by Marisa Montes
Prologue:
Devil's Drop
Lightning slashes the black silk night. Rain pelts the winding mountain road. Gusts of wind slap a tiny Honda back and forth across the slippery road the way a cat teases a small rodent before devouring it.
In the middle of the road, a teenage girl in an old-fashioned calico dress watches the approaching car. She waits, sensing the movements of the woman inside the Honda.
The woman squints against the glare of the headlights shimmering on the pavement. Weak windshield wipers flop from side to side, useless against the pounding the rain. She grips the steering wheel, tensing her muscles, as she concentrates on the wall of water.
Approaching a sharp curve, she taps the brakes. The road is getting steeper, and she's nearing Devil's Drop. Despite the cold night, perspiration begins to form on her neck and forehead. Her hands, still glued to the steering wheel, become slippery with sweat.
As she makes the sharp "V" turn of Devil's Drop, the Honda skids and begins to fishtail. A bolt of lightning reveals a figure standing frozen in the road. The woman's heart smacks her ribcage. She steps on the brakes, skidding to a stop only inches from the girl, so close she can see the girl's odd eyes, pale and luminous as moons.
The girl's blond braids drip with rain. Her calico dress is plastered to her slim body. The headlights give the girl an eerie glow. She raises an arm and points toward the rocky shoulder of the road. Another flash of lightning reveals a bicycle crumpled against the dented metal barrier.
"What the—?" The woman flings herself out the door and is shoved against the car by a giant gust of wind. Icy knives of rain slash her face. When the woman regains her balance, the girl in the calico dress is gone. The woman staggers to the metal barrier, fighting spiraling currents of wind and rain. Another bolt of lightning flashes. Midway down the ravine, on a narrow ledge, she sees the girl kneeling beside the twisted body of another girl.
"Oh my God!" she cries. "Don't move! I'll get help." The woman returns to her car and calls for an ambulance. "Highway 1, Devil's Drop. One girl injured . . . maybe two . . . Please, hurry!"
The girl in the calico dress caresses the forehead of the still form, gently pushing aside clumps of rain-soaked hair. An ugly gash, still oozing blood, is visible at the hairline. Her face is bruised, badly scraped, and streaked with blood, dirt, and rain.
"Don't worry," the girl whispers. "I'll take care of you . . . and you'll take care of me." The girl begins to glow, softly at first, like the delicate light of a birthday candle, then with more intensity. She envelops the unconscious girl's body with her light, becoming one with her. Then, as though extinguished by a puff of wind, the glowing light vanishes.
Part 1: The Coma
Chapter 1
I'm wrapped in darkness, and a warm tingling travels through my body. I feel so light, so light, as if I'm floating. Something behind me goes swish-swush, swish-swush, and to my right, there's a faint beep, beep, beep . . .
Is someone there? I can barely make out soft, muffled voices. I try to turn my head, to see who it is, but my head won't move, and my eyes won't open.
The voices come closer. Mom? Mommy! I cry out.
What's happening? I don't understand—I can't hear my own voice. My lips seem glued together . . . they won't—can't?—move!
What was that? I hold my breath, trying to sift out the tiniest sound. Someone is sobbing, and a voice says something that sounds like "coma." Now the voices move further away. I'm floating again—this time up, up, high above a tiny room.
I can see them now. It's Mom, bent over, shoulders shaking, hands covering her eyes. A woman in a white lab coat places an arm over Mom's shoulders. They're watching a girl who's lying pale and still on a small bed.
Tubes run in and out of the girl's body and are connected to machines behind her and at her side. Bandages cover her skull, and her left arm and leg are encased in plaster. I glance quickly around the room. It's cold and barren except for the bed, a curtain hanging from a track on the ceiling, a tray-table near the girl's feet, and a straight-backed chair tucked in a corner. The curtain is pulled shut and flutters in the breeze from the heater vent located beneath the window.
I look back at the pale girl in the bed below. Why is Mom staring at her like that? What is she to her? And why does she look so familiar? Her face is so scratched and bruised and swollen, but there's something familiar . . . something . . .
Oh, my God! Oh, my God—Mommy! It's me! The girl on the bed—it's me!
Lightning flashes. Thunder. A force I can't fight yanks me up, pulling me through the ceiling. Another flash of light, and the room and my mother vanish—Mo-o-ooom! But the scream is ripped from my throat as I'm sucked through darkness down a tunnel of wind toward a bright, rosy light. Before I can struggle against the strong tug, I drift down into a sunlit meadow filled with golden California poppies.
The air smelled of freshly moistened earth and grass. Cool raindrops dripped from the tall weeds onto her bare legs and feet and wet the hem of her dress as she walked. Despite the clear sky and bright sun, the air felt chilly, like in the early days of April when spring is still trying to convince winter that it has arrived.
Allison Blair reached up to pull her sweater around her chest, when she realized she was wearing only a thin calico dress that she didn't remember owning. It couldn't be hers—the dress fit awkwardly across the waist and shoulders, and it was a dumpy, old-fashioned style. What was she doing wearing this thing? Where were the comfortable blue jeans and T-shirt she was wearing when she left home this morning? Come to think of it, where was she?
