Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (android based ebook reader TXT) 📗

which I’d left on the bleachers. Tim places a hand on my back as we walk toward the Jeep. Mom digs in her purse and pulls out her own phone. “Damn it,” she mumbles, “I don’t have her number. Give me K. J.’s phone.”

She must have seen the man giving it to me. I hand it over, knowing Mom’s going to make the difficult call to Jackie. I’m filled with gratitude that I don’t have to do it, but I’m also in awe. She’s finally acting like an adult and doing what needs to be done.

Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at Siloam Springs Regional and park near the emergency room at the back. An ambulance sits by the entrance, and medics are unloading a patient. I feel sick at the thought of seeing K. J.’s unconscious body again, but once I’m closer I realize it’s not her. They must have already taken her inside.

A sense of overwhelming dread fills me as I enter the building. I haven’t been here since Ricky was sick. I know lots of people get better at the hospital, but it only reminds me of death. Tears well in my eyes once more.

The trauma of being here again is written all over Mom’s face, too. I don’t think either of us will ever be able to come to a hospital without the bad memories flooding back in. I wipe away my tears and breathe in deep before going to check with the receptionist. She confirms that K. J. has been admitted and is being attended to right now.

“Is she conscious?” I ask, my voice wavering.

“I don’t have any information on her, dear,” she tells me, “but I’ll let you know when you can go back. I assume you’re family.”

“Yes.”

She smiles sympathetically. “What’s your name?”

I tell her and she writes it down.

“I’ll let you know, Becka,” she reiterates.

Returning to the waiting area, I take a seat next to Mom, who’s rummaging through her purse again. She finds some lipstick, applies it, and then checks her makeup in a compact mirror. The heel of her boot taps a fast rhythm on the tile floor as my stomach endures sporadic waves of nausea.

I’m trying to distract myself by watching the muted late-night news program on the TV on the opposite wall when Jackie hurries through the doors. Her eyes dart wildly around the room. She’s pale and thin and her black Dollar General uniform shirt nearly swallows her whole. She freezes when she spots the three of us, and I wave her over. She’s been through hell, and it shows not only on her face, but in her whole demeanor. Her shoulders slump forward as she approaches.

“Hey, Jackie,” I say.

She avoids looking at my mom, instead focusing only on me. “How is she? Can we go back to see her?”

“Not yet. They said they’d let us know when we can.”

She bites her lip, like she’s trying to fight off tears, but then straightens. “Okay.”

Her eyes search for a chair to sit in. There are at least a dozen people scattered around the waiting area and plenty of open seats, but I can tell she’s trying to decide if she should sit next to us or somewhere else. Tim is watching this whole scenario without a word. Meanwhile, my mom has busied herself flipping through a magazine and hasn’t so much as said hi to her sister yet. So much for being an adult…

“Sit next to me,” I tell Jackie. “Please.”

She gives an imperceptible nod and pushes her hair behind one ear.

Once Jackie is seated, Mom finally lowers the magazine to her lap. She clears her throat as she turns to look her sister’s way. “I’m sorry,” she says, so quiet I’m not sure if Jackie even heard, but then my aunt looks at my mom. I’m just sitting here in between them, hoping to God I’m strong enough to be Switzerland.

Jackie swallows and pushes her hair back again. “Thank you for calling me.”

“Sure,” my mom says before clearing her throat again. “It’s not a problem.”

“Becka,” the receptionist calls.

My heart gives a lurch, and I hurry up to the desk.

“They tell me she’s awake. You can go see her now. Room fourteen.”

Oh, thank God, I think as my whole body goes limp with relief. I go back to tell Jackie.

She frowns and draws in a wavering breath. “She may not want to see me. Maybe you should go first.”

“Okay. I’ll be back soon to let you know how she is.”

Another wave of relief washes over me when I find K. J. looking alert and sitting up on the cot. So the man was right—she just got knocked out—but her face is tight with pain as the nurse straps a blood pressure cuff around her arm.

“You’re looking much better,” I say.

She starts to smile but then grimaces, her free hand going to her side. “But how does the bull look?”

I smirk. “Completely fine.”

She tries to shift her position on the bed. “Oh God, that hurts.”

“She cracked a rib,” the nurse says.

“It hurts like hell,” K. J. mutters.

The nurse pats her shoulder. “She has a concussion, too.”

I’m not surprised. “You were completely out,” I say. “Back at the rodeo.”

“I don’t remember anything really—just the bull coming at me,” K. J. says. “The next thing I knew, I was waking up in an ambulance.”

I step to the side of the small room to allow the nurse to pass. She’s moved over to the counter to jot something down on a clipboard. “Your mom’s here. She wants to see you.”

K. J. rolls her eyes. “Tell her I’m fine. She can go home.”

“Come on, K. J. She’s worried. At least let her see that you’re okay.”

She doesn’t say anything for several moments. “Fine. She can come take a look.” K. J. tugs at the sleeve of her hospital gown. “But I’m not talking to her.”

“Real mature.” I glance at the nurse who has busied herself with more paperwork. She probably deals with