Sullen
by M. F. LuderPart seven
Seth opens his locker and places his Physics books inside. Calculus, first thing Monday morning, blows. He sighs, resting his forehead against the top of the locker and closes his eyes. Somehow, Seth feels like this year will just suck. It's not the same, it doesn't feel the same, without Ryan. Things are different. Everything's fucking different.
His mother insisted on dropping him off and Seth knows this will become a daily habit. Yes, Ryan went missing, Seth understands that. Yes, his mom probably feels responsible, Seth gets that as well. But that doesn't mean she has to go mother hen on him.
Not that anyone can do much about it. Not his dad because, for the past couple of days, it's like his dad has been doing everything in his power just to get his mom out of the house and into a routine of work and home. It's much harder than one can imagine.
Seth swallows, shaking his head and standing up straight. Things have changed. He can deal with that. Ryan's missing -- Seth's chest clenches for a moment, breathing not as difficult as a second ago -- and school will suck, being friendless and all that, but he can manage. Seth knows he can handle it.
Closing his locker with his elbow, Seth sighs and walks to his first class.
Seth looks down at his plate, pushing his food around. He wonders what made him pick up a tray and sit down at a table knowing he'd be alone. He used to buy something and sit down on the grass, headphones on and music blasting. Maybe he got used to the normality of sitting down and having friends to talk to.
He sighs. This handling-it thingy? So not working.
It's barely twelve ten, second lunch break lasting until a quarter 'til one, for a full forty-five minutes, and he's considering picking up his sandwich and heading for the grass. Seth's trying to convince himself that no, it's not more pathetic to have gone from having friends and a girlfriend to none at all when Summer walks up to him, tray in her hands.
She slides it on top of the table before taking a seat. "So, Cohen," she says, picking up her bottle of water, "who do you have for Calculus?"
Seth blinks, confused at the sudden change of status. "Summer, not that I'm complaining or anything, but what are you doing here?"
Summer pauses for a moment before taking a long swallow. "Honoring you with my company for lunch, of course."
Seth frowns, tilting his head before she sighs.
"Yeah, well, Coop kinda said she was going to the bathroom and I have the feeling she has gone to reunite with her best friend, Vodka." Summer rolls her eyes. "Why do you need Vodka? You just had rum in the morning." She sighs. "So, well, I thought we could spend sometime together."
"You wanted company."
"Ew, no. I saw you and thought you looked pathetic." She grins at Seth.
Seth snorts. "Dude, wow, thanks."
"You're welcome."
Seth rolls his eyes as Summer opens her salad.
"So, who do you have for Calculus?"
"Peterson," Seth says dejectedly. "I'm so toasted."
Summer nods, perfectly manicured nails tapping on the table. "Yes, Cohen. I think you are."
"Don't help me."
"What? I'm just calling it like I see it." She picks up her fork and takes a bite of the lettuce. "So, you've got it like, right after this, right?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then we're toasted together. What about tomorrow?"
"Biology and French, then... Physics again, I think."
"Junior year?" Summer asks, tilting her head. "So not what it's cracked up to be."
"I know."
Silence falls between them for a minute. Seth picks at his food while Summer slowly eats her salad. Finally, Summer sighs and places her hand on top of his. "You ok?"
Seth nods, though he knows she's not really convinced. His little nervous breakdown five days ago has given her enough ammo to be on his case until he's no longer grounded.
"I'm..." Seth's voice trails off before he shrugs. "I don't know. I think... I don't know. I'm fine, I think. I want to be fine. I want things to be..."
Summer nods knowingly. "Like they used to when Chino was here?"
Seth snorts. "In a way, yeah."
Seth knows, mostly, he just wants to know Ryan is okay. That's all he's asking.
"Give him time," Summer says, waving it off dismissively. "You sailed away and I didn't kill you, did I?"
Seth lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Of course," she grins at him. "Had I, you would have my Manolo stilettos up your ass."
Seth chokes on his drink, coughing.
"See? Even my words hurt you."
"Shut up."
"Whatever, Cohen."
Seth chuckles, laughter true and sincere coming from his lips, shaking his head. It takes him a moment to get his breath back and suddenly, it feels good to laugh again. He smiles down at his plate as he takes a bite of the sandwich, images and things, colors blurring together into one that changes and shifts.
Nothing is true, nothing is real. Not here, not in the dream world. Ryan will have to realize this.
It feels like he's floating, like thoughts are passing by and, no matter how much he wants to grasp them, remember them and take them, he can't. He breathes slowly, in and out, trying to remember where he came from and where he's going.
