Lennon Reborn Page 4

  He looked up at the piece of wood that lay across the top of the crib. His punishment meant he couldn’t stand up any more. The man who lived upstairs had made it and told Lennon that it was because he’d been naughty trying to climb out. But he’d also grumbled about how a four-year-old should be in kindy-garden. Jenny went to kindy-garden, and it sounded like a fun place.

  That day, before the wood was in place, his tummy had hurt real bad. Momma hadn’t been there when he’d woken up. She was never there. And when she was, she couldn’t help them because she wobbled on her feet or was asleep, and he couldn’t understand her slurry words. It had been Jenny’s idea to get the little plastic step stool from the bathroom that he was allowed to use when he needed to pee when Momma was home. She’d promised him that she would catch him once he got his leg over the bar at the top of the crib.

  And she had.

  It had been exciting.

  His tummy had still hurt afterward, but it had been because it was full.

  He didn’t like it when Momma was mad, though. She’d spank him, or scream in his ear, or leave him in the dark for hours . . . and last time she’d come up with the idea of the board.

  He savored the small piece of candy, but the rumbling in his stomach was getting worse. And his lips were cracked and sore because he was so thirsty. “I need something else to eat, Jennifer.”

  She shook her head. “There is nothing left in the cooler, I checked.”

  The tears in his eyes made his sister appear blurry.

  Jennifer reached for him and he snuggled her hand. “Lennon, I think I know where she keeps the rest of the jar. But it’s up really high. In the cupboard above the sink.”

  Hope bloomed in his chest. “You can reach it,” he said. “With the stool. You can climb.”

  “It’s too high, and I’m scared.” Jennifer pulled her hand away.

  He could imagine how delicious the candy would be and his mouth watered. “You can do it. Please, Jennifer.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to do it.”

  “Don’t be scared. You don’t have to . . . it’s just . . .” Everything in his tummy tightened again and he began to cry at the thought of not eating again today.

  “No. You’re right. It will be fine,” Jennifer replied and ran from the room where all three of them slept, a dark place with no windows.

  He listened as best he could. There was the occasional bang.

  “Jennifer?” he asked.

  Then there was a really loud noise, like a chair falling over, and then Jennifer screamed.

  “Jennifer!” he yelled, all thoughts of his stomachache forgotten.

  The silence terrified him. It dragged on and on.

  “Jennifer!” he screamed again.

  “Lennon,” she cried. “I hurt my head.”

  “Jennifer,” he shouted, shaking the bars of the crib. It took ages for her to crawl into the bedroom, fat tears rolling down her face. With shaking hands, she opened the jar of candy and took a few out, dropping them through the bars of the crib, before placing the jar on the ground.

  “It really hurts, Lennon,” she said as she held her hand to the side of her face. Blood covered her hand. It was coming from her ear. “I don’t feel so good,” she said as she lay down alongside the crib, threading her hand through the bars, reaching for his.

  He lay down as close to the bars as he could get, wrapping his body around her hand. She was his only friend, and the sight of her blood made him feel sick.

  There was no point crying for help, though. It never came.

  But then a woman with brown hair was in the room. A doctor in green scrubs. “I’ve got her, Lennon,” she said. “I’ll fix her.”

  “Lennon. Can you hear me, brother?”

  It was Elliott. He knew his voice.

  It was a dream.

  And he was on the tour bus.

  The bus?

  Why did that seem wrong?

  He tried to move the covers off his bunk.

  He drifted back to his dream, the woman with brown hair coming back into focus.

  “Hey, Lennon. It’s okay, dude. I’m here. Just . . . you know. Come back to us or whatever because we’re the fucking Famous Five. We don’t make sense as a four.”

  Lennon tried to open his eyes. Man, they must have been to some seriously fucked-up party because he felt drunk and hungover at the exact same time. And sick. His stomach roiled.

  “Sick,” he mumbled, and tried to prop himself up on his arms so he could puke off the side of the bunk. But nothing worked. A shocking pain seared up his side, and he slumped onto the pillow. The exertion made his head spin. “What the fuck, Elliott?” he mumbled, trying to wet his dry mouth.

