek.

My eyes blink open, feeling as heavy and achy as the rest of me. My head is pounding and when I look around everything is a blur. Colors blend together, and I can make out shapes of what I think are people but not much else.

“Baby? Can you hear me?”

I nod, eyes watering. “What happened?” I blink my eyes hard, closing and then opening them. My vision doesn’t improve. It’s like a broken TV with lines and static going through the picture.

“We were in an accident.” He sounds closer, fingers lacing with mine. “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks. It’s so good to see those pretty eyes again. You have no idea.” His voice shakes.

Then it all slowly comes back. The Christmas music he wanted off so badly and the slippery roads. The car that was going too fast behind us.

“Two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“But the show I was supposed to feature my work in . . .”

He squeezes my hand. “Everyone was very understanding and said they’d invite you back next year.”

“Next year,” I say, my next breaths cutting at my throat. “But I’ve waited so long for that first invite.” A lot could change in a year. So much changed before a Christmas song could even finish playing.

“I know, baby, but they had to put you in an induced coma with all the surgeries. The pain was a lot on your body. Next year will be here before you know it. You just focus on getting better.”

My eyes move around the room, and I blink them again, growing frustrated when my sight won’t clear up. “Why can’t I see?”

“What do you mean?” His warm breath hits my cheek. “Can you not see me?”

I shake my head, my heart galloping in my chest. Something’s not right. Is it some weird side effect from the medication? Is this my body’s way of responding to the trauma it endured? “I can’t see anything. I haven’t been able to since I woke up. Is it nighttime?” It seems too bright for that.

“No, it’s the afternoon. Maybe you need to finish coming to.”

“I’m awake, Travis,” I say, sounding small. “I don’t think I can wake up any more than I have.”

“Let me call the nurse. Maybe she’ll have some answers for us.

They didn’t say anything about you having issues with your eyes upon waking.

” Metal scrapes against what I can only assume is the floor and he stands up.

His body heat is moving away with the growing gap between us making me more unsettled.

Silence stretches around me, and it’s more because I block out everything else until he returns.

“Baby?”

“Yeah?” I lift my hand, searching for him, and he grabs it, kissing the back.

“Nurse Kimberly is here. Tell her what you told me.”

“I can’t see.”

“At all?” Her shoes clack against the floor as she moves in closer.

“No. I mean, only blurry shapes, but I can’t really distinguish them from each other.”

“Okay. Hang tight and I’ll get the doctor.” Her words are louder in my ears, and I realize she’s shining a light into my eyes. I barely react to it but the clicking sound taps at my ears.

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be okay, baby.” The bed dips as he perches on the edge. “There has to be some kind of explanation. I’m sure it’s nothing permanent.” His hand slides over my leg, fingers trembling above the blanket. “It’s going to be okay,” he says again.

This time I’m not sure whether it’s me he’s trying to reassure or himself.

The room feels stuffier than before as more people enter. Different voices mix together and Travis joins in. He’s asking more questions, and the doctor asks him to leave the room for a little while.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll go get him some ice water.”

“That’s a good idea,” a woman’s voice responds.

I touch my lips together and they are pretty dry, my mouth sticking when I close and open it.

Yeah, water isn’t a bad idea. It’d be better if it also came with some pain meds, and maybe a pill that will help me see again.

What’s going on? Will I be like this for the rest of my life?

My throat tightens. I need my eyes, almost as much as I need my hands.

How am I supposed to know what clay or tool to use?

How am I supposed to differentiate colors while painting?

“Mr. Lotus, I’m Doctor Garrett. Can you tell me exactly what you’re experiencing?”

“Yeah. I can’t make out more than moving colors and bright lights. Barely even those. It’s how it might look if you were standing on the other side of fogged glass.”

She clicks her pen, scribbling something down on paper. It’s strange how loud everything becomes when you don’t have as many senses to work with anymore. “And you’ve been like this since first waking up?”

