Page 76 of The Locked Ward

When I open my eyes, I see Georgia’s face.

For a moment, I think I’m still asleep. She was just in my dream; we were floating together in the ocean, the baby waves lapping warm and soft against my skin. Georgia and I were holding hands; it was just the two of us in that endless swath of deep blue water.

I blink a few times and realize I’m lying in a hospital bed, an IV threaded into my forearm, my midsection swaddled in a white wrap. The room is dim, with only one soft light glowing. I try to move, then groan. Even breathing hurts.

“I have to admit, now that you’re the patient, I like this role reversal better,” Georgia says, smiling.

She’s curled up in a chair pulled close to my bed, wearing the sweats I took out of her closet and brought her. I don’t know how long she’s been here. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.

“You slept for ten hours,” she says, answering my unspoken question. “You’ve got a few broken ribs, but you’re going to be fine.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask my twin.

“A couple hours. Senator Dawson convinced the cops to release me after he gave his statement incriminating Honey and the charges against me were dropped. Luckily I didn’t have far to travel to reach you, even though the elevators in this place are really slow.”

A tiny laugh escapes me, and I wince.

“Sorry.” She winces, too. “They said you could get pain meds when you woke up.”

She reaches for the nurses’ call button and pushes it.

“Want some water?” she offers, picking up the tumbler on my nightstand. I nod, and she adjusts the straw before putting it to my lips. I drink deeply. Swallowing hurts, too.

Georgia must intuit that from my expression. Or maybe she feels it. She puts down the tumbler and walks into the hallway. A moment later, she returns, bringing with her a nurse.

“How are we feeling?” the nurse asks brightly.

“Like I was run over by a bus,” I tell her, far less brightly.

“Broken ribs are no fun,” the nurse says.

Fuzzy recollections float back to me: The wail of sirens approaching the Cartwright estate. Paramedics rushing me into the ER on a stretcher, an oxygen mask strapped over my face. Someone cutting away my clothes, then looking up in bewilderment, saying, “There’s no blood.”

The nurse injects something into my IV, and I feel a warm rush sweep through my body. Suddenly I’m drowsy again.

I know I was shot. I felt the explosive punch of the bullet. It slammed into me, throwing me to the floor and breaking my ribs. I passed out from the pain.

How is it possible I didn’t bleed?

“Go back to sleep,” Georgia tells me. “Maybe I will, too. I was having the best dream right before you woke up. We were together, floating in the ocean.”

I fight against the tide of medicine pulling me back beneath the surface of consciousness.

I want to tell her I’ve read about this phenomenon, called shared dreaming.

It came up during my research into twins.

It can happen when two people are deeply linked.

When they are haunting each other’s subconscious.

I struggle against the undertow pulling at me, but I’m no match for it. My eyelids are so heavy. I’m already starting to drift, even though I have so many questions for Georgia.

Before I can voice a single one, I lose consciousness again.

The room is brighter when I awaken. I smell the rich, earthy scent of fresh coffee. Georgia is still sitting vigil next to me, staring down at something in her hands.

“Morning,” I croak.

She reaches for the tumbler again and I shake my head. She gestures to the Styrofoam cup of coffee on the nightstand and I nod.

“I would give my firstborn for that,” I manage to say.

“Speaking of, who do you think was born first?” she asks.

We answer in unison: “Me.”

“To be continued,” Georgia says. She sets down the item she was holding in her lap, then plucks the straw from the tumbler. She dunks it in the coffee and holds it to my lips. I take a sip, then grimace.

“What kind of sadist drinks it black?”

“Stop being so high-maintenance,” she teases. “They didn’t have almond milk.”

“When am I getting out of here?”

“Today. But you’re coming to stay at my place for a day or two. Just till you’re back on your feet.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Honey shot me. I felt the bullet hit me.”

Georgia picks up the item she was holding earlier and passes it to me.

“This was in your bag. Senator Dawson arranged to borrow it so I could show you, but the police will need it back as evidence.”

My hand closes around the familiar shape of the fierce archangel Michael. This is the metal figurine my parents gave to Georgia as a baby, the twin of the one I have.

All in a rush, I understand.

My ribs broke beneath the shot’s impact, but the bullet Honey fired never pierced my skin. That’s why there was no blood.

I made a last-minute decision to grab the little statue my parents gave Georgia out of her closet and tuck it into my cross-body bag before I went to the Cartwrights’.

Maybe it was superstition. It could have been intuition.

But I think something bigger was behind it, something I can’t fully explain.

The bullet tunneled into the solid metal instead of me; I can see the tortured path it left.

I stare at it, a lump rising in my throat, thinking about all the questions I still want to ask my parents. I’ll never be able to get a full explanation of their motivations or challenge their decision to keep me from knowing about my sister.

But of this I’m certain: They loved me deeply.

More than that, I still love them.

I think about the words on the statue’s leather pouch: Protect Me Always.

I close my eyes, and with everything I have, I will a message to my mom and dad: You did.