Free My Soul to Keep by Melanie Wells Page A

say.
    When I could finally talk, I said, “I’m at Children’s. Can you come?”
    “Room number?”
    “Room 709.”
    “Ten minutes.”
    Exactly ten minutes later, he walked out of the elevator. I was in the waiting room, curled up into a ball, clutching a wad of spent tissues, staring dumbly at a copy of
Dallas Child
magazine. The cover article was about birthday parties. I flipped the magazine over and threw it facedown on the sticky coffee table.
    David sat down beside me on the hard, vinyl couch and took me into his arms. I felt a shock surge through my body as he touched me. It had been so long since I’d received comfort from anyone. I latched on to him and dissolved, my face smashed against his chest, dumping wet salty tears all over his “I’m big in Japan” T-shirt.
    I finally collected myself and pulled back, blowing my nose for the hundredth time that night.
    “Thanks for coming,” I said.
    “Of course.”
    “I almost didn’t call.”
    “I’m glad you did.”
    “Me too.”
    “What happened?”
    I told him the story, watching his face fall as he listened.
    “Is she okay?”
    “Christine? I think so.”
    “What caused it?”
    “They’re saying maybe asthma.”
    “Can I see her?”
    I almost said yes, but then I noticed his smell.
    “When did you start smoking?”
    “Um, never?”
    “You smell like smoke.”
    “I have not been smoking.”
    “I don’t think you should go in there. The smoke might trigger another attack.” I squinted at him. “What, did some dead emphysema victim roll into the shop tonight?”
    “I’ve been at Poor David’s …”
    I raised my eyebrows.
    “… listening to a band.”
    “By yourself?”
    I shouldn’t have said it. I knew as soon as it was out of the gate that I should have held it back. But it just charged out like a stallion at the bell.
    My impulses never listen to me. Another of my Top Ten Terrible Traits.
    I felt my chin quiver as I waited for an answer.
    “Dylan, I’m not going to tell you who I was with tonight.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s none of your business.”
    “Make it my business.”
    He shook his head. “You’re really a piece of work—you know that?”
    I sniffed and squared my shoulders. “I saw you make a phone call before you left my house.”
    He rolled his eyes and groaned.
    “You seemed really happy. Did you have a date tonight?”
    David pursed his lips and dropped his eyes, staring at his folded hands for a moment. Then he kissed me on the cheek, stood up, and looked at me with genuine sadness in his face. “Tell Christine I came to see her,” he said softly.
    I watched dumbly as he turned and walked away. He pushed the button for the elevator, his feet shifting uncomfortably as he waited, head down, shoulders tense. When the elevator came, he stepped inside and found a spot in the small crowd of hospital staff.
    His back was still turned toward me as the stainless-steel doors closed behind him.

8

    I COULD FEEL THE sun coming through the slats in the blinds. My hair was tickling my face, fanned forward by the blizzard of air conditioning blasting out of the vent behind me. My bones ached. I winced and rotated my shoulders to unstick them. The light shone in stripes on the smudged wallpaper—up and down, like the bars of a jail cell.
    I looked around, remembered where I was, and grimaced as I tried to move, stretching my legs out in front of my chair. I’d dreamed I was sleeping on a bus. And not a nice Greyhound, either. One of those creaky yellow school buses with the stiff vinyl seats. With no heat. In winter.
    But it was just a horrible, not-quite-reclining hospital chair—the kind that smells of old clothes and old germs and Lysol. I longed for some Clorox disinfecting wipes and a hot shower with antibacterial soap.
    Liz was gone. Christine was curled up in her hospital bed, sleeping soundly, her thumb in her mouth and her feet tangled up in her blankets. I glanced at the clock. Six thirty.
    I