Stolen (33 page)

Then the plane was dipping down and bumping and I was being pushed out of it. Wheeled across tarmac. It was dark, but lights were winking in the distance. The mask was taken from my face. You were running beside me. Running like you’d been running in the sand beside the camel. This time you were holding my hand, your fingers tight. Your eyes never left mine. There was a building. I went through a set of sliding doors.

Then we stopped. A man was asking you questions, pushing you back. You were shouting, pointing. Then you looked at me …
really
looked at me. Your eyes were desperate, wanting something … finding something. Maybe. Your eyes became wet as they traveled over me, lingering on my legs, my face, my eyes. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. You turned back to the man, yelled something at him. Then you stepped up to my stretcher. You leaned over me. Stroked my face.

“Good-bye, Gem,” you whispered. “You’ll be OK.”

You touched the ring on my finger as you started to pull away.

No. I shook my head. No.

I grabbed at you. Got a hold on your elbow. My fingers grasped at your skin. And with all the strength I had, I pulled at you. I pulled you toward me. You let me. You came down easily. And then, suddenly, you were right there. I ran my fingers up your arm onto your bare chest, feeling for your heat. I gripped the back of your neck, my fingers twisting in your hair.

Then, with my final bit of strength, I pulled your face toward me. My head left the pillow to get to you. Your skin was almost touching mine. Your mouth so close. I felt the roughness of your beard. I felt your warm breath, smelled the sour eucalyptus. I tasted your dirt and salt and sweat. Your lips were soft against my skin.

And then, you were being pulled off me. You were being held. And I fell back. I looked for you, found your eyes as I was wheeled away. I could still taste your salt on my lips.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. You just stood there, like a rock, watching me, while the hospital staff closed in around you. You were the hunted one now. I wanted to lift my hand, wanted to say thank you. But I could only watch as I was wheeled backward through a flapping door. Plastic edges fluttered against my arms as I was pulled through. I pushed myself up, wanting to keep you in sight. You brought your hand to your mouth. You opened your fingers and blew something at me. It looked like a kiss. But I saw the sand hang in the air for a moment before it fell toward the floor.

Then the plastic doors shut and other, colder, fingers felt for my face. Another mask went over my mouth. Plastic straps pinched my cheeks. And then, breathing became easy. But it didn’t matter. The world all went black anyway.

I sank down. Everything was cold, and dark, and very far away. A blurred hum of machines surrounded me, the distant drone of voices …

“Who is this girl anyway?”

“She’s fading on us …”

“Bring her into intensive …”

Then,

nothing.

A sharp chemical smell. Stiff sheets against my skin, heavy on my chest. Wires plugged into my arms. Something was beeping. When I tried to find it, it started beeping faster. I was cold. My body wasn’t so numb, more sore. Kind of empty. There were four shadowy walls around me. No windows. When I looked at one wall, it felt like the others were closing in.

It was such a tiny room. You weren’t in it.

Only me.

Another time I felt someone’s fingers, cold against my arm, wrapping something around me.

“Where’s Ty?” I said.

“Who?” It was a lady’s voice, oldish.

“Where’s Ty?”

The fingers stopped moving. A sigh.

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” the voice said gently. “He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

The fingers slipped down to my wrist and pressed against it, their tips so cold. “Your parents are on their way.”

I slept.

There was blood between my legs … my period, arrived at last. Only a few weeks late. They say fear dries it up sometimes. I lay there, too numb to feel embarrassed, watching the nurse change the sheets.

I slept again, wanting a dream.

I heard Mum’s voice first, high and shrill, echoing down the corridor toward me.

“We left as soon as we possibly could,” she said. “Where is she?”

Her heels clicked quickly, getting louder.

Dad’s voice was quiet in the background, talking to a third voice.

“She’s been in a venom-induced coma,” that voice was saying. “She’ll feel strange for some time.”

Then suddenly, they were all in my room: Mum and Dad and a white-coated doctor. There was a policeman at the door. Mum was grabbing me, smothering me with her soft wool cardigan and expensive perfume. She was sobbing into my shoulders. Dad was standing behind her. He was smiling, his whole face wrinkling up with it, which confused me for a moment because Dad never used to smile like that. Not at me anyway, not that I can remember. Then everyone was talking, asking questions, and staring…. I looked from Mum to Dad to the doctor. There was too much noise. I watched their mouths, opening and closing, but couldn’t take in their words. I shook my head.

Then, almost at the same time, they all went quiet. They stared at me, expectantly, waiting for me to respond.

Mum pulled back, studying my face. And I opened my mouth. I wanted to speak to them. I wanted to talk. I did. A part of me, a large part, was so glad to see them that I wanted to burst into tears. But I couldn’t cry, couldn’t say one word. Nothing would come out. I couldn’t even raise my arms for a hug. Not then. Not right away.

Mum made up for me, though, releasing floods of tears. “Oh, Gemma, it must have been terrible for you,” she sobbed. “But now we’re here, I promise it will be all right. You don’t have to worry. You’re safe.”

There was something awkward about the words she said, as if she were trying to convince herself more than me. I tried to smile back. I really did. Every muscle in my face hurt from the effort. And there was pain thudding through my forehead. The lights in that room were so bright.

I had to shut my eyes.