He remembers nothing of the sort.
Colors fly by and he wonders if maybe they are thoughts, the very same thoughts he can't think of. He tries to reach out, to take them in his hand but he can't see his hand, nor the thoughts and colors anymore.
Everything is confusing.
There's the sound of water, far, far away, like he's in a dream, and he wonders if this is a dream. Colors change while he keeps breathing, slowly, in and out.
This is harder than anything before, and he doesn't know what he's doing or why he's here. There might not really be a reason for him staying here, being here, or even being. There probably isn't a reason at all.
He tries to remember names, names of people that are supposed to mean something to him, that he's supposed to miss and care about. The names elude him, like everything else that's happened or is happening.
Everything around him changes once again.
There's the sky, all around him, and colors dripping, splotches of color, red and blue and green, and green. More green. Green is someone's favorite color.
He's supposed to know this. He's supposed to know whose favorite color green is. He should know this. He knows he should. He wonders how he knows. He sighs, and he thinks about sighing and breathing and colors he can't really remember.
Things change again and it feels like it's been ages, like hours, and like he's been sleeping. Maybe he has. It feels like he's just waking up, though he can't. He thinks about waking up.
He's sitting this time, and he knows this, he's sitting, looking out the window, rain falling down and he knows he should be cold. Ryan doesn't know why he should be cold, but he should be. And he isn't. That should mean something as well.
He's sitting and he has a feeling of deja vu, like he should know something is going to happen. Like he should try and stop it. He turns around, to his right, and instead of... something he can't remember, Seth's sitting there, by his side, smiling.
They are going home. Both of them. They are going home to Kirsten and Sandy. He smiles, and Seth keeps on grinning.
Seth starts talking, but Ryan can't hear him. He knows Seth is talking, Seth's mouth moves and his arms, to one side and to the other, like every time he talks, with everything, with his body, but Ryan can't hear him.
He squints, leaning closer, thinking maybe Seth is whispering, but there's nothing. Ryan still can't hear him. That should mean something as well. That should tell him something is not right, something is wrong.
But Seth is there, with him, by his side, and they are going home, and that's all that matters. That's all Ryan can think about. He smiles once again, happy and proud, and at ease, and that's something he hasn't felt in a long time. Or at least, Ryan thinks he hasn't felt it in a long time.
And then, there's the screeching. Screeching he should know, he should have foreseen. There's screeching and crying and yelling.
Everything moves, and the colors blur together once again, his hand reaching out for Seth's, to hold onto him and protect him, but Ryan catches air in between his fingers as he closes down his fist. There's no one by his side.
Ryan wants to scream. When he blinks and opens his eyes once again, he's not sitting, and certainly not on the bus. He's standing by the sidewalk, eyes wide open as he stares at the bus, tilted over, flames coming out of it.
Seth's inside. Something inside him tells him Seth is still inside, trapped, about to die. He can't breathe.
He shakes his head and moves through the mass of people that have suddenly appeared before him. They are standing there, all of these people, not letting Ryan through to Seth. He screams and tries to push them away, but it's like they are made of stone and he can't move them.
People are screaming and though Ryan tries to see their faces, he only sees blankness and gray and black. Nothing he can recognize.
He keeps on trying to push them, harder and harder, because he has to get to Seth and save him, get him out of there. He has to get to Seth.
"Seth!" He screams, the words raw in his burning throat. "Seth! Seth Cohen! Seth Cohen!!"
He looks over the people's shoulders, their stance still like stone, and the bus is there, barely twenty feet from him, on the other side of all these people. He could save Seth if he could get to the other side. He could save Seth.
Then, the bus bursts into flames, red and orange, and Ryan can almost see Seth in there.
"Seth! Seth! Seth Cohen!"
He leans against the people, tired and exhausted, and the bus moves further away from him. He doesn't know if it's the bus moving or if it's these people pushing him away from Seth.
He doesn't want to know. Seth's there, alone, dead, and Ryan's here, and he doesn't want to be.
Andrea changes the pillow covers and pulls the sheets up to the boy's chest after checking his blood pressure and heart rate. Everything's normal so far, except for the not-opening his eyes part.
He's still sleeping, this young boy who enjoys the anonymity of this all, neither Andrea nor the rest of the staff being able to call him by name. She sighs, hand reaching to push back a lock of his hair, and she thinks she sees his eyes fluttering behind his closed eyelids.
