6. Clara
CLARA
HEAL ME
The sound that wakes me is incessant. It’s a steady beep, beep, beep that makes me scrunch my eyebrows in confusion.
Why is there an alarm clock going off? And whose alarm is that?
It can’t be mine—my alarm isn’t nearly that obnoxious—and I definitely don’t want to wake up right now.
My body feels so heavy, like I could sleep for thirty more hours, which is precisely what I plan to do.
But the beeping doesn’t stop. It’s almost as if it’s taunting me, telling me to get the hell up or you’re going to be late . Though I don’t know what I’d be late for. Isn’t it Saturday? I don’t work today.
Slowly, so slowly, I peel my eyes open—holy shit, that takes some effort—only to immediately close them again.
Ugh, it’s bright. The burn-your-retinas-blinding-white kind of bright.
It’s never this bright in my room. Not even when I leave the curtains open and the sun shines through the bay windows, which is never because I don’t like bright lights.
Tamara always jokes that I’m like a vampire, preferring to hide away in the dark, but she’s not wrong. Give me a dark room any day.
I attempt to grab my phone from the nightstand but come to a full stop when my arm gets stuck halfway across my body. There’s a sharp pain radiating from my elbow and a dull ache from my wrists to my fingers.
What the hell?
I’m forced to brave the light and open my eyes to find out why my arm won’t move any further. I blink through the bleariness and squint through the sunshine.
Wait a minute. It’s not sunshine. And this isn’t my bedroom.
I feel my eyes bulge as I frantically glance around a room that isn’t mine. Three walls are a crisp, boring white and a large window spans the entire length of the last wall, the one to the right of the bed. The curtains are drawn wide, and I can see the busy streets of downtown Rochester easily.
It occurs to me that it’s still dark outside, and I have no idea what time it is.
The air smells sterile, like antiseptic.
I glance down at my arm, following the wires to the IV inserted in my elbow.
Huh. No wonder it hurts. I continue following the wires because they don’t stop at the IV.
There’s more. Four cords are attached to my chest beneath a starchy hospital gown, running all the way to a machine illuminated with steady beats.
A pulse oximeter is wrapped around my finger, seemingly connected to the same machine as the others .
A hospital gown.
I’m in a hospital.
The thought is so jarring, I let out a loud gasp. I move to sit upright and instantly regret the decision. The pressure I apply to my hands in a poor attempt to sit up is excruciating. I look down and find my wrists and fingers bandaged in white gauze.
My heart beats rapidly, matching the pounding in my head. I try to make sense of how I got here and what happened, but all I get is a sharp, shooting pain behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut, then take a deep breath.
I’m lying in a hospital bed.
Despite the pain in my head, I somehow manage to find my bearings. Reopening my eyes, I scan the room nervously. There’s a TV above a board that welcomes me to Clinic Hospital and tells me which nurse is happy to care for me today.
The loveseat in front of the window is empty. So is the chair in the corner across from it. For the first time, I notice that I’m alone.
There’s no one here.
I don’t remem—oh, god.
Tears fill my eyes and fall rapidly down my cheeks. It’s as if a dam has broken and there’s no stopping the flow. The once rhythmic beating of the heart rate monitor increases two fold, a warning that my heart is beating much too fast. It only causes a sob to lodge itself in my throat.
The wires.
This small bed .
I feel trapped.
Not again.
The beeping is getting louder; the cadence of my heart impossibly fast. There’s no lack of air in this space, yet I’m finding it hard to breathe.
The feeling is familiar. Too familiar.
A door swings open. The handle crashes against the wall so loud, I nearly fall off the bed.
That sound. That bang.
It’s all too familiar .
I turn my head to look toward the door, but my vision is cloudy, speckled with black spots. All I can see is the silhouette of a person walking towards me; he’s framed by the fluorescent light in the hallway.
The thought of him takes my panic to another level. I choke on a scream and shake my head profusely, begging him with each turn of my head to not come any closer.
He stops halfway between the door and the hospital bed. I think he’s talking to me. I can’t hear him; I feel as though I’m under water.
His face isn’t clear, but his warm brown eyes meet mine from where he stands.
Just for a second.