  He attempted to roll onto his side, and his whole body felt like it was on fire. Crying out in pain, he opened his eyes. “Where am I?”

  The TV on the wall made no sense. And his bed had bars on the side. He needed something to make the pain go away.

  His heart beat furiously, echoed by the beeps of a machine. Panic crept through his veins until his entire body was filled with it.

  Everything felt sluggish, like moving through molasses.

  “It’s okay.” Elliott stood next to the bed, his phone pressed to his ear. “You’re in the hospital. I just buzzed for the nurse . . . hang on. Yeah, Dred, he’s awake. . . . Sorry, was just calling the others. They’ll be here when they can.”

  Where were the others?

  A nurse hurried in. “I’ve called for the doctor. You’re going to be fine, Mr. McCartney. On a scale of one to ten, where is your pain right now?”

  “A fucking hundred and three.”

  “That’s very precise, Mr. McCartney.” She placed something in his hand. “This button releases your pain meds so you can self-dispense.”

  He squeezed the shit out of it, praying for something to take the fire away.

  “What happened to me?” he asked, looking between the nurse and Elliott.

  Elliott moved closer to the bed but winced as a crutch fell to the ground.

  “Wait, what happened . . . to you?”

  “You don’t remember?” Elliott asked, his face filled with enough concern to let Lennon know he should be worried.

  Lennon tried to shake his head, but his neck hurt. He reached up to touch it, and his fingers connected with a neck brace. “Fuck . . . I’m not paralyzed, am I?” he asked. He wiggled his toes. They moved, thank God.

  He tried to push himself up on the bed again, but only his right arm was working properly. Had he broken his left one? Tentatively he tried to raise it, though it was where most of the pain was.

  But he couldn’t see it rising. The meds had to be making him sluggish and disoriented.

  He tried again.

  He felt the arm move, his shoulder blade brushing against the starchy hospital covers. Crippling pain fired through his arm.

  Except he still couldn’t see it. It wasn’t there.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw bandages. And a stump.

  A fucking stump where his arm had been.

  He was going to puke. His stomach cramped, his entire body shook.

  He pedaled his feet against the blankets as he tried to gain purchase to push himself up, but his body wouldn’t comply.

  “No . . . what the fuck? Elliott . . . what the fuck happened to my arm?” He couldn’t see through his tears. “Ell . . . what the . . . No. No. This is my fucking life . . . I can’t . . .”

  “We need a stronger sedative,” a man in a white coat said as he walked into the room. He murmured something to the nurse, who hurried off.

  “I don’t need a sedative. I need my fucking arm. Elliott, why’d you let them do this?”

  He gripped Elliott’s arm with his remaining hand, squeezing it tight.

  Tears filled Elliott’s eyes. “I’m here for you, brother. We all are.”

  Lennon couldn’t breathe, couldn’t draw in enough air. But that was alright. Death was the perfect alternat
ive to a life without his drums.

  Your work here on Earth isn’t done, Lennon. . . . And I am not going to let you go.

  The crash. The sound of metal ripping.

  The doctor in his dream.

  She’d been real.

  He fucking hated her.

  The doctor double-checked whatever it was the nurse was holding before Lennon saw her add it to the drip.

  Coldness slipped into his vein and up his arm.

  Dred ran into the room. The luckiest bastard on Earth looked totally fine. Nik followed with Jordan.

  Pixie. Her eyes had been closed. Fuck. “Pix?” he asked as his heart raced.

  “Recovering from having her back pinned. She broke her back. But you . . . you . . .” Dred choked, and Nik threw his arm over Dred’s shoulder.

  “Do you remember the accident? It happened five days ago.”

  Lennon swallowed hard and shook his head. Words were trapped between his heart and throat again.

  How could he have been the unluckiest of all of them? Hadn’t he been through fucking enough? “Who else is hurt?”

  “Lennon, honestly,” Elliott said, “you’re the one who came off worst. Let us worry about you.”

