Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Skyla’s steps falter and the grip she has on my hand tightens. She’s scared, and I don’t blame her. Amaya doesn’t look scary per se. She looks sick. Knowing Skyla wants me to meet her mom, I step forward, guiding us to the side of her mom’s bed. We stand together in silence for a few minutes, and when I’m sure Skyla and Jase aren’t going to speak, I do.
“Hey, Amaya,” I begin. Skyla’s hand squeezes mine. “I’m not sure if you remember me. We only met once.”
“You met my mom?” Skyla asks. I look down at her, confused. Then I play back what I just said. Shit!
“I did once,” I admit. “When we were really young. She was hanging out with your dad when I went over to his place to visit him.” I’m not sure if I’ve said the right thing, but it’s too late now.
Skyla nods once, but doesn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you show her what you brought her?” I suggest.
“She looks so different from what I remember,” Skyla says, assessing her mom.
“It’s probably because you’re getting older,” I tell her. “When we’re little, we don’t see things the same way we do once we’re older.”
“Do you think she can hear me?” she asks, sounding way younger than her thirteen years. “The nurses said before that she can, but now I’m not sure if they’re right.”
I have no clue if Amaya can hear or not, and I can’t lie to her. “I’m not sure, but a lot of people believe that when someone is in a coma they can hear what their friends and family say to them, so it’s worth a shot.” I did hear that once on a show.
“Okay,” she says, then steps forward and begins to tell her mom about me—who I am, what I do for a living, how we met, etcetera. My eyes find Jase’s and our gazes lock. He mouths a ‘thank you’ to me.
We spend the next half hour talking to Amaya—until her parents show up. They walk in and greet us, introducing themselves to me, but not once acknowledging their daughter. Skyla says bye to Amaya, leaving the signed paper on the nightstand next to her bed, and we all leave. Monica and Phil tell Jase they’re going to take Skyla to eat and do some shopping, and will call him when they’re done so he can pick her up.
After giving Skyla a hug goodbye, we get back into our rental car and head toward my childhood home. Jase is driving, so I have to guide the way. When we cross over the train tracks, my heart plummets into my stomach, weighing down on my insides like a lead weight. I’m holding Jase’s hand, but I let go, feeling my palm getting sweaty. My heart gallops in my chest, and it gets harder to breathe.
“Hey,” Jase says, darting his eyes to me. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here with you. We’ll get through it together.”
“I know.” I point to the upcoming stop sign. “Turn left there.”
“What you did for Sky,” he says, making the left turn, “the way you took charge and made her less afraid. Thank you.”
“Why has she been in a coma for so long? Is there a chance of her waking up?”
Jase exhales a harsh breath. “Is there a chance? Yeah, but it’s small. So damn small.” He shakes his head. “Six months after Amaya was found, the doctors told her parents they had the option to pull the plug, but they were so riddled with guilt, feeling like they failed her, they refused. I think in some weird way, they think they’re finally being good parents by keeping her alive.”
“Wow, that’s so sad,” I tell him. “Turn right here.” I point to the stop sign. “It’s the fourth trailer on the left.”
“It is sad,” he agrees as he turns onto the street I grew up on. “Unfortunately, since they’re her parents, they get to make that call. Once the doctors said there’s only a fifteen percent chance she’ll ever wake up, they had to move her to the long-term facility. I don’t even think they ever visit her. It’s just the idea that she’s alive and they’re taking care of her that makes them feel less like failures.”
“I can’t imagine having to make that decision,” I say truthfully. “Having to decide whether someone lives or dies.”
“This one?” Jase asks, pointing to my childhood home, if you can even call it that. A home. The trailer itself isn’t bad looking. While it’s older, it doesn’t look as such. I pay a window cleaning company to come out every six months to clean the windows and pressure clean the exterior, a lawn service to mow the lawn, and a housecleaner—despite my mother’s protest—to clean the inside once a week. But no amount of cleaning can make this place feel like home.