Allison scanned the thick row of pine trees that encircled the meadow. Directly in front of her, and where her feet seemed to be heading, was a rough log cabin tucked under tall pines.
Somewhere behind her, a voice called, "Becky! Becky, wait up!"
Allison turned. A tall boy emerged from the pines. He ran toward her, jumping over fallen trees and branches, his curly, sun-bleached brown hair flopping up and down as he ran. He wore baggy, ragged pants, a faded, plaid flannel shirt, and he, too, was bare-footed.
"Becky, you're late," he said. His gray eyes danced with mischief.
Allison backed away from the boy. "I'm not—"
"Stop playing, Becky." The boy gave her an impish grin. He tugged one of her braids, pulling her toward him. "Come on back before your mama sees."
Allison lifted her hand to touch the thick, honey-blond braids that hadn't been there this morning, but the boy grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the thicket of pines. Allison was too stunned to resist. Besides, despite his shabby clothes, he had to be the cutest boy she'd ever seen.
She let the boy lead her into the pines. As they entered the thicket, a woman's shrill voice shattered the peaceful silence. "Rebecca Lee! Come on home, now. Rebecca!"
"Oh, Becky—I told you we wouldn't have time." The boy hung his head. Allison noticed that he didn't look as old as she'd first thought. He was so tall, she'd thought he was about sixteen or seventeen. But he didn't seem mature enough. He was probably fifteen or fourteen, like Allison.
The boy turned her toward the cabin. "You'd better git, or she'll find out about us."
Allison didn't want to go. "But I'm not—"
"Don't argue, Becky. Remember what happened last time?"
"Rebecca!" The woman was getting closer.
"I'd better scat, Becky." The boy turned and ran into the woods. "Same time, same place next week—this time don't be late!"
Before Allison could reply, he disappeared behind a clump of trees. She stared, wondering whether she'd imagined his playful smile, when a hand hit her shoulder and flung her around.
"Rebecca Lee Thompson! Here you are again, daydreaming. You haven't been wasting time thinking about that no good Joshua Winthrop, have you?" The woman grabbed Allison's arm and pulled her toward the house. "Don't you care that we have to be at the estate early tomorrow, and you still haven't finished sewing Miz Teresa's dress?"
Allison pulled back, forcing the woman to face her. "Look, I'm not—"
A powerful hand slapped Allison across the face, drawing blood. "Don't you ever take that tone with me, you hear? Now move!"
Too terrified to resist further, Allison let the woman drag her across the meadow. As they were nearing the cabin, Allison became aware of a faint voice, as soft as a whisper in the wind, traveling over the meadow and through the pines: "Allison? Allison, please wake up, sweetheart."
"Mom!" Allison tried to pull her arm free. "Mommy, help me!"
"I'll help you all right," said the woman beside her, refusing to loosen her grip. Instead, the woman used her free hand to give one of Allison's braids a sharp tug, sending waves of needle-sharp pain throughout her scalp. Allison stopped struggling and let herself be dragged toward the cabin.
"Allison," the voice called again.
Drawing strength from the voice, Allison yanked her arm free from the woman's grasp. She bolted. Tall weeds ripped and scratched her legs as she tore across the meadow, crying, "Mommy, help me!"
"Allison, wake up," the voice pleaded.
As Allison ran, she could feel herself lifting from Becky Thompson's body and floating into the air. In the meadow below, she could see a girl in a calico dress running, tripping, and falling, while a large, heavy-set woman caught her and struck her again and again about the head. Then, the girl and woman were gone, and Allison was in the wind tunnel, speeding toward a white light.
I'm a feather, floating down to earth, alighting on a bed.
Mom's beside me, holding my hand. I feel safe and warm. I sigh. It was only a dream, a nasty nightmare.
Then I hear what she's saying, I focus on Mom's voice. She's pleading with me, begging me to open my eyes.
My heart flutters. I try to do what she asks. I'm trying, Mom. I'm trying! my mind screams. But as much as I try, my head won't turn, and my eyes refuse to open.
Mom, help me! Please, help! I can't move!
Then a thought consumes me—a thought to horrible to bear: Somehow, someway, my body has become a coffin, lid shut tight, trapping me inside. I'm buried alive in my own body!
Chapter 2
Outside, the storm rages. Thunder rumbles through my bones. The curtains must be open because I can sense lightning rip the air just outside the window. My mind starts at the sound—I want to scream and cover my face—I've always been terrified of lightning.
I try to pull the sheets over my head. But my arm lies limp at my side, as if the signal my brain is sending—telling my arm to move—is dissolving, evaporating, leaving my body before it ever reaches my arm.
My heart gives a sharp kick. Am I paralyzed?
Maybe it's just my arm. I try my hand, then a finger. Now I try my other arm, now a leg, a toe. I concentrate on trying to sit up, and I realize my eyes are still closed. I try to move my eyes, to open my eyelids.
