Saint Louis

November 2011

“Okay, I managed to scrounge up Twix, Butterfinger, and one very sketchy bag of SunChips,” Serena said as she walked into my dim hospital room, carrying her loot. “The vending machine is pretty slim pickings out there.” She did a double take at the television and snatched the remote off my bed. “Watching that isn’t going to help.”

I lunged for the remote and winced when she danced out of my reach. “Crap.” Falling back against the bed, I breathed through the pain that engulfed my entire left side.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Iz.” Serena grimaced and handed back the remote, then sat in the armchair next to my bed that she’d occupied ever since I’d woken up this morning, though she’d told me she’d been sitting there since last night. Two broken ribs and a ruptured spleen had done a number on my blood supply, but a couple of transfusions later . . . well, at least I wasn’t dead.

Thanks to him.

None of us had died in the crash, which was a miracle, considering the footage.

“I’m just hoping that watching the footage will help clear my memory up,” I told her, adjusting to sit up a little straighter and immediately regretting the decision. “God, it hurts.”

“Then push the little clicker thing.” She leaned over and put the pain- med pump in my hand. “You just had surgery yesterday—oh, and a plane crash. Give yourself a little break and clickity-click.”

“That’s not going to help. It’s only going to fog up my head more and put me to sleep.” I watched yet another replay of home video footage of the crash, shot by a fisherman who’d been on the Missouri. It was . . . horrifying.

We’d come out of nowhere, a roaring missile through the mist, barely missed that man’s boat, and rammed the water.

“You sure you want to remember everything?” Serena asked softly, handing me the Twix, my favorite.

I tore open the package and then sank my teeth into the sweet caramel goodness, thinking as I chewed and swallowed. “It’s mostly the stuff after getting out of the river that’s missing. I remember the takeoff, the moment I realized we were going to crash, and even the frenzy to get out of the plane. The water was so cold . . .” I shook my head. “I just can’t remember his name.”

Everything else was right there—the concern in his eyes, the feel of his hands pulling me up the bank. He’d kept me breathing and laughing, and then carried me to the ambulance, according to what the nurses had told me.

I would have bled out internally under that tree if he hadn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Serena sighed, tearing into the chips. “I wish I remembered, but I was in such a panic that I didn’t pay attention.” Her gaze darted sideways at me as I watched the coverage of our rescue—though I was long gone by the time news crews had shown up. “He was a hottie, though, I can say that much.”

“I remember what he looks like.” I rolled my eyes. And what he was reading, and that he’d grown up on a farm and was joining the army for college money. It was just his name that eluded me, and pretty much everything after sitting against the tree.

“And he cared enough to tell everyone he was your husband. Signed for your surgery and everything.” A teasing smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Miraculously knew your blood type and your allergies, too, which means you must have been conscious enough to tell him. And seriously.” She leveled a stare on me. “The doctor said you’re not supposed to be watching TV with a concussion.”

My sigh rose from the bottom of my blanketed toes, but I hit the off switch just as the nurse came in to do another round of vitals. Luckily, she

kept the lights dimmed, since my head felt like it was about a billion pounds of pulsing TNT.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked, jotting down the numbers in the chart that hung from the end of my bed.

The chart.

“No, I’m okay, but thank you.” I gave her a smile, and she headed out of the room before closing the door behind her. “Serena, grab the chart.”

Two lines appeared between my sister’s eyebrows. “What?”

“The chart.” I waved my hand toward the end of the bed. “If he signed for the surgery, it must be in there.”

“Good idea!” She bolted out of her chair, abandoning her snacks on the bedside table. “You’d think you were the one studying journalism.”

Studying. Oh shit, I was going to have to get back to Syracuse, but the idea of getting on a plane was . . . there was just no freaking way. I’d have to be not only sedated, but fully unconscious with an escort, and even then I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to walk down the jet bridge anyway. “How am I going to get back to school?” The rhetorical question was a whisper.

