Fleeting Moments(9)

“There was!” I scream. “He was right there. He sat beside me. He saved me. He got me out. He was there.”

“You’ve experienced an extremely difficult time. Perhaps it’s best if you rest and we’ll talk to you when you’re feeling well again.”

“No,” I shriek. “No. I need to see him. He was there.”

“Lucy,” Gerard says, reaching for my hand. I jerk it back.

He looks hurt. “If the officer says he wasn’t there, perhaps you’ve gotten confused. Sometimes that happens in traumatic situations.”

“No,” I yell. “No, I was not confused. Go, look on the cameras, check the tickets. He was there. He saved me.”

“I’ll get a doctor,” the officer says, leaving the room.

“No,” I cry, trying to get out of the bed.

Gerard’s hands find my shoulders, and he pushes me back. “Lucy, calm down. You’re freaking out. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Squirming, I try to shove him off. “No. Let me go. You don’t understand.”

“Lucy, calm down.”

“No!” I scream so loudly he rears back startled.

A doctor appears, studying me, and then barking an order to the nurse. I fight against my husband, shoving desperate. They’re lying to me. Why are they lying to me? Tears soak my cheeks as I desperately try to force my way past Gerard.

A needle hits my arm and warmth once again spreads through me.

“Hunter,” I whisper as my body slumps backwards.

Where did you go?





CHAPTER 4


“Five people were killed and twenty injured in the deadliest attack the city has seen in its history. The baseball stadium was ambushed by what is believed to be a religious group after a request to take the land for their own was refused by the mayor.”

I stare at the television screen, my body numb. A religious group. Five dead. Twenty injured. Was one of those people Hunter? Did he get killed? Is he injured? Is he in this hospital? I lift the remote and turn the television off; I can’t watch it anymore. I can’t relive the horror for a second longer. It hurts, digging deep into my chest until I can’t feel or breathe anything but the pain.

“You need to stop watching that. It’ll only upset you more,” Gerard says, rising from the chair beside me and handing me a glass of water. “Have some water. You’re pale.”

I stare into his pleading eyes. “I’m not thirsty,” I say, my voice weak and scratchy.

“You need to keep your fluids up.”

“For what?” I mumble. “There’s no baby to take care of anymore.”

His face scrunches in pain, his eyes narrowing, his lips tightening. “No, there isn’t right now, but there might be again soon if you don’t—”

I roll to my side. “I’m tired, Gerard.”

“Lucy, I know you’re struggling. I know, but—”

“You don’t know,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “You have no idea.”

“I saw the news,” he argues weakly. “I saw it all. I had to wait, I had to watch, I—”

I roll and face him. “Did you see them get shot? Did they show you that on the news? Did you hear their screams? Did you feel their fear? No, you did not. I’m tired. Please leave.”

“Lucy, please don’t shut me out. I know it’s only been two days but it’ll get better, it will . . .”

No, it won’t.

I lost my baby. I’m being treated as if I’m losing my mind.

The man who saved me has fallen off the face of the Earth.

It will not be okay, and I’m tired of hearing it will.

“Lucy?”

My dad’s soft voice fills the room, and I peer around Gerard to see him standing at the door with two coffees in his hand. He raises them a little. “I got your favorite.”

Dad is the only one even trying to understand, to listen.

Gerard sighs and leans down, kissing my head. “I’ll go home, have a shower, and then I’ll coming back. I love you.”

I meet his eyes.

I do love him, but the words just won’t come out of my mouth. The Lucy I was three days ago just isn’t the same girl laying in this bed. I’ve changed; I don’t know how deep that runs but I can never go back to being the way I was. I can never unsee what I’ve seen. I can never save my baby. I can never see Hunter again.

I look away. I can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes because I don’t respond.

He leaves, and my dad moves closer. I look to him, studying him. My dad and I look the same—every single piece of me is made up of him. My mom always told me I got nothing from her. She was right. My blond hair is the same shade as his—soft like honey with a touch of gold. My eyes are the same shade of emerald green, and my skin the same creamy white.

He’s not very tall, and neither am I. For me, it makes me appear cute and petite; for him, he’s just short. He has a dimple when he smiles, just one in his left cheek. I have the same dimple. My dad is gentle, loving, and sweet. He raised me to be the same way. He raised me well, with love and compassion, and he gave me everything a dad should give his daughter. Granted, I’m an only child and so I got a lot of the good stuff, but all the same, he never let me be spoilt or rude.