Andrea shakes her head, certain she's seeing things. Patients in comas don't dream, or so she believes. They don't dream, so the boy's eyes can't be fluttering.
"Open your eyes," she whispers, her voice low as she says so. "Open them. I want you to tell me who you are and who your parents are. I want to call them so they can breathe with ease knowing that you're fine, that you're alive."
But he doesn't listen, and doesn't comply, and Andrea thinks maybe he's a tad stubborn. She thinks about the blue eye she saw that wouldn't stare back. Blue eyes that probably mean something, everything, to someone out there who's worried sick about him.
She wishes she could do something about it.
She smoothes the fabric of the pillow cover, his chart still in her hand, and she hears a word being whispered, barely muttered. She frowns, standing straight as she stares down at the boy. She could have sworn she heard him say something.
She leans over, head tilted to the side and watches as his eyelids flutter. He's dreaming, she thinks, and she can't help but lean closer, her ear close to his lips, the oxygen tube and the NG tube coming out of his nose touching her cheek.
She waits, seconds ticking by, and as she's about to shake her head, certain she's imagining things when she hears it again.
"--h Cohen."
It's barely a word, and it's so low, she's surprised she was even able to hear it. She turns and stares at him, blue eyes wide as she looks at the boy.
He said something. In between dreams, his eyes still closed, his breathing just as regular, but he said something.
A name. A name.
Andrea blinks, confused and surprised all at once. She has heard coma patients make sounds before, seem them agitated, even witnessed a couple who dislodged their IV tubes. But this time it's different. He said a name.
He said a name. A name she can use, a name that might be his. And even if it isn't, it might be of someone who knew him, who met him once and has been thinking about him, about the blond boy with blue eyes that hasn't called or wrote ever since.
The boy said a name, and Andrea can't help but grin. She takes deep even breaths, letting them out slowly through parted lips, running the name through her mind over again.
Cohen.
Not a name she knows, or has heard before, but that doesn't mean anything. It's a name he knows and he has certainly heard before. That's enough for her.
Cohen.
He might be a Cohen. Hmm. Something Cohen. She tilts her head, looking at him, a smile on her lips. He looks like a Richard, or Edward. Matthew maybe. Matthew Cohen. Brian? Adam? Benjamin? Kevin? Hmm. Something Cohen, for sure. It suits him. He certainly does look like a Cohen.
She nods to herself, reaching over and touching his forehead with her fingertips. His breathing is regular, and she feels his heartbeat against his temple. He's breathing and his heart is beating, waiting for someone to find him, for someone he knows to come and sit by his bedside, to will him to open his eyes and look back at them. Andrea hopes it's soon.
She nods once again, smile still on her lips, before caressing his cheek with the back of her palm. His skin is smooth against hers. With one last glance in his direction, she turns around, the word still on her mind.
Cohen.
It's all Vera's fault actually, that Andrea can't put the bloody book down for one minute, barely seconds ticking by between finishing the first, "Storm Front", and picking up the second, "Fool Moon".
Tuesday night is easy and tranquil. Andrea pauses her reading, placing her index finger in between the pages as she holds the book in her right hand, using her left one to accommodate the pillow she's using to prop up her back on her couch.
Comfortable, Andrea nods to herself, and continues reading where she left off.
"I ignored her." Not that I blame you. I mean, not many of the good taxpayers of Chicago believe in magic, or wizards. Of course, not many of them have seen what you and I have. You know. When we worked together. Or when I was saving your life."
Her eyes tightened at the edges. "I need you. We've got a situation."
"You need me? We haven't talked for more than a month, and you need me all of a sudden? I've got an office and a telephone and everything, Lieutenant. You don't nee--"
Andrea pauses, letting out a soft sigh between her lips before swallowing. No, she's not going insane. Thinking about names and phone calls and rates for calling Seattle means nothing, not really. She shakes her head. Right. Like she has been able think about anything but that name,
Cohen
and find out just how many Cohens are in the Seattle and California area. She just might be going crazy.
With one last sigh of exasperation, she gives up on finding out anything more about Harry and closes the book, placing it on top of the backrest. She reaches over her right shoulder for the phone, staring down at it before dialing.
It rings twice before a female voice picks up on the other side. "Hello?"
"It's after midnight, I would have thought you'd be in bed by now, dear."
Laughter is heard on the other side of the line before the woman speaks once again. "Yeah, right, I'm working on a newsletter for publishing tomorrow. Editor sent stuff in late so it's so much fun now trying to get things done." A small pause and Andrea can imagine Vera sipping a cup of coffee. "How are you doing, sweetie?"
