Page 3 of Unbreakable Thread

“Sol, ven aquí.” My grandma pats the seat next to her for me to sit. Her face sad, a tear slides down her wrinkly face.

“What is it, Abuelita?” My voice breaks at the sight of her like this. Her warm hands wrap around mine. I’ve always loved the touch of my grandma, and her scent has always been so inviting. Mamá said Abuelita wasn’t doing too well. Maybe that’s what she wants to tell me.

“Your mamá didn’t make it.” Her chin trembles. “I’m sorry, mi Sol. So sorry you have been through so much.”

The shattering of my heart stabs through my petite frame. My body trembles. I crawl onto my grandmother’s lap and weep. We both cry for the loss of my mom and her daughter for what felt like hours.

“Let’s make you some hot chocolate,” my abuelita says, rubbing my back.

We go into her kitchen, and I sit while she rummages through the fridge, searching for the gallon of milk. She stops and stares inside. Abuelita shakes her head and grabs the gallon of milk. She then goes into the cupboard and does the same. “I forgot what I need.”

“The chocolate, remember?”

“Así.” She keeps looking.

A small, faint, weak giggle leaves my lips. “It’s right in front of you. It’s a small yellow box that reads, “Chocolate Abuelita.”

“Oh, I see it now.” She sighs.

She continues wiping her tears and preparing a warm beverage. Whenever I had a rough day, my mom would make me hot chocolate, and my dad would add a heaping amount of whipped cream. Then my papá would take a sip, and the cream would stick to his nose. I always laughed because he was silly. He always knew just how to make me feel better. I’ll never have that again. I rub my broken heart over my chest. Will anything or anyone ever be able to fill that pain with happiness? Probably not.

Abuelita sets the steamy cup in front of me. Her knees crackle when she sits. “I need to tell you something, Sol. I’m moving into a nursing home because of my disease. I can no longer care for myself. Your mamá wanted me to move in with you two. She also made plans in case things did not go as planned. Your mamá was always planning ahead.” She cries, reaching for my hand. “I can’t care for you. I’m sorry.” I had aunts and uncles, but they didn’t have the finances to care for me, or even my grandmother.

My chest constricts with a sudden, sharp ache. I clutch at Max’s shirt, drawing him toward me, seeking the solace of his body heat as tears spill down my face. His hand moves in slow circles across my back while he cradles me with a delicate tension, as though I might shatter in his arms. “I got you. I’m here for you, tesoro.” He kisses the top of my head. “Shh, you’re okay. I’m here. We’ll get through this.”

“I miss them.” A whimper tears through me before I can stop it. I’m in my body, but my head feels like I’m living inside an eleven-year-old’s. Such a strange feeling—like I’m going back to where my memory froze in place, like I’m in someone else’s life. The crazy part is, it’s me. My life.

“I know, my love. It’s okay to cry and miss them.” Max pulls me off his chest. With his thumb, he wipes every tear. “They will always be a part of you.”

“I know, but it all feels surreal. Like I’m a computer being rebooted. That’s exactly how I feel—flashes of memories. I’m sure they will keep coming. I lived so long as Rainey, and now I’m meeting Sol.”

A knock at the door startles me. I grip Max’s blue shirt. “It’s just the doctor, corazón. I won’t allow anyone to hurt you again.”

I believe him. He protected me the best he could.

“Rainey, I just came in to check in on you. Your nurse is getting your medication.”

“Her memories are coming back,” Max says, his arms still around me. “The ones she lost as a child—due to a head injury.”

Dr. Wallace steps in. His brown eyes widen, and his blond hair looks disheveled. He must be having a day at the hospital.

“Rainey, can you tell me what you remember?”

I tell him about the flashbacks I had while in the coma and the ones I’m having now. When I go into detail about my memories of my parents, Max rubs my back and continually kisses my shoulder, comforting me. Then, I tell him about the day I went into foster care. I mentioned I remember Max.

Dr. Wallace tilts his head, his eyes volleying between Max and me. “Marvelous.” A small smile. “What a remarkable story, you two.” He shines the flashlight in my eyes again. “Now—it’s rare after so many years to regain memory like this. It will happen periodically. Something triggers it, a memory surfaces, and you’ll feel it. We’ll need to run more tests, and I’ll have a neurologist come speak with you.” He moves to my stitches, humming softly as he inspects each one.

The nurse walks in while the doctor continues to examine me. I take some pain meds and snuggle into Max’s arms. Seconds later, a woman walks in with a tray of food once the nurse and doctor leave. “Thank you,” I say when she leaves it on the table.

“We have so much to talk about, sunshine, but for now, you need to eat and rest. I know you want to talk about your flashbacks and what happened while Daniel had you. You have too much going on in that head of yours. It’s best for you to rest.”

I eat the tasteless food. Max offered to bring me something better to eat, but I declined. I’d rather rest. The medicine softens the edges of everything, and I drift off in Max’s arms.

The beeping pulls me up out of sleep. Cool fingers move across my face, and the tubes come free from my nose. The nurse smiles—the same one from before—and holds out a small paper cup.

“Your oxygen levels are normal. You don’t need this anymore,” the nurse whispers, tossing the plastic tubes into the trash. I turn to find Max sound asleep, hanging off the bed, one arm draped on my waist. “Your boyfriend hasn’t left your side.” She smiles. “He’s been so worried. They all have—your friends and family are in the waiting room. Your friend had to force him out of the room to change and shower.”

My fingernails brush along his built, tanned skin. Soft snores leave his lips. He looks so innocent, just like he did as a child when he slept. “He’s always been like that. Protective.”