Serena lowered the side rail of my bed and then sat on the edge, depressing the mattress as she handed me the chart. “We’ll figure it out. Just because they’re going to release you tomorrow doesn’t mean you have to go back to New York, Iz. There’s no rush. I’m sure Mom and Dad will understand if you decide to take some time off. And if you do want to go back, then I’ll just blow off some classes and we’ll drive.” She shrugged. “No biggie. Or I’m sure Mom and Dad will be here in a few days, and they can drive you home to Colorado if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.” I took the chart and set it on my lap. “I just don’t know how to make myself get on a plane.”

Did he? When he’d left yesterday with the soldiers, had they immediately put him on the next flight to Fort Benning? Sure, I was scared of flying, but at least yesterday hadn’t been my only experience in the air.

“Then we’ll work through it,” she said as the phone next to my bed rang, startling us both.

I leaned but couldn’t quite reach, and the stitches in my side protested in the loudest way possible. Or maybe it was the broken ribs, or the spleen. Who knew? My entire body was pretty damn angry with me.

Serena rushed around the side of the bed and answered the phone, pushing her long hair out of the way. Even after twenty-four hours in the

hospital, she still managed to look . . . perfect. If I hadn’t loved her so much, I would’ve loathed her out of sheer jealousy.

“Hello?” she answered, and a muffled voice replied. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, thank God. I sent a message through the cruise lines, but I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get to you. When are you coming home?” Mom and Dad, she mouthed, listening to whatever they were saying. “She’s okay. They’re releasing her tomorrow. Ruptured spleen repaired, concussion, broken ribs, and bumps and bruises, but she’s past the worst of it. She’s right here if you want to—” Her brow furrowed.

I held out my empty hand.

“Are you serious?” Her face tensed. “Well, you can tell her that yourself.” She closed her eyes and swallowed, then handed me the phone.

Dread twisted my already nauseated stomach. “Hello?”

“Isa!” Dad answered. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry you’ve been through this.”

My eyes burned, but I swallowed back the tears. The same thing had happened when I’d found Serena next to my bed. It was like my emotions were simply too big for my body. “I’m okay,” I forced out.

“That’s what Serena says,” Mom added, and I could picture them sharing the handset, leaned in so they could both be a part of the conversation. “I’m so glad she’s there to take care of you for the next couple of days.”

“You’ll be back by then?” I held the phone between my right shoulder and ear and started flipping through my chart.

“Well.” Mom sighed. “Honey, you know how long we’ve waited to take this trip, so if you’re not in any life-or-limb danger, there’s not really a reason for us to come back, is there?”

I blinked, my hands going completely still.

Serena took her place on the side of my bed, watching me with an assessing gaze that I couldn’t bring myself to meet.

“I mean, we’ll see you at Christmas. That’s only four weeks away, and I’m sure you don’t want to miss out on any classes, which is all that us coming home would accomplish, really,” Mom continued.

“You’re not coming home?” I had to say it, had to make sure that’s what I’d actually heard them say. My parents were masters at words and every way they could be interpreted.

Serena reached for my hand and squeezed.

“If they’re releasing you tomorrow, then you must be on the mend,” Dad said, his tone changing to the matter-of-fact one he used at the office. “And I know you’ve been through a shock, Isa, but this will really be an opportunity for you to rise above the challenge and show your mettle.”

An opportunity?

“It wasn’t a shock,” I argued as my heart crumpled in on itself. “It was a plane crash. My plane crashed. I had to climb out the emergency exit onto the wing and then swim for shore while bleeding internally.” And still they weren’t coming home.

“And we’re so proud of you!” Mom sounded like I’d just earned a trophy. “Guess all those years on the swim team paid off.”

Not that they’d been at a single meet.

“We know you crashed, Isa,” Dad interjected. “Which is why you have full access to my credit card to book another flight back to Syracuse, of course. Don’t worry about a thing—we’ll cover it.”

Don’t worry about a thing except them being here. Got it.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t feel like you have to thank us. Of course we’d cover your travel expenses.” Dad chuckled. “And we can’t wait to see the dean’s list when we get back stateside.”