  But Lennon couldn’t. Even though he wanted one of them to wrap his arms around him and give him a shoulder to cry on for the next week. Even though he wanted to believe that nothing had changed. Everything had.

  His head began to swim again. The drugs. The panic eased, but the thoughts didn’t.

  “Jenny? Petal?” he asked.

  “Jenny has temporary partial paralysis of her thoracic spine, the upper vertebrae. It means the use of her legs is difficult, but doctors are confident it’s just a result of swelling.” Nik said. “And Elliott has a broken leg, which he should be resting. But, of course, is not. Arwen is fine, and Petal needed four stitches. They’re both with Kendalee at a hotel.”

  He’d been unable to swallow the rest of the band’s happiness while they were on the bus. While they were all fine, and whole. At least able-bodied, he’d been able to pursue the career he loved. How could he do that now? He’d never do that project with Grohl.

  While they all went back to their lives, he’d be left trying to live like a one-armed freak show.

  “Get out,” he growled.

  “Nothing changes, Lennon,” Nik said calmly. “We’ll get through this together. We’ve got a plan. One of us is going to be here with you twenty-four seven. While you’re here, we’ll—”

  “I said get the fuck out.”

  “Lennon,” Elliott said, his voice filled with the love Lennon wished he could accept, “let us be here for you.”

  “Shut up and go. I’ll call security if I need to.”

  Jordan placed his hand on Lennon’s leg. It burned. “We’ll give you an hour, then one of us will be back.”

  With faces filled with love, and sadness, and helplessness, and every other fucking emotion Lennon wished he could express, they left his hospital room.

  And as soon as they did, Lennon sobbed until his throat was raw and he passed out from exhaustion.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Earth to Georgia.”

  Dr. Minsok Gao nudged her with his shoulder as they studied the X-rays from a hospital in the Philippines of conjoined twins they were considering offering separation surgery to.

  “Oh God. Sorry, Minsok. I’m miles away today,” she said, and took another sip of her triple espresso latte.

  “Well, you are the hero of the hour. Little girls everywhere have likely watched the video of you hacking into that coach with your axe. You’re like Wonder Woman, only with more clothes and a Ph.D.”

  She shook her head. “Yeah, well, that was nine days ago. Can’t we all just move on? If I get another request for a TV interview I might throw up in my mouth.”

  The coverage had been good for her but brutal for the band. Fake news of dumb-ass behavior, of them distracting their driver, had made the rounds and it had been impossible to bite her lip and not comment. Nothing she’d read had matched what she’d seen, from the out-of-control dump truck to the way the band had behaved with one another and with the emergency services.

  And the rumors had continued to circulate even after the autopsy results had proven beyond the shadow a doubt that the driver of the dump truck had suffered a fatal heart attack.

  Minsok closed his laptop. “Can you not just suck it up as promotion for neurology as a field of study?”

  Georgia laughed sadly. “If it were any reputable media, then maybe. But when TMZ wants to talk, it can only be for salacious details about the band.”

  She hadn’t been surprised to learn that the people she’d helped were members of a rock band, a very successful group called Preload, and their families. The long hair, the tattoos. Not that she was judging—each to their own and all that—but they’d definitely had a certain look. On the internet they came off as bad-ass, take-no-prisoners rock stars, an image that had nothing in common with who they clearly were in real life.

  She’d witnessed firsthand the love they had for one another. The way Jordan had brought the children to the hospital in a cab so that Dred, their father, could go in the ambulance with the woman named Pixie. The way they’d shouted for one another. The way each of them had kissed or touched Lennon, even though he was unconscious, after the firefighters had freed him.

  She’d heard through the hospital grapevine that they hadn’t been able to save his arm, and as someone who also relied on her hands to do her job, she’d been heartbroken for him when she’d learned he’d been the drummer.

  She’d done all she could, but somehow didn’t feel it was enough.

  “I don’t think we should do this surgery,” she said, trying to shake her thoughts away from Lennon. But it was impossible. And not just because of how attractive he was. Thanks, internet, for that photo of him naked on his balcony in Madrid. “It’s too risky.”