And then there’s nothing at all.
Two days ago
I hear a loud crack. It’s bone-rattling and causes me to flinch. It takes a few seconds to register that the noise preceded the stabbing pain in my temple, throwing my world into complete darkness.
My head throbs.
It feels like a heroic feat just to open my eyes. I can’t see. There’s no light; no sliver of brightness to penetrate the black depths of my surroundings.
My chest feels heavy. There doesn’t seem to be enough air, and I can feel the burn in my lungs with every inhale. Why is it so hard to breathe?
Where am I? Why can’t I remember anything before right now?
Darkness overloads my senses; the taste and smell of loam envelop me.
It’s so strong, I have to fight back a gag.
I can feel my heart racing against an invisible force, beating what feels to be hundreds of miles per minute.
I need to fight the panic long enough to think straight, but it’s nearly impossible.
I take a small breath to steady myself and make a concerted effort to take stock of my body. Maybe I can figure out where I am.
Restraints.
Coarse, thick rope cut into my wrists. The skin beneath the rough fibers feels raw. I attempt to break free from the bindings, pulling my wrists apart, but it only hurts more. Nothing I do loosens the rope—no matter how I maneuver my fingers and hands, it won’t budge.
Abandoning thoughts of breaking free, I wiggle my legs. They’re untied. I kick out, my feet colliding with something hard above me. Next to me. Beneath me.
Wood. The sound of my bare feet hitting the planks is unmistakable.
It’s everywhere.
I’m trapped.
Heart quickening, I close my hands into a fist and pound what solid surface I can reach. The sound ricochets in the small space, causing me to wince. Dirt drifts down, settling on my face and making me cough, forcibly expelling what little breath I have left.
I still.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
How long have I been down here? How much time do I have left?
Memories flash. A cloth on my face. The distinct sweet smell of chloroform. Rough hands bruising my arms. A sharp pinprick in my neck. Then, nothingness.
Oh, god. I can’t breathe.
I know I should save my breaths, but the panic doesn’t abate; it only heightens to a fever pitch until I swear my heart will give out.
I just need someone to hear me.
So I scream.
Someone help me.
Please.
I startle awake.
My face feels sticky and wet, so I swipe my bandaged fingers beneath my eyes. The movement hurts, but the pain brings me back to reality.
A sob wracks my chest. I fist the thin blanket and cover my mouth in a futile attempt to silence the cries.
Oh, god.
It wasn’t a dream.
It really happened.
I wanted it to be a nightmare.
I needed it to be a nightmare.
The coffin. The warehouse. All of it.
“Hey, hey, hey.” A soft, smooth voice shocks me out of my stupor. “Clara. You’re okay. You’re safe now.” His voice is deep and calming. It makes me want to believe what he’s telling me. That I’m safe. It makes me look up, where I find warm brown eyes staring back at me.
They belong to a man sitting in a chair next to my bed. I glance at the corner where the chair used to be and find that it’s no longer there. Its new home is right here, right next to me.
He’s close. His hands rest on top of the blanket just outside of my knees. They’re wrapped in gauze. His fingers would be centimeters from mine if I dropped my hands. But I don’t. I squeeze the blanket tighter and ignore the ensuing pain.
I don’t speak. Instead, I resume my silent perusal of the stranger sitting at my bedside. He’s older than me by a few years. By all accounts, I should be afraid of him. The last man I saw betrayed me in unspeakable ways, but there’s something about this stranger that calms me.
Maybe it’s his eyes. They’re warm and brown; the color of espresso. The intensity I see there only reinforces the sensation of safety I’m feeling.
His hair matches his eyes perfectly: dark brown with streaks of gray along the sides and in his trimmed beard. It’s longer on top and slightly wavy. Messy. Like he’s been running his hands through it.
He’s wearing a deep blue sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, showcasing ‘FBI’ in yellow letters at the center of his chest. This man is strong; it’s easy to tell, even through the bulkiness of his clothes.
After a few beats of silence, the stranger takes his cue to speak, his voice soothing.
“My name is Maverick. I’ve been here since you woke up the first time.
I hope you don’t mind.” A small smile graces his lips before a serious expression overtakes it.
