Page 31 of The Space Between Heartbeats
His voice is the only thing keeping me awake. “Talk to me…please. Tell me a story.”
I think I hear a helicopter in the distance. Maybe not…maybe it’s just in my head. Maybe this is all just in my head.
“Okay.” His jaw clenches as he moves to cup my arm. “Okay. I’ve got you. Just listen to my voice.”
And as my head grows heavy, and the sirens grow louder and the helicopter gets closer and we hang suspended between earth and sky, between life and death, Knox starts to talk. His words are the only real thing left in a world that’s shattered into pieces I’ll never be able to put back together.
Chapter 9
Sawyer
“Do you remember that time we had a sleepover?” I start to respond, start to tell him there were dozens of sleepovers, hundreds maybe, but he continues. “I was like nine or ten and there was that crazy storm.”
I close my eyes and picture it—the playroom in their house, toys scattered everywhere, rain pelting against the windows, steaming mugs of hot cocoa and warm oatmeal cookies.
“The one where we lost power?”
He rubs circles on my arm. “That’s the one.”
“I remember,” I say.
“We had that one nanny back then, Julia. She always baked cookies…” He trails off like he’s remembering how delicious they tasted. “She set us up in the playroom with snacks and you grabbed every blanket you could find and begged me to build a fort. I could never say no to you, even then. Not with your dumb little puppy eyes begging and that crooked bucktoothed grin. We built a fort and the three of us climbed in with flashlights, and pillows, and every time the thunder shook the walls or the rain hammered the windows, you’d reach for me. And Owen…” Hisvoice cracks. “He was so damn afraid of the storm too. But you’d never know that. He had to keep up a brave face…for you.”
Tears track down my face, dropping down to the earth below. I know Knox is crying beside me and it makes them fall that much harder.
“He told the dumbest ghost stories that night, but he made you laugh. He made you forget that you were afraid. He comforted you the way you needed.”
Owen.
His name consumes my mind. It plays again and again like a beating drum. Like somehow I can summon him back here with me. Beside me. Safe and warm and happy.
Owen. Owen. Owen.
He can’t be gone. This isn’t real. Please, God…please.
Knox sucks in whatever mucus and blood and tears that clog his nose and mouth, wiping the rest with the back of his arm.
“You fell asleep first,” he continues, sobering, like telling this story is the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart. “Curled up between us with your head on one of those lumpy stuffed animals you used to drag everywhere. That pink rabbit.”
“Miss Flops,” I whisper.
“Miss Flops.” Through his hollow tone, there’s a hint of amusement…an empty smile at the memory. “The storm kept going for hours, that lightening was so fucking bright it lit up the room. And Owen—” He stops again, collecting himself. “I’m pretty sure he stayed awake for the entire night. I woke up once and saw him just...watching you sleep. He had to make sure you were okay. That we were all okay.”
My chest is caving in. Each breath feels like it’s tearing something open that will never close.
“I remember giving him shit, saying something like, ‘get to sleep already,’ and he just shook his head. He wanted to be there in case you woke up and needed him.”
I can’t speak. I can’t do anything but cry and hold Knox’s hand and try to keep breathing even though it feels like a betrayal because Owen isn’t breathing anymore and he should be. He should be right here.
The helicopter is closer, its blades sending a draft of wind in our direction that makes the car shudder. Help must be coming.Please, I beg, not knowing if I’m speaking the words out loud.Please. Please. Please. Let us hold on.
“That’s Owen,” he says through tears, seemingly oblivious to what’s happening around us. “Always so fucking perfect.”
“Hey! Can you hear me?” The voice cuts through the helicopter noise and the wind and everything else.
I force my eyes open. When did I close them? There’s a woman in a safety harness, suspended from a crane arm that’s extended out toward us. She’s maybe twenty feet away, close enough that I can see the determination on her face and make out the equipment strapped across her chest and waist.
“I’m with the fire department,” she calls out in a strong, clear voice. “I’m going to get you out of there, but I need you to listen very carefully to everything I say. Can you do that?”