“Yes. I keep blinking and shutting my eyes while counting. I open them and it’s no better than before. Did I lose my eyesight in the accident?”

“It’s hard to be certain without further testing. There could be many factors at play here.”

“Such as?” I say in a strong attempt at trying to steady my voice.

She clears her throat, her steps closing in on me. “It could be a trauma response. Your body has been through a lot this month, but it could also be from the head trauma you experienced. It’s possible it caused neurological damage and short-term blindness.”

“You’re saying it could return?”

“I wish I could say for sure, but until we do more testing—”

“Let’s do that, then,” I say abruptly without meaning to. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was actually saying the words until I was finished.”

A hand pats me on the shoulder. “It’s okay, dear. I know this is a tough situation to be in. We’ll do our best to get all the answers we need to help you.”

“Okay.” I tuck my shoulders in, shrinking in the bed. “Can I maybe get a shower too?” I guess I’m looking for anything to make me feel more human and normal right now, instead of like a fictional character from a horror film.

“Sure. Let’s get these wires protected and we’ll have two nurses come in to see how you are on your feet. Physical therapy will be coming in the next hour too.”

“Physical therapy?”

“Yes,” she says quietly in my ear. “You haven’t moved from this bed in two whole weeks, and with the brain injury—”

“My mobility might be affected too,” I finish for her.

“Yes,” she says with a sadness in her tone, and suddenly I’m feeling bad for her when I’m the one sitting in a room I can’t even see. “I’ll go put those orders in for X-rays and scans. Are you hungry? Can we bring you a tray in the meantime?”

“Yeah. Food might help.” My stomach protests with a loud growl and an uncomfortable shift.

“Food does sometimes make things a little better.” Her fingers squeeze my shoulder and then her footsteps rush away. A different set approaches, and as the person drags their feet, I recognize the way they move their body. Travis. He’s back.

“I got your water, baby. Want me to help you sit all the way up?”

I look around, feeling my way around the bed and pressing on all the wrong buttons. The TV turns on and I mute it. I then hit the call button and lay the head of the bed all the way down with a low groan.

Travis chuckles. “Here. Let me help, and then I can take your hand to show you where everything is.”

“I’m glad one of us finds this humorous.”

The bed jerks as it lifts, and a small, hard object is slid under my hand.

It’s the remote. The buttons are bubbled up to make it easy to press, and I brush my fingers over them, closing my eyes and remembering the blue and red colors from the last time I was at the hospital.

It wasn’t as a patient. I never thought I’d be closing my eyes in order to see what I was once able to see when they were open.

“Aren’t you the one who said if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry?”

“Yes, but it’s different if it’s me doing it,” I say snidely, and I can picture him smiling sadly at me.

It was a sympathetic look he gave me whenever I cut myself on scissors or was having a bad day.

This is worse than a bad day. This is a nightmare.

And it only gets worse too. I’m on a liquid diet, so I’m only able to have Jello and some bullshit broth.

Not seeing the point of continuing to eat, I shove the tray away, and when they come to help me get in the shower, I struggle to balance myself on my feet.

My legs forget how to move, stiffening up when they finally get me to stand.

It takes four people. They put me in a wheelchair and help me slide over into what they call a shower chair.

“It will get better once you start your therapy,” nurse Jillian says, and she tells me what she’s doing as she turns on the water.

I want to ask what all will get better, but I know I won’t hear the answers I’m waiting for.

I want to wash myself, but I can’t reach the shampoo and conditioner bottles.

For all I know, I’ll be washing my hair with iodine.

What I really want is to wake up and be back on my way to the restaurant.

I want to let Travis change the station and not care so much about listening to that damn Christmas song.

I also want to close my eyes and stay in bed forever when they finally tell me what I don’t want to hear.

My retinas have detached. I have a little bit of light and color perception in both eyes, but that’s it, and they aren’t sure it’ll ever improve.

As they’re telling me all this, I face where the light is shining the most and disassociate, wishing that when I’d last looked out the window, I’d taken the time to appreciate it more.