“You, uh, had a panic attack. They had to sedate you to bring your heart rate down. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”
I consider his questions then shake my head.
I mean, yes, I’m in pain. My entire body hurts, but the throbbing and aching of my hands, wrists, and fingers take center stage.
I concentrate on that pain so I don’t have to think about the other pain—the one he caused when he forced himself on me. Every time I shift my legs, I feel it.
I still don’t speak.
“Okay. That’s good. I bet you want to know what happened. How you got to the hospital. Would you like me to explain or?— ”
I’m already nodding before he even finishes the question. I don’t want to wait. I want to know what the hell happened, and I want to know it now.
“A little over two weeks ago, you were taken,” Maverick starts.
His voice is soft and his eyes are locked on mine.
I give him a slow nod to continue, choosing to disregard the way my lip trembles and my eyes swell with tears.
“Your friend Tamara reported you missing when you didn’t show up for work.
They, uh, they couldn’t find you.” He ends on a tortured whisper.
The tears flow freely now. I do nothing to clear them.
They don’t know. They don’t know what he did. What I’ve been through. I know it isn’t their fault that they couldn’t find me. I didn’t even know where I was, but I can still feel the anger sweep through me.
Maverick pauses, watching me intently with glistening eyes.
He sighs and tilts his head down, clearing his throat before he begins anew.
“I was out for a run with Juno, my dog. We were running the trails at Silver Lake Park when Juno started for the woods. I didn’t know what he was doing, but he heard you.
” Maverick shakes his head and repeats himself, as if in disbelief, “He heard you. We started digging until backup arrived. We barely made it in time, Clara.”
The crack in his voice coupled with his words elicits a whole body sob. I hide my face in my hands, soaking the bandages with tears.
“I can stop. We don’t have to go over this right now.”
“No!” My protest is a whisper, but Maverick appears shocked at my voiced response and dips his chin.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath, as if he’s preparing himself.
“The paramedics were on site. As soon as we got you out of there, they tried to resuscitate you. One of the paramedics almost called it, but you finally came to. That was two days ago. You were in a coma. The doctors weren’t sure when you’d wake, but here you are. ”
My head is spinning with everything he’s said, but I focus my gaze on one thing: his hands. They’re bandaged. Because of me.
“You dug me out? With… with your hands?”
Maverick looks down at his hands, still on the bed, and turns them palm up. “I found a branch to help. Until RPD came with shovels.”
“Are you okay?”
I’m surprised when Maverick lets loose a laugh. I simply stare at him. What the hell is so funny?
“Oh, man,” he says with a chuckle and wipes his eyes. “After everything you’ve been through, you’re asking me if I’m okay? I’m okay, sunshine. Don’t worry about me.”
A knock on the door saves me from thinking about what he called me. Sunshine .
The door opens just enough for a woman to slip through, dressed in scrubs and a wide, genuine smile on her face.
She’s older, in her sixties at least, with gray hair thrown in a bun on top of her head.
She has a youthful appearance and easy persona about her.
I like her already. “You’re awake! I’m Rosie.
How you feeling, darling? The doctor will be in to see you in a little bit, but I’m going to take your vitals. And I just want to check on you.”
Rosie stops beside my bed to check the monitors and IV line.
When she’s satisfied less than a minute later, she places a hand on the guardrail and turns to face me.
“How about we get you sitting upright?” She waits for my nod before she presses a button on my side of the rail, only letting up when I’m fully seated.
Oh, bless her heart. I didn’t realize how much I needed to sit until this very moment.
“I bet you wanna get up and walk around, but I should probably get that catheter out of you first, darling.”
I cringe at the idea. Couldn’t they have done that when I passed out earlier? I don’t want to be awake for this.
I swallow thickly and clear my throat. “Oh. Uhm. Yes, okay.” I glance at Maverick and wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me, but there’s a lift to his lips as if he’s amused.
“Now, you, mister, need to leave,” Rosie says to Maverick. “I’ll let you know when you can come back in.” She points to the door and waits for him to acknowledge her demand before collecting what she needs from cabinets along the wall.
Maverick pats the mattress three times before he stands and walks toward the door. “See you soon, sunshine.”
There it is again.
Sunshine.