16 - Starting All Over

“Why does she not wake up?”

“Be patient, Stelios.  My Laney won’t let me go through Mother’s Day without seein’ those beautiful Irish eyes.”

“She’s probably sleeping through it on purpose.”

“Petra!  Why you say such a thing?”

“Because it makes me feel less helpless to blame her, okay, Papa?  Being mad at her gives me something fucking constructive to do.”

“Don’t you be speakin’ to your Papa that way, young lady.”

“Well, Jesus H. Christ, Ma.  It’s been eighteen fucking hours.  I’m sorry that I’m getting a little edgy.”

“We all are, daughter, but don’t use that language at your Mama.”

“You realize Ma is the one who taught me to swear?”

“And you were a damned excellent pupil.  Now stick a sock in it.  Stelios, where is Max?”

“He went to get coffee and sandwiches with Benedictus.”

“I hope they bring back chocolate.”

“You know chocolate puts weight on your ass, Petra.”

“Yes, Mother, I do, but I don’t really fucking care today.”

“Fine.  Eat it, even though one pound looks like ten on you.  Where are my grandsons?”

“Upper West Side with their Grandmother Carpenter for Mother’s Day.  I didn’t see the point in everyone sitting around here.  Someone might as well enjoy the day.”

It was like trying to sleep through the Super Bowl in a sleeping bag on the fifty-yard line.  As far as entertainment value went, on a scale of one to ten, it was about a two.  The throbbing of her head dropped that by at least five points, bringing the overall experience to a negative three and making Delaney cranky.

“Oh my God, do you people ever stop talking?” she mumbled through dry lips, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

“Holy shit, she’s awake.  Ma, she’s awake!  And just in time.”

“Yes, Petra, I heard.  Go get the nurse.” 

Delaney fought against the heavy weight of her eyelids, but it was no use.  They weren’t budging .  She was left unable see the face belonging to the familiar maternal touch that enveloped her hand.  There was no visual identity to confirm that her father’s meaty paws enfolded her other one, or that the squeeze of her shin came from Petra before scurrying footsteps carried her away. 

But she knew.  There was no mistaking her family.  The only one missing was brother Max, who was evidently fetching fat-inducing chocolate.

“Laney Girