Soul Fire (3 page)

I cursed. I should have asked them to bring me in a new cell phone as I could use a few friends right now. Especially Mole. I could use more painkillers too. I wanted to drift back to sleep where that copper-haired girl lived. I fantasized for a moment . . . recalling her from my dreams. The more I thought about her, the more I began to think that she was a little too real to be just a dream. Even with morphine running on low, I could see her face clearly . . . those unbelievable green eyes looking down on me with a troubled, worried gaze. I could feel the weight of her hand on my arm, comforting me. Yes! She had touched me! That could only mean one thing. She must have been there, right beside me.
Why can’t I remember
?

I glanced around and caught the attention of one of the nurses. “I need a phone and more pain killers. Phone first.”

She frowned. “This is ICU. We don’t normally offer a phone to our patients,” she looked at me for a minute, and then added, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

A few minutes later, I punched Mole’s number into a handheld portable that she had retrieved from the outer nursing station. He answered on the second ring.

“Lo,”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Man, are you okay? It’s all over King news.”

I looked at my legs and cringed. “I survived. They say that was the hard part.”

“Aw, man, you must be hurting. Sorry.”

“So, what was on the news?”

“Chopper landing on the hospital roof up in Vancouver. Shots of you and some chick being brought out on stretchers. Photos of you and her…and get this… she’s from north Seattle too.”

So, she was real . . . not a figment of my dreams. “What does she look like?”

Long pause at the other end. “You kidding?”

“Just tell me.”

“She’s kind of like all hair and eyes. Good looking, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Copper hair? Green eyes?”

Another long pause . . . “I guess. Yeah.”

My heart started racing. “What’s her name?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Mole, this is important. I need to know.”

“What for?”

“Doesn’t matter. Did they say what happened to her?”

“Just that she’s some kind of big deal for saving your life—”

“Yes! That’s her! I knew it. And we’re practically neighbors!”

The hospital bed was crowded into the window corner of a small four-bed ward. I was aware of three other women, but because I had not been able to sit or stand, I couldn’t see them. That was about to change.

It took almost five minutes to sit up. The headache was still there but so far no vomiting, so I continued working myself upright.

“Lord knows, girl, you get A for trying,” offered the older woman next to me. “Heard them say you have a concussion.”

“Life’s going by and I’m missing out.” I replied, regretting my words when she looked sharply away. Not everyone feels the way I do, I reminded myself.

Half an hour later, my three closest friends burst into the room. “Ashla!” It was said in unison as arms flew around me. Yellow roses were pushed into my left hand and a card into my right. I was overwhelmed. “Thanks, you guys.”

“You never showed for the latte, so we got worried.” Celeste explained, putting the card on the window ledge. She dropped the roses into my glass of drinking water and positioned it next to the card. Then, she plopped onto the bed beside me, her eyes taking in my facial wounds.

Tara pulled a strand of dark hair away from her pale face. “When you didn’t show at the bottom of the run, I went over to Starbucks thinking maybe I’d somehow missed you, but Celeste and Brenna were still waiting.”

“And by then we were freaking out,” Brenna added. “We knew you were doing the West Face and maybe . . . you know . . . things didn’t go too well.”

Celeste concluded, “So we decided we better call the Ski Patrol. I gave them your name and description and they said you had been airlifted to Vancouver.” She eyed me skeptically. “When I heard that, I gave them your parent’s number. Sorry, Ashla. Hope you don’t mind. The SP wouldn’t tell me your condition, and I was so scared for you.”

I almost shrugged and stopped myself just in time. “Don’t worry. My mom and dad were going to get a call one way or another.”

Celeste’s cornflower eyes inspected me carefully. She swiped at a runaway lock of golden hair. Dubbed The Golden Goddess, she looked like a true California girl, only she did her surfing on a snowboard. Everything about Celeste had a golden hue: her skin, hair, attitude, even her soul. A pastor’s daughter, she constantly measured what was right and what was wrong. It got interesting when things fell into a gray area. Her long time boyfriend kidded her about that, saying the scales of justice were not intended for her kind of rigorous use. He was studying for a civil engineering degree at the University of Oregon, which meant she didn’t get to see him often, but that didn’t stop other guys from dreaming.

