Paul pulls me off Logan and pushes me into Matt’s waiting arms. I fight, kicking and screaming, until Matt restrains me with his arms wrapped tightly around me. He won’t even let me look at Logan. I scratch and kick at him, and he grunts when I head butt his chin.
“Stop it,” he breathes.
He holds me immobile, his strong arms wrapped around me while he keeps me turned away from the sight of Paul and Sam working on Logan. They’re giving him mouth-to-mouth. I can hear Sam counting, and I can hear Paul as he breathes in and out. It seems like days until the ambulance arrives. They hoist Logan inside, and I’m left there in the street with Matt holding my hands behind my back. Paul rides with Logan. Another ambulance is coming. I can hear the sirens. And that’s when I realize the second one is for my dad.
I look down. He’s completely motionless, and my mom has his head in her lap. She’s sobbing and rubbing his quiet face. I watch, knowing it has to be too late for my dad. He is as still as Logan. No one was giving him CPR, though. Not like they were with Logan. The emergency responders load my dad in the ambulance, and I stand there. I feel dead inside. I don’t know what to do or where to go. My mom gets in the ambulance, and they close the doors behind her. This reminds me so much of the time that Matt was sick, and I had to call the ambulance for him. They let me ride with him, though. No one left me waiting in the street not knowing what to do.
Matt and Sam drag me toward a waiting police car. “Get in,” Matt says as he pushes my head down like you see the police do on cop shows. He slides in behind me and drops an arm around my shoulders pulling me into him. He looks down at me, getting in my face. “You didn’t get hit, did you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It wasn’t me. It was Logan.”
Oh my God. It was Logan. Logan got hit by the out-of-control car. He rolled over the hood and into windshield. Then he lay on the cold concrete, unmoving. Pete and Sam did CPR.
“He wasn’t breathing,” I say. I start to shiver.
“No, he wasn’t.” Matt’s hand rubs absently along my shoulder.
“Are you scared?” My voice is quivering.
“Terrified,” he admits.
“The car was going to hit my dad.”
“I know,” he grunts.
“Why did he do that?” I gnaw on my fingernail, tearing at my flesh until I feel pain.
“Why does Logan do anything?”
“I saw the look on his face.” Tears roll unheeded down my cheeks.
Matt tips my chin up. “What look?” he asks.
“I saw him make the decision to shove him out of the way.” I can’t believe he did that. Why would he do that?
“Mother f**ker had better live,” Matt murmurs. “If he doesn’t, I’m going f**king kill him.”
The police officer lets us out at the Emergency Room doors. Matt takes one of my hands and Sam takes the other. I wish Pete were here. Shoot! Pete. “Did anyone call Pete?” I ask.
“Pete can’t get phone calls,” Sam reminds me.
“You’ll have to go see him.”
Sam nods.
My mom runs toward me when we walk into the waiting area. She wraps me in her arms, but I shove her back. “Where are they?”
“They’re in the ER. They said we can’t go back.” She wrings her hands together. “Logan wasn’t breathing.” She looks into my eyes, her brown eyes looking for confirmation. Of what, I don’t know.
“Was Dad?” I ask.
“Was Dad what?”
“Breathing,” I suggest.
“Yes, your dad was breathing.”
The weight doesn’t lift from my chest. Not at all.
“But Logan…” she says. “I’m afraid it’s not good, Emily.”
“I’m scared, Mom.”
Paul walks from the back of the hospital, running his hands through his hair. He tugs on the tips and then does it again. Matt and Sam approach him, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t know anything.
“Why did he do that?” Paul cries. Then the big guy crumples into a heap on the tiles. Matt goes down with him, wrapping his arms around him, and Sam squats down beside them and puts his hand on Paul’s arms. Paul’s body is wracked with sobs.
I know why he did it. He did it for me. Did my eyes silently plead with him? Did I somehow ask him without using my voice to save my dad? He read something in my eyes that made him do it? Did I beg him? Is this my fault?
Emily
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper to Paul as he leads me into the church. My legs are shaking. I’m afraid the casket will be open for everyone to view the body, so I make sure not to look in that direction.
“I don’t either,” he whispers back.
“Ditto,” Matt says from behind us. We squeeze into the pew and slide down, making room for Sam. Sam looks lost without Pete. It’s like he’s lost part of who he is with his brother gone. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder for his other half. But Pete’s not here. Pete’s still waiting for arraignment.
Tears fill my eyes when the preacher starts to talk about the loss of life and the tragedy of losing a beloved brother, son, and friend. He talks about divine will, the power of the soul, and the healing hand of faith. I’m not feeling healed. When will that start? Soon, I hope.
It has been four days since the accident. Four days to reflect on what could have been, what might have been. What was. Four days to think about all the ways I should have lived my life differently. And all the ways he could have lived his differently, too.