Andrea sighs, letting her head fall back to the armrest. "Tired."
"Well, at least you can sleep until eight. I see my future and it looks like an all nighter."
"Yeah, well, not all of us work for a publisher," Andrea says with a small grin.
A snort on Vera's side. "Yeah, well, not all of us can play Nightingale, can we?"
They both laugh and it takes Vera a moment to get her bearings together.
"Anyway, enough chit-chat. How's the second book? Loving it already?"
"I started it ten minutes ago, dear. I'm on page..." Andrea reaches for the book and opens it to the page she had left off at before placing it back on top of the backrest. "Eight. But, yeah, it's great."
"I told you."
Andrea grins. "And now it's your fault I can't get eight hours of sleep like decent people."
"Hey, I live on five," Vera replies.
"You're not normal, that's the thing." There's a scorned snort that Andrea takes no notice off. "Actually," she continues, "that's not why I called you."
"Thought so."
"Remember the boy I told you about?"
"The low profile kid, blue eyes that can take your breath away and probably illegal?"
Andrea snorts this time. "You've been paying attention."
"Girl, he's all you can talk about." A pause. "Look, I know you feel bad for him. I know you want to help him and all that Samaritan stuff, but--"
"I think I heard a name." Andrea grimaces at her own tone of voice, waiting for Vera's reaction.
"What? Sweetie, you've been too close to alcohol for too long. You're imagining things."
"No, I'm not." Andrea closes her eyes, resting her head back. "I know I'm not. I heard him."
"Sure you did."
"He spoke."
"Of course, dear."
"He said a name."
"I believe you."
"He was dreaming."
"I know he was."
"Would you listen to me for two seconds before calling in the men in white coats?" Andrea asks, exasperated.
Vera sighs, and Andrea can imagine her sitting at her desk, notebook opened before her as she pinches her nose. Andrea has missed her tons. "Okay, okay, don't go crazy on me. Tell me."
And Andrea does. She tells Vera all about the boy, about staring at him as he possibly dreamed, possibly, knowing nothing for certain, and then heard him.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Like, really, really sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't talk to ya about this if I wasn't."
"Sweetie, relax, take a deep breath and some Prozac."
Andrea chuckles, and that's another thing she has missed from her friend, her great sense of humor.
"Better," Vera says. "I like it when you laugh."
"It's easy with you around."
Vera sighs softly on the phone and Andrea knows she's smiling. "I miss you girl."
"Oh, I miss you too."
"Would you tell me why in God's name did you move again?"
"Work."
"Oh, right, saving the underdog and all that crap."
Andrea shakes her head.
"Anyway. Girl, I've known you since... forever. Since before I'm supposed to know you, considering I tell everyone I'm twenty-three."
Andrea snorts.
"Yeah, well. Whatever. The thing is, I know you, and you won't put that thought down, get anything done, let alone enjoy lovely Harry, if you don't do this."
Andrea pauses before nodding.
"And I know you're nodding right now."
She laughs, out loud and with her heart, like she hasn't in a while.
"Nice. I love that laugh. Now, stop bothering me 'cause I gotta get this thing done if I want to get any sleep tonight. Get off your ass and get the phone book. You've got a name to look up."
Andrea grins, reinvigorated by Vera's words. "Thanks," Andrea says, her smile tender, her heart light, like it always is whenever she talks with Vera.
"You're very welcome. Now, off. I gotta finish this. Books to get published and all that."
"Love you."
Andrea doesn't need to see her to know Vera's grinning. "Love you too, chickadee. Bye."
"Bye."
Hanging up, Andrea takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She stands up, stretching her arms over her head, reaching for the ceiling before dropping them to her sides.
With an idea in mind, Andrea walks out of the living room and toward her bedroom, where she keeps the phone books. She has a name to look up.
Wednesday morning finds Seth tilting his head, trying his best to keep his eyes open. Summer sits by his side, Literature's one of the two classes they have together. She isn't even pretending to pay attention anymore, with her headset on, going through her list of mp3s on her cell phone.
He sighs, tired and half asleep, 8 am classes after waking up at 10 am is not easy. Still, class is class, and Seth has to, at least, try and catch a word every five minutes. He looks down at the textbook, eyeing the list of books they'll have to read this year.
He's already read three out of eight, Seth notices, not a bad average. He passes through the pages, barely taking second glances at figures and names. He's not really interested in class, or learning, or anything at all, it seems. Seth wants to stay at home, TV on and the book he's not really supposed to be reading on his chest, getting scared of his own shadow every other page.
