Death Angel (Page 46)
Every decision she’d made in her life, every step she’d taken, had led her straight to that deserted road and the accident. That was the point at which she’d exited, and the point at which she’d been tossed back. No detours allowed, no shortcuts from dead to perfectly healed.
She remembered, with a clarity even the drugs couldn’t affect, every moment of what had happened after she died. Real time, though, was more hazy. Sometimes she would hear the nurses talking when they were in her ICU cubicle, the words drifting in and out of her brain and sometimes making sense, but just as often not. When she did understand the words, she felt a detached wonder: a tree stuck in her chest? That was ridiculous. But hadn’t she looked down and seen something like that? Her memory of that time before, or between, was fuzzy. Though if she’d had a tree stuck through her, it would certainly explain how she felt physically, and why the agony in her chest seemed to expand to every cell of her body. She had no sense of time, of what day it was, or anything beyond the bed she was on and the unceasing battle she fought with the Great Bitch of Pain.
The nurses talked to her, too, explaining over and over what had happened to her, what they were doing, why they were doing it. She didn’t care, so long as they delivered the drugs that kept the Great Bitch at bay. Of course, there came a time-way too soon, by her way of thinking-when her surgeon ordered a decrease in the drugs. He wasn’t the one in agony, with his sternum cut in two, so what did he care? He was the one wielding the saw and scalpel, not the one on the receiving end. She had only a vague idea which of her visitors was the surgeon, but as her mind began clearing she memorized some particularly salty things she wanted to say to him. Okay, so he’d had to cut her sternum in half, but cutting her drugs in half? Bastard.
If everything she’d seen and experienced was supposed to make her sweet and forbearing now that she had a second chance, she’d already failed that test. She didn’t feel at all sweet or forbearing. She felt like someone who’d had her sternum sawed in two and her heart hauled out and used as a soccer ball.
As she gradually left the drug-induced fog, for a while she couldn’t think of anything except the Great Bitch and how she could get through the next hour, because without the full power of drugs she and the Bitch were constant companions. By then the nurses were getting her out of bed a couple of times a day, moving her to a chair so she could sit up-yeah, as if the hospital bed wouldn’t crank to a sitting position and she wouldn’t have to choke back the screams of agony every move brought. All they had to do was press a button and the head of the bed would rise and, hello, she could just lie there and ride it like a wave.
But no, she had to get up. She had to walk, if what she did could be called walking. She called it the hunched-over-in-agony shuffle, accomplished by sliding her feet instead of actually lifting them, and dealing with all the tubes and lines and needles and drains in her body, and trying to keep her ass covered at the same time because all she could wear-sort of wear-was one of those miserable cotton hospital gowns and it wasn’t even tied, just kind of draped over her with just one of her arms actually through a sleeve. What modesty she’d had was quickly abused; a hospital wasn’t the place for privacy, of any kind.
The nurses talked to her all the time, encouraging her each and every step, whether it was actually making it the two steps to the chair they made her sit in, or managing to take a sip of water by herself, or even the spoonful of applesauce she took on her own when they started letting her have some actual food. They constantly asked questions, trying to get her to talk, trying to get information out of her, but something more had happened to her than a miraculous second chance: she had stopped talking.
When she was conscious, her brain never stopped working-slowly, perhaps, but it still worked. After the surgeon began weaning her off the drugs, she felt as if her head was teeming with thoughts, more thoughts than her skull could hold. At first the lack of connection between her brain and her tongue bothered her, but as her thoughts gradually cleared she realized that the cause of her silence wasn’t brain damage, it was a sort of information overload. Until she had things sorted out for herself, this verbal short-circuit was her mind’s way of protecting her.
There was so much she needed to think about. They didn’t seem to know who she was, because on each shift, a nurse would ask her name. But why wouldn’t they know? Where was her purse? Her driver’s license was in her wallet. Had her purse been stolen? She didn’t think so. She had a memory, she thought it was a memory, of him-the man, the killer-getting her purse, then tossing it into the car. Would he have gotten her driver’s license? Why on earth would he want it? But even though she couldn’t think of a reason for him to take her license, that had to be why no one knew who she was. Had he inadvertently done her a favor?
She wasn’t certain who she was, not any longer. Drea, the creature she’d invented, was dead. She had been Drea, but now she wasn’t. She wasn’t certain who she was now. Names…what did a name mean? To Drea it had meant a lot; the plain Andie had been left in the dirt, and the fancy Drea had taken her place.
There was nothing wrong with fancy, but there had been a lot wrong with Drea. Lying in the windowless cubicle, unable to tell if it was day or night, time marked only by the shift change of the nurses who took care of her, she looked at herself, her old self, in the harsh light of a new reality.
She had been incredibly stupid. Instead of using men like Rafael, and taking pride in it, they had been using her. They had wanted only her body, and that was what she’d given them, so exactly how had she been using them? They’d been willing to pay her and she’d been willing to be paid, so that had made her exactly what she’d always sworn she wasn’t: a whore. Not one of them, and especially not Rafael, had cared one whit if she had a thought in her head or any emotions or interests, likes or dislikes. Not one of them had seen her as a person, because none of them had cared, one way or another. She’d been completely disposable to them; the only value she’d had was a sexual one.