My dad reaches from behind me and squeezes my shoulder tightly. He’s more likely to touch me now than he used to be. He’s more likely to show affection and tell me he loves me. It’s like he realizes everything that has been lost, and he doesn’t want to miss a day or a word or anything important again. My mom didn’t come. She’s busy taking care of important business, she said.
The preacher drones on, and I tune him out until Matt takes my hand and squeezes it tightly as the casket is carried from the building. We’re not going to the graveside service. It’s enough that we’re paying our respects here. We file out of the church, and I look into a wounded mother’s eyes. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say.
“Thank you,” she replies. But it’s by rote. She’s dead behind the eyes, and I wonder if she’ll ever find that piece of herself that she lost with her son. Ricardo Santiago was driving the car that night. He was an eighteen-year-old boy who was on his way home from the library. He was on the street and didn’t see the black ice that turned the road into a skating rink. He didn’t see it until he lost control of the car. He hit Logan dead-on, and the car clipped my dad’s leg. Dad’s on crutches with a bad sprain, but he’ll heal. Ricardo died on impact when his car careened into a parked car.
I vaguely remember seeing Ricardo’s mother at the hospital after the accident. I remember how they told her about his almost-instant death there in the waiting room. I remember thinking it could have been us, receiving that news. Our news didn’t come until hours later. And it wasn’t good.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say to the next person in line, and I shake his hand. Ricardo’s entire family is here. He had three brothers and two sisters. His father is a wealthy attorney in the city. I remember reading that much in the paper.
Matt and Paul have been shadowing me ever since this happened. They won’t leave my side. When I sleep, one of them throws a blanket over me. When I wake up, one of them reminds me to eat. When I go to the bathroom, one of them stands outside the bathroom door.
There’s one thing I am very certain about: my life is not complete without Logan.
Logan
There’s not a place on my body that doesn’t hurt. I wiggle my toe and try to lift my hand, but I can’t. I blink my eyes open and stare straight ahead. It hurts too f**king much to look left or right. Shapes move in front of my face, but they’re too blurry. I can’t make them out. I close my eyes again and drift back into the darkness. I welcome it because where there is darkness there is no pain.
Emily
Someone shakes my arm. “Em,” a soft voice says. Then more insistently, “Emily!”
I brush the noise away like cobwebs from my face, but it doesn’t stop.
“Emily, wake the f**k up.”
I blink my eyes open to find Matt in front of me. “He’s awake,” he says. He’s grinning.
I brush my hair back from my forehead. “What?” I still can’t think.
“He just moved, Em,” Matt says. He’s nearly giddy. He pulls the blanket off me and takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. “Go talk to him. I need to call Paul.”
The boys have been taking turns staying with me at the hospital. Only two people can be in the room at a time, and I won’t leave. Paul, Matt, and Sam don’t seem to mind. They take turns going home, taking care of Hayley, and one of them is always with me.
I walk slowly to the edge of the bed and look down at Logan’s prone form. “He’s not awake,” I say over my shoulder. But Matt is gone. I look down, and I see the tiniest flutter of Logan’s lashes. “Logan!” I cry. It’s stupid, I know, since he can’t hear me.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and take his hand in mine. I saw his eyelids move. I look down, and his toe wiggles. His eyes are closed, though, and he’s still. Too still.
A doctor runs into the room and lifts Logan’s eyelids, shining a light in his face. He flinches. I see it.
“Is he going to wake up?” I ask. I hold my breath, waiting for the answer.
The doctor’s mouth pinches into a thin line. “Maybe.”
Maybe. That’s the only word I need to hear for hope to bloom within me. I step back, out of the doctor’s way. The nurse takes me by the shoulders and pushes me gently to the edge of the room.
Matt walks in again. “I called Paul and Sam. They’re on the way.”
I nod. I can’t take my eyes off Logan. He moved. I never thought I would see him move again.
Logan suffered a terrible head injury. He had to have surgery to relieve the pressure in his brain, and he had some internal injuries, as well. He lost his spleen, and his right leg is broken. They set it, and he’s in a cast. Bruises cover most of his body.
I look at Matt, and his eyes are filled with the same hope mine are. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I ask.
He nods and pulls me into his chest. “Of course, he is,” he breathes. He bends his head and sniffs me. Then he whispers dramatically, “Now that he’s waking up, do you think you could take a f**king shower? You stink.”
I shove back from him. “I do not.”
“You look like shit, Em,” he jokes. He tousles my hair, and I don’t care. I do look like shit. I lift my arm and smell myself. And I stink. I can’t see Logan like this.
A few minutes later, Paul and Sam walk into the room. Paul is carrying the canvas bag that has my belongings in it.
“Thank God,” Matt teases. He turns me toward the bathroom and points. “Go shower. You can’t have him waking up to you looking like that.”