You have to be kidding me.

“Of course we’ll come home if you really, honestly need us to, Isabeau,” Mom said, her tone softening. “I’m sure we could get refunded for the rest of the trip, and of course there’s always next year if we want to finish it, right?”

“Don’t baby her, Rose. Serena already told us she’s being released, which means she’s fine. She’s an Astor. Aren’t you, Isa?” Dad questioned. “Astors do what needs to be done.”

They really expected me to come through this like everything else— with flying colors. What the hell was I supposed to do? Ask them to leave the only vacation Dad had taken in the last ten years where he hadn’t been in constant contact with his office?

I lifted my gaze to meet Serena’s and found her watching with compassion and a supportive smile.

“We’ll handle it together,” she whispered. “Just like we always do.”

I nodded and cleared my throat, banishing the knot that threatened to close it. “I’m fine. Serena will get me back to school.”

“Of course she will,” Dad said, pride filling his tone. “And we’ll see you at Christmas. And I know this has been horrible, but I’m glad we got to talk to you. We love you.”

“We love you!” Mom declared. “And we’ll get you something special at the next port.”

Tell me your love language is gifts without telling me . . .

“Sounds great. Love you guys too.”

Serena and I said our goodbyes, and she hung up the phone.

“I’m so sorry, Iz. I legitimately thought . . .” She sighed, plopping down in the armchair.

“No, you didn’t.” My voice softened. “Let’s not lie to each other.” The priorities in Mom and Dad’s life were Dad’s company, and themselves. Serena and I had always been hood ornaments, shined up and shown for status. But still, my lungs hurt when I drew my next breath.

“You have me.” She leaned in. “You always have me.”

“I know.” I clasped her hand for a moment and then took a shuddering breath. Crying about it wasn’t going to help, so I focused on the chart in my lap, flipping through the pages until I found the first documents. “There it is!”

Serena stood and leaned over the bed. “Are you sure that guy wasn’t a doctor? Because his handwriting is utter shit.”

“Nathaniel,” I whispered, my fingers skirting over the signature, but I couldn’t read the rest of it.

“How the hell did you get Nathaniel out of that chicken scratch?” She shook her head. “All I see is an N and . . . whatever that is.”

“Nate.” My lips curved into a wide grin, my first since waking up. “His friends call him Nate.” That was all I could remember, and probably all I’d ever know, but at least I had a name to put to the face of the man who’d saved my life.

Two months later, I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and stomped off the snow from my boots on the entry mat of my dorm. Colorado got snow, so it wasn’t like I was a stranger to the white stuff, but Syracuse got snow, especially in January.

It was up to my waist out there.

I walked to the mail room and spun the dial on my box as students chatted around me. My eyebrows rose at the telltale orange slip that meant I had a package to be picked up.

Mom and Dad weren’t exactly the care package type, and I’d seen them just last week before coming back to New York after break, so there was absolutely no chance it was from them. Serena, maybe?

I shut my mailbox, tossed one of the weekly credit card offers in the trash, and headed to the line at the window to pick up whatever had been sent to me. There were only two people ahead of me.

“Hey, Izzy!” Margo, my roommate, called out from the lobby with a thick southern accent, trudging toward me and leaving wet boot prints all over the muddy floor.

“Hey,” I answered. “How was psych?”

“Normal.” She shrugged as we moved forward in line and shook the snow out of her midnight-black hair. “We’re studying posttraumatic stress disorder.” A meaningful gaze cut my way. “Thought any more about maybe

. . . discussing yours with a therapist?” Nice and subtle.

“I don’t have PTSD. I’m scared of planes.” Which was why Serena and I had driven a rental car all the way from Colorado after break, despite my father telling me that I couldn’t afford to let the fear of flight hold me back.

“Resulting from a traumatic experience of a freaking plane crash,” she lectured, and the line moved again.

“I was scared of flying before the crash.”

“Slip?” the attendant asked, and I handed mine over. He disappeared into the mail room.

“I’m just saying that it really helped me after I lost my brother,” she said softly, and I couldn’t help but look over at her.