“Saw your parents,” she added. “They told me you were coming down off Blind Jump and hit another skier.”

“Pretty much. You know what Blind Jump’s like. You can’t see a thing until seconds before you land. Well, I was airborne and getting ready for touchdown when I saw him standing right where I was going to land. What made it worse was that he actually tried to catch me.”

Brenna and Tara yanked the privacy curtain around the bed and then positioned themselves at each side of my feet. “Ooh, I could only dream of such a thing,” Brenna said, swooning. She was the softie, the romantic in our group. Her heart was big, even though she was petite. Barely five feet, she almost looked like a child, and this infuriated her. Her closet was full of five-inch heels. Her thick brown sugar locks bounced off her thin shoulders and her velvet brown eyes glowed with warmth. At the moment she was without a boyfriend, but that would change. Guys loved her.

Tara tilted her head and examined my injuries. “You going to be okay?” She was the grounded one. With long, straight black hair, hazel eyes, and Angelina Jolie lips, she was gorgeous.

“Don’t I look okay? I mean . . . considering.”

Their expressions were grim. Celeste cleared her throat, “Head bandage, facial scrapes, nasty purple bulge in your forehead, big black eye, swollen cheek. Could be worse. They could have shaved your head. Oh wait… they did.”

Brenna suggested, “Maybe lose the head bandage. I’ll bring you my Lululemon.”

“That bad, huh?”

Celeste put her arm around my shoulders. “Tell us what you need and we’ll bring it in.”

Tara changed the subject. “And by the way, you made last night’s news.”

Oh, no.
I groaned. “What did they say?”

With a planned career in broadcasting, Tara stood up, grabbed a single rose out of the water glass, and swung around to face us. She cleared her throat and spoke into the petals as the stem dripped water down her arm. “I’m live on the rooftop of the Vancouver General Hospital where a rescue helicopter is just now landing with two injured skiers from Blackcomb Mountain. Both victims are believed to be from the north Seattle area. Their condition is not yet known, but their injuries are substantial.” She popped the rose back in the glass. “They showed your school photos.”

Brenna leaned forward, hugging my blanket. “You sure can pick ‘em, Ashla. Imagine falling into the arms of the hottest senior at Mount Olympic High…” Brenna threw her head back and gazed at the ceiling. “…that hunk of a hockey player every girl dreams about,” she paused, squinting at me. “I hyperventilate just thinking about him.” She swooned and leaned so far back that she had to catch herself before she toppled off the bed. “You get the picture.”

I got the picture, all right. Justin Ledger was a big deal, not just at school, but also on the ice, and with the media. The headache suddenly got worse.

“Hey, Ashla, what’s wrong?” Tara caught my expression.

“Both his legs are broken.”

Their faces fell. Brenna finally said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Celeste nodded. “I heard that on the news. They said the broken bone in his leg perforated a major vein and that he could have bled to death. Someone on the mountain saved his life. Who was that, Ashla? You?”

I gave that some thought, remembering my Dad’s words. How could I be both the heroine who saved his life and the villain who caused his terrible injury? I sure didn’t feel much like the heroine right now.

“Hey,” Celeste rubbed my forearm, “Come back to us. You should be proud. A later broadcast said what you did was amazing considering how badly hurt you were. Think about it. You saved Justin’s life!”

I looked at each of my friends.
What if I was found responsible for what happened to Justin? Who would I be then? What would happen to me?
I shivered.

“Hey! Ashla. Hello?” They looked at me questioningly.

Tara summed it up. “He’s got it all. That’s for sure. Looks, money, and fame.”

“That’s just peachy,” I said.

The girls looked at each other, an unspoken message passing amongst them. “Hey, Ashla,” Brenna said, “Tara and I are going to go. You look pretty tired.”

We hugged. “The card is really nice,” I said, “and I love the microphone, er, I mean the roses.”

When they were gone, Celeste looked me in the eye, the one that wasn’t black and swollen. “Fess up,” she demanded.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I wanted to tell her, but the words lodged in my throat. “It’s the concussion, that’s all. Messes up everything.”

“I’m your best friend, Ashla, remember? You can’t fool me.”