He wants to do something, something that matters, like look for Ryan.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as it feels like the mother of all headaches coming his way. He doesn't like this. This... feeling he has around him, like life doesn't matter anymore, like he's living because he has no other choice, like he's dead inside this breathing body that refuses to give up.
Stupid really, pathetic, and quite depressing, but that's how he feels. Something's missing, not only from him but from his parents as well. Something's missing, and Seth wonders if he'll ever find it again, that piece that's too complex to be replaced with anything that's not that, that single piece that will make everything better once again.
How can one function with the motor only half running? How can you live on borrowed time, energy and life? How--?
A tap on his shoulder forces him to blink himself out of the stupor he has fallen into, he shakes his head and turns around to look at Summer who's looking at him with this look... Exasperation, for not paying attention and not copying anything down because, really, if he doesn't copy the notes, who will she Xerox the lesson from? It turns to sadness and compassion, a gloomy small smile on her lips before her touch becomes gentle and she caresses his shoulder.
Seth knows she understands, or at least tries to, and when she nods, squeezing his shoulder and then turning her attention back to her cell phone, he's grateful. Attention, her eyes on him, is not something he really wants at the moment.
Instead, he looks down once again, the words in the textbook meaning nothing, and pretends to listen to words that don't reach him as he closes his eyes and sees Ryan, standing before him, smile on his lips, head ducked, and Seth smiles in spite of the pain.
Andrea runs a hand through her hair and she berates herself for forgetting her clips at her house and now she'll have her hair in her eyes throughout the day. She isn't supposed to be on at 4pm, but Pamela needed the night off and switched with Andrea. Next time she needs the night off, it'll be Pamela pulling the double. She doesn't mind, with only her books and bathtub waiting for her at home.
She continues to transcribe the charts, every single detail and element they've used, so at the end of the day, her papers match bit by bit. She picks the chart up, placing it to the side, with the rest she's already done, and it's John Doe's chart next and, not for the first time, Andrea remembers the soft whisper,
Cohen
and she can't help but think about it, about what it would mean, about Vera's words.
I know you. You won't get anything done until you do this.
Vera's right in that way, in an unnerving way that makes Andrea want to suffocate her from time to time. Andrea hasn't been able to enjoy her book, not really, not like she had the first one. She keeps remembering
Cohen
and her eyes shift to her breast pocket, a piece of paper inside with every Cohen in both the Seattle and California area, phone numbers by the names.
She did what Vera suggested and last night got out the phone book and looked for the names and numbers. Though, really, this is insane. She might not have heard any name, she might have imagined it.
But what if not?
And disturbingly enough, that voice inside her head sounds very much like Vera. No, no, this is insane. Playing investigator is not really part of her contract. She sighs, picking up her pen and writing down the boy's blood pressure and heart rate. Insane, really.
Cohen.
She groans, the name not leaving her mind, and she knows she can't do anything else but give in and do what her brain is very loudly telling her to. With a sigh, long and suffering, she retrieves the piece of paper from within her pocket and looks down at the names.
There are twelve Cohens in the California area, and nineteen more in Seattle. Thirty-one in total. Thirty-one families Andrea will bother, will probably scare for a moment, a minute, while they wonder if it's their son who is in a hospital somewhere, hurt and in pain, if she's so much as wrong.
And then again, there could be one family there, one family who has been worrying sick, suffering from the pain that is not knowing, and who could finally breathe easily and know their son's whereabouts.
Andrea closes her eyes, running her hand through her hair. This is harder than she thought, much harder than she would have imagined and she knows there's only one thing left to do. She opens her eyes and reaches for the phone, staring down at the numbers.
Seattle or California.
The bus was going from Seattle to California. The boy could have been leaving home or going home, Andrea has no way of knowing either. The number chooses itself and she decides to start with Seattle.
She nods to herself and dials the first number.
Three hours later, Andrea sighs and realizes she has already troubled twenty-three families, none of them knew a blond boy with blue eyes. She sighs once again, eyes shifting to the wall clock on one side of the nurse's station and she notices it's almost ten. Today's shift is over.
That's it for today, for her rather crazy quest and playing Harry Dresden is not that easy at all.
Kerrie walks down the hallway toward her and she smiles at Andrea.
"Leaving?" Kerrie asks, walking into the station and placing down her own set of charts.
Andrea nods. "Yeah, papers match, everything done."