The word "coma" fills my mind. Someone, earlier . . . today? . . . yesterday? . . . said "coma." Referring to me?
Bits and pieces of memory return. Images bombard my brain. A woman in a white lab coat hugging Mom. Mom calling my name, holding my hand. A floating sensation. A meadow. A boy. Machines swish-swushing and beep-beep-beeping. Getting ready for school Thursday morning . . .
I chose my favorite blue jeans with the rip above the right knee and my faded "Save the Rain Forests" T-shirt. When I had finished throwing on my clothes, I shoved my books into my backpack and headed for the kitchen.
"Mom," I said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, "I'm late. Could you pour some granola in a baggie? I'll munch on it when I get to school."
"Dry?" Mom made a face.
I gave her one on my "Mother, Puh-leeze" faces.
"I like it that way," I told her, raising an eyebrow, suggesting that I was in no mood for an argument. Then I took a sip of orange juice, slipped the baggie of granola Mom handed me into my backpack, and started for the door.
"Can't you at least finish your juice?"
"Mom, I'm late. And I'll be late tonight. It's April 18, remember?"
Mom gave me a blank stare.
"My interview at the ranger's station."
"Oh," Mom said, "be care—"
I didn't wait to hear the rest. I ducked into the garage and rolled my bike to the driveway. As I was about to get on the bike, Mom darted out the front door.
"Allison, your helmet."
"Oh, Mom . . . "
"It only takes a second to put it on, sweetheart. There. Now be careful on that mountain road—"
"Gotta go, Mom, I'm late!" I swung my leg over the bike and rolled into the street.
"Late, late, late," I muttered, checking my watch.
"Late, late, late," says the White Rabbit as he checks his pocket watch. He slips into the rabbit hole and begins to fall down, down, down a dark tunnel. "I'm laaaaate . . . "
Now I'm falling down the tunnel. Floating, falling, floating . . . allowing myself to be propelled along. I land in a meadow. The smell of fresh, rain-soaked earth invades my senses, the crisp spring day caresses my skin.
Images begin again, flashing in my brain like the flickering scenes of a silent movie. I see a cabin. A boy running. Tall pine trees, towering. A woman pulling me . . . her? . . .pulling who? I'm running. I'm floating. I'm lying limp in a strange bed.
What's happening to me? my mind screams. Somebody, please help me!
"Shh-hh . . . " a voice whispers. "I'll help you. Don't you fret none. I'll help you, and you'll help me."
Who's there? Who said that? Can you hear me?
"I can hear you. Don't you fret." The voice is fading.
Can you help me?
"I can help you." The voice is barely audible. "And you can help me."
Lightning flashes, electrifies the air. I feel myself rising from the bed and floating above it. I remember, now—I remember the last time this happened!
No! I don't want to go! Please, don't—
A sudden wind lifts me up, envelopes me, and whirls me through a long tunnel toward a rosy light.
Noo-ooo!
She was consumed with terror. A desperate need to run, to escape imminent danger, kept her legs pumping, running blindly.
Branches reached out and ripped her face as she tore through the forest. Her heart, throbbing, throbbing, felt as though it would explode. Her lungs burned, her legs ached. But she knew she could not stop running. Whatever was chasing her grew closer.
She could hear its chest heaving, rasping, struggling to pull in more air, and branches slapping and breaking as they hit the approaching force. Or was it her breath she heard, her body against which branches slapped and broke? She couldn't stop to find out.
She crashed through a final crowd of branches and stopped at the edge of a clearing. Her throat was dry. Her limbs trembled from over-exhaustion. She bent over to ease the painful stitch in her side. A thin stream of moonlight illuminated the calico dress.
It was smeared with dark stains. She held up her hands. They felt gooey, sticky. She sniffed. Her stomach lurched as her brain recognized the smell.
Blood.
She was covered in blood!
"Allison, sweetheart, I'm here. Allison . . ."
Mom's voice pulls me back through the wind tunnel. I see the tiny room below me, and I feel the pressure of the bed as I sink into my body.
The warmth of Mom's hand feels good, safe. I will my fingers to curl around Mom's. But they refuse to obey.
Mom strokes my cheek. "I tried to get back as soon as I could. I know how you hate to be alone during thunderstorms. But I closed the curtains—to keep out the lightning. Can you tell?"
Warm, moist lips touch my forehead. I breathe in the faint scent of Mom's tea-rose perfume mingled with French roasted coffee. My mind relaxes, lets go, releases the fear and dread of whatever is happening to me. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel safe.
Don't move, Mommy. Stay close. Hold me.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Mom says, "You know I'd stay here twenty-four hours a day, if I could, sweetie. My heart breaks each time I leave this room with you lying here—" her voice catches "—like this . . ."
Mom rests her head against my side and holds me. She begins to sob.
Even as the strong tug pulls me from my body, my mind yells, Don't cry, Mom. I'm trying to come back. I'm trying!