Thirty-six
THIRTY-SIX
Tag
“ L ook, Tag!” Bea turns a circle in the barnyard and her hair spins around, catching a bit of falling light.
I smile and nod. She’s laughing. I love her laugh, but I wish she would stop. I need to listen. I turn to peer down the driveway.
Nothing. Safe.
“Tag, you’re not looking!”
My voice feels thick. “I’m—I’m looking. I see.”
Two hands capture the sides of my face and jerk it down. “Tag, focus on me.”
“I am focused.” I feel angry. I’m doing the best I can.
Somewhere, someone starts an engine. I whirl around, breaking out of her grasp. My eyes dart down the driveway. I take a few quick strides away, looking for the source of the sound. It’s Jesse starting the baler.
Nothing. Safe.
I wave frantically to have him turn it off, but he’s not looking. I can’t hear above the noise.
If I can’t hear, I have to keep watch.
So I stand at the end of the driveway, plant my feet, and watch .
Bea huffs behind me. “What are you doing?”
“Watching.”
“You’re supposed to be watching me!”
“I can’t right now.”
She walks over to stand in front of me. Tears are in her eyes. “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I always have to watch.”
She stomps away. She’s angry at me. I don’t know what to ? —
A cloud of dust travels up the driveway. His sedan.
I jerked awake, crying out.
Darkness engulfed me. Shallow breaths stretched against my tight rib cage.
Just another weird dream.
Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. I lifted the sheet to wipe my brow; my hands shook. I tried calming down with some breathing exercises. The silent room seemed to reverberate with my inhales and exhales.
I showered, changed my soaked sheets, laid back down, and tossed and turned.
Sleep evaded like it always did.
After bad dreams, I used to sit at my desk, write myself into exhaustion, and drop back to sleep. But those days were over, the pages too risky now. Even though I’d given up writing, I still yearned to pour my thoughts out onto a page. I missed it.
Sometimes I’d write about real life or work on a piece of poetry. And sometimes I’d make things up, writing stories. I had notebooks full of random stories. It used to be an escape.
Finally, sleep pulled at me. Right as I dozed, I heard a loud thump and a woman’s sharp cry.
Bea.
My knee jerk reaction activated before I’d even realized I heard something. I flew out of my bed, down the hallway, and charged—screw the formality of knocking—into Bea’s room.
My heart was wild in my chest.
“Bea? ”
No answer.
I squinted in the dark. Her bed was empty, the covers draping off the far side of the mattress.
“Bea?”
Her bathroom door was wide open, light off.
I walked around the end of the bed to the other side and looked at a heap on the floor. There she was, laying in a fetal position.
I dropped to my knees beside her. “Bea! What happened! Did you fall?”
She moaned, low. I brushed my knuckles over her forehead. Was she sick? I gently shook her shoulder.
“Wake up, Bea! Wake up!”
Her moan grew, turning into a whimper. Then she heaved, and a stream of hot fluid gushed from her mouth, coating the floor by her head.
I jumped back. “Oh, shit!”
She managed to say my name before another heave wracked her body. “Tag, please help me.”
Something in my chest squeezed so tight, I thought my ribs would break. I kneeled behind her and rubbed the back of her shoulder. “Bea, I’m right here.”
“I’m so dizzy.”
The panic held at bay in my heart broke free—a hot sensation scorching my veins as it dumped into my blood.
Dizzy ? She should not be dizzy.
“Did you fall off the bed and hit your head?”
“No.” She struggled to form words. “I fell…because…I’m dizzy.” She whimpered and gripped the floor with her fingers, like she was afraid the tilting earth would steal her away.
After a few minutes of prodding her, I realized she was completely incapable of movement. She could not even move an arm without collapsing. She couldn’t lift her head to throw up. I tried to lift her out of the mess, but her dizziness spiked when I did.
Fear gripped my throat. “We’ve gotta get you to the ER, Bea.” I ran to my room, got dressed, grabbed both our wallets and phones and the truck keys. Then I wrapped a sheet around Bea, tucked my arms behind her shoulders and knees, and lifted. She nearly screamed. Her fingers dug into my shirt. She mumbled, “I feel…like…I’m falling.”
“You ain’t falling. I got you. I promise.”