"Good." She grins, looking around her before leaning over, whispering softly. "I think Sarah is staying over again."
Andrea chuckles, Kerrie's traits getting the best of her as usual. "Yeah, probably."
"I can count on one hand the number of times she's gone home at night, and all of them she has returned after an hour or two."
"Kerrie..."
"I'm serious." She looks over her shoulder at room 526. "And you know how those chairs are, awful for the back. Her neck must be in constant agony."
"Kerrie--"
"I gave her another blanket," she says, almost changing subjects but not really, "I thought she might get cold at night or something."
Andrea's features soften and she smiles. Kerrie's heart is in the right place, though her thoughts sometimes get blocked out by other obsessions. "That's really nice of you."
Kerrie grins, ducking her head as she blushes and Andrea can see her twenty-four years in that expression.
Andrea nods to herself, picks up her bag and kisses Kerrie on the cheek. "I'm leaving now."
Kerrie nods and says her goodbyes, Andrea walking down the hallway toward the elevator.
Out of the corner of her eye she can see the door of room 526 ajar, silence emanating from the room, as she thinks about going home, soaking in the bathtub and reading "Fool Moon".
Sarah sighs, leaning her head back, closing her eyes as she hears the now habitual footsteps on the other side of the door. She likes to keep the door slightly open, a light breeze coming in every now and then, keeping her awake at most times.
Emma had asked her, told her really, to go home, sleep on their bed for once while Emma rested her eyes.
Sarah remembers a time when 10pm was early for both of them, when staying up until three watching TV and talking was an every day occurrence. Now, Emma has work early in the morning and needs her eight-hour sleep and Sarah always has deadlines.
Sarah had tried, had gone as far as the soda machine before getting a new can and turning around for the room. She knows she won't be able to sleep, not really, not like she's used to, not without Emma by her side, so what's the point in pretending.
Besides, she has deadlines hanging over her head, and she has tons of things to get done. There are files and notes to revise if something will get published this month. Her boss has been lenient, letting her take as much time off as she needs from work, as long as she gets the work done on her laptop. Sarah has been true to her word so far, though there's only so much one can get done on these chairs, her back hurting half of the time.
Even if she does lose her job, it wouldn't matter. Not to her, at least. Emma would worry, but Sarah doesn't about that stuff nearly as much as she cares about Emma. Besides, it's Emma's work that pays the bills, while Sarah's pretty much pays for the monthly amounts of ice cream, coke, and Internet connection.
She grins to herself, eyes opening and looking at Emma, blue eyes closed, sleeping on the bed. Sleeping this time, and it makes Sarah's heart lighten suddenly. Quite a catch, Sarah tells herself. Emma's more than just quite a catch.
A corporate lawyer with business suits that cost more than half of Sarah's paycheck, good looks that would make any man turn around and the best disposition.
Even now, four years later, Sarah wonders what she did in a past life to get this lucky. Not that she's complaining, not ever. She's in love with this woman who knows everything, who knows how to get around in a world of men, proud of her partner -- chubby partner who could really use a diet -- and what she knows.
Sarah will, however, have to work with Emma on her fear of airplanes. That's the sole reason Emma travels by bus, because planes scare the living daylights out of her, and she says driving a car across the state means she can't fall asleep, and she loves falling asleep on her trips.
Sarah sighs, her heart clutching and she promises herself never to let Emma near a bus again. Not as long as she lives. She will drive the car herself if she has to, next time Emma has to go out of town. She'll drive it and stay awake all through the trip if that means Emma will be safe.
She swallows thickly, past the tightness in her throat, and it takes her a couple of deep breaths for her pulse to relax.
That's over, Sarah tells herself, that fear she felt on those days while Emma refused to give up her restful dream. That's over. That petrifying fear, the sole idea of living the rest of her life alone, without this woman who lights up a room and makes everything around her, around Sarah, worth while.
That's over, and this is now, and now, Emma's fine.
Sarah nods to herself, and not for the first time she thinks about Emma's words, about having a child with her when this is all over, once Emma is back on her feet.
She used to be scared, worried even about what that would mean for them, as a couple and as people. But none of that means anything anymore, not really. What's important is to have something else that joins her with Emma, and Sarah wants that, craves that, and will tell Em as soon as she wakes up tomorrow morning.
More relaxed, more secure in her thoughts, Sarah looks down at her laptop and stares at the sentences written in Word. She reads through them, once and then twice, fixing the small mistakes here and there, all through the hours thinking about Emma, her smile and her laughing eyes.