  “Even for you?” Minsok said with a laugh.

  “Yeah. We’d be lucky if we could save one twin. I’m not dodging difficulty, I just don’t think it’s viable. And I’d rather give the surgery to two children who’ll have the opportunity to thrive afterward.”

  He nodded. “We should call the hospital tomorrow and let them know.”

  Georgia stood. “I’ll do it.”

  “Have plans tonight?” Minsok asked, tucking his laptop into his bag. “Some of the ortho team and I are going bowling if you want to join us.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks. Plus, those journalists are under the delusion that my contract stipulates that I can’t do anything that might affect these million-dollar fingers,” she said sarcastically as she wiggled them in the air. “If they get a photo of me bowling, it will only give them something new to say about me.”

  He laughed. “See you tomorrow, Georgia.”

  She wandered back to her office. The pile of reports waiting for her was small because she stayed on top of them and had two interns who worked like demons. Their work ethic and enthusiasm reminded her of her own at that age, and she was eager to see each of them succeed.

  She slipped her white coat off and hung it on the back of the door.

  Seven o’clock.

  At some point, she should grab food and bring it back to her desk. Plus she should start planning her trip out West to see her friend Louisa. Who would have thought that the shy and quiet woman would have fallen for an outgoing ex-military guy? The old “opposites attract” chestnut was alive and well and living in Encinitas. From the e-mails and photos she’d seen, Louisa looked completely loved up.

  Which suddenly made her feel lonely.

  Thoughts of hazel eyes and the cocky way their owner had winked at the camera of a video she’d seen on YouTube after the accident intruded on her thoughts.

  She needed to focus but instead lazily ran her fingers along the shelf that held objects from her travels. A little glass bottle of black sand from Reynisfjara Beach in Iceland, a ceramic turtle to r
emind her of her trip to the Sea Turtles Observatory on the French Polynesian island of Mo’orea. Other trinkets that reminded her of the beauty of the world.

  I’m . . . tired . . . of my life. Just . . . let me . . . go.

  It hurt her heart to think that had she even once considered listening to Lennon’s request, he might not have lived to see the beauty of another sunrise. Patients needed to fight for their health during and after surgery. But he’d meant those words. She knew it for sure, even though she didn’t know him at all.

  The idea of sitting her butt down in her chair and doing reports while eating a takeout salad lost its final iota of appeal.

  There was only one place she wanted to be . . . a hospital building nearby.

  Nearly a week after she’d met him, she still couldn’t get him out of her mind. She needed to do something. At least she could make sure he had connections and information . . . and an ear to talk to.

  Georgia changed out of her scrubs and pulled on a pair of jeans, a tank top, a loose cream-colored sweater, and boots. Her new coat hung on the door. The one she’d used to cover Lennon had been ruined.

  She grabbed it and walked through the network of hospital corridors to the McKeen Pavilion. How on earth should she introduce herself?

  “Hey . . . I don’t know if you remember me but . . . I was there on Sunday when . . .”

  Damn. She’d just make it up as she went along.

  Many of the nurses recognized her immediately from the hospital and from the media coverage when she appeared at the nurses’ station, and knowing a pediatric neurosurgeon had little to no business on the private wing, they sent her in the direction of Lennon’s room before she even had to ask.

  She knocked on the half-open door and saw Dred and Elliott talking quietly to the woman with strawberry blonde hair. They turned to look at her, but she barely gave them a second glance as she looked toward the bed.

  Lennon’s blond hair was pulled back off his face, which was still bruised along one side. Headphones covered his ears, but she could hear the roar of loud rock music playing from them all the way over by the door. His eyes were firmly shut.

  Tubes led from the bandages around his residual limb. They’d had to do a transhumeral amputation, she noted, seeing a considerable portion of his upper arm wrapped in bandages. It was above the elbow joint—perfectly placed if there was such a silver lining to the amputation cloud. All of which thankfully made quality prosthetics a realistic option.