I gave it some thought. “This is just between us, right?”

Celeste nodded. “Always.”

“The resort says Justin was the last skier down the mountain before they closed the run.”

Her eyes grew wide as the meaning of this struck her. “So are they saying you are responsible for his injuries?”

“Apparently.”

Celeste moaned, “Just wait ‘till that tidbit hits the news.”

“Truth is, if I hadn’t been flying down the West Face at that exact moment, Justin would be in the village right now, partying with his friends instead of in a hospital bed with two broken legs.”

Seattle, two weeks later…

I slogged through the rain as early darkness descended like a wet wrap. Looking ahead, the welcome yellow glow from the windows of our older two-story home came into view. I had been out of the hospital for two weeks but had not gone back to school or been allowed any physical activity. The doctor said even the slightest bump could re-injure my brain.

I was going stir crazy doing
nothing.

So, when Linda Murphy, coordinator for volunteers at Harborside Medical Center called to ask if I would once again volunteer at the therapy pool this season, I happily agreed while silently promising myself to be careful. Like many hospitals, Harborside relied on volunteers. Celeste and I, along with the rest of our swim team have done this sporadically over the past two years. It wasn’t much to give back in exchange for the hospital’s ongoing sponsorship of our team.

Within minutes of Linda’s call, an idea began to form. Justin had been transferred to Harborside from Vancouver. For the past two weeks, I had agonized over his future and imagined him in a wheelchair forever. Had I destroyed his
entire life
? Would he
ever
walk again? Questions like those and constant worry over his broken legs haunted my dreams. Daytime thoughts were around what I had done to him, so it all came down to one thing. I had to see him and find out for myself how bad things really were before I lost my mind. I had to find a way to make things right . . . somehow.

But how do I do that without him recognizing me? I was certain the mere sight of me would freak him right out.

Thanks to Linda, a plan began to form, and I set off on a shopping trip. The outcome was now tucked under my arm. I climbed our front steps, opened the door to our warm, welcoming home, and was immediately assailed by squeals of little voices and laughter. A row of miniature shoes and boots lined the brightly painted hall and small winter coats hung from hooks above them. Not yet five o’clock, Mom’s home daycare was still in full swing. I hung my wet things on the coat rack to drip dry and headed for the kitchen. Thinking of a hot drink, I dropped my backpack and shopping bag onto the kitchen table.

Even though Mom was busy inside the daycare area, she heard my arrival and had mentally tracked me to the kitchen. She called out, “Hi, Ashla. Could you unload the dishwasher while you’re in there? And put the lasagna in the oven? Three fifty, please. Thank you . . .” I filled the kettle, turned it on, and then pulled a package of hot chocolate from the cupboard.

Neither of my parents had spoken to me about the whole Whistler ski disaster or the fact that I had misled them about it; so now, I was packing around a ton of guilt and felt like a total jerk. When I asked to borrow Mom’s car to go to the mall, she had refused without explanation, so maybe that was my punishment, or maybe she was following doctor’s orders.

A young voice interrupted my thoughts. “Buy me something?”

I swung around to see five-year-old Anika standing behind me. She was a miniature likeness of our father with his dark hair and eyes. Fortunately, she had inherited his calm, complacent nature as well as inquisitive ways. Her pudgy fingers probed my plastic shopping bag.

“Anika! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Feeling suddenly neglectful for forgetting her treat, I knelt down and hugged her. “I didn’t bring you anything this time, Sweetie, but I promise that I’ll bring you two bags of gummies tomorrow.”

Her pretty little lips turned upward, the smile lighting up her button face. “Two,” Anika said, and held up two fingers. “Okay, Ashla,” she sang happily and planted a kiss on my chin before turning and racing off.

As I stood, I caught sight of my grandmother, a skeletal apparition hovering inside the kitchen door. The older woman had ghosted into the kitchen and was standing rock still in the far corner of the room, her white curly hair—once my color, was wild around her head. Her eyes, like pinpoint lasers, were honed in on me. She held
Crossbow,
her white Siamese cat. Even he appeared to be sneering at me. Hoping to miss whatever caustic remark she was about to fire my way—something she did with relish—I snatched my things off the table and started out of the kitchen.