The thought of losing Serena was incomprehensible.

“So maybe it might help you to talk too,” she suggested. “I live with you. I know you’re not sleeping like you were before the crash. It couldn’t hurt, and from what I’m studying, the earlier you talk it out with a professional, the better.”

Maybe she was right. If anything, a therapist could tell me I was perfectly fine, and maybe suggest a few alternate forms of transportation. “I’ll look into it.”

“Good!” She hugged my side.

“Astor?” the attendant said, pushing a box across the counter. The brown box was a foot wide, about eighteen inches long, and maybe six inches tall if I had to guess.

“That’s me.” I reached for the clipboard he handed over and signed my name on the recipient line.

“Who’s it from?” Margo asked.

“Not sure.” It was surprisingly light as I picked it up off the counter and read the printed address label. “Transcontinental Airlines.” My chest tightened.

“Is it a giant check for your pain and suffering?”

“No clue.” What could the airline possibly have to send me? A pillow so I’d sleep better? A thousand travel vouchers I’d never bring myself to use?

We took the elevator to the third floor, and Margo used her key to open our door since my hands were full. Our furniture was simple— matching beds, desks, and mini dressers—but our decor was all Margo. Everything was hot pink and lime green, like the entire room had just stepped out of a Lilly Pulitzer ad.

I set the box down on my desk, then cut it open, taking out the letter on top of a dark-blue plastic bag.

Ms. Astor,

With the initial investigation into the unfortunate incident regarding flight 826 complete, we’re returning the personal belongings found in your seat’s floor storage. Though many paper items were water-logged and unsalvageable due to the plane’s submersion, we wanted to return what we could.

We apologize for the inconvenience of the time you’ve lost without your belongings,

Transcontinental Air

I snorted a laugh and read the last line out loud to Margo. “They’re sorry about the inconvenience about my lost luggage.”

“And the loss of your spleen?” She peeked over my shoulder.

“Hey, maybe it’s my purse!” I lifted the bag with zeal. It was probably ruined after spending weeks in the Missouri River, but I was kind of ruined, too, so we were a match. My thumbs pried apart the plastic closure, and the bag fell away, revealing an olive-green army backpack.

My heart stopped, and I had to take a deep breath to get it started again.

“That doesn’t look like your purse,” Margo said, a laugh in her voice. “It’s not mine.” I set the backpack down on the empty portion of my

desk. “It’s his.”

Her eyebrows launched upward as she moved to my side. “His as in

. . . the dreamy guy who saved your life like some kind of river Baywatch

Prince Charming?”

Obviously I’d spent a fair amount of time talking about Nate and too much time thinking about him: wondering how he was doing, wishing I had some way to contact him. He deserved so much more than my thanks, and besides, I’d said I’d ship books to him if he was allowed to have them in basic training.

If he was even still in basic training. I didn’t know enough about the army to even guess at how long stuff like that took.

“Yeah.” The backpack had obviously been washed, and it somehow looked exactly the same as when Nate had nearly pulled it out to switch seats with me. “He was sitting in my seat.”

“Open it.” She leaned in.

I unzipped the bag, and found a worn, soft, Saint Louis Blues hoodie and an iPod that had been protected by a ziplock bag. It turned on when I pushed the button through the plastic bag, “Panic! at the Disco” flashing across the screen. “I guess everything else must have been ruined.”

“I’m sorry it’s not your purse,” Margo said, turning back toward her side of our room.

“I’m not,” I whispered. How was it possible to feel so . . . connected to someone I’d only known for a couple of hours? It wasn’t even that he’d pulled me from the river, or that he’d carried me to an ambulance. He’d held my hand the entire way down and never looked away.

I shoved the sweatshirt back into the pack and then inhaled sharply. There, on the tag just beneath the handle on the inside of the pack, in permanent marker, was printed N. Phelan.

My grin stretched my cheeks. I knew his name. Wherever he was or whatever he was doing aside, I knew his name. I could find him, if only to return his bag.

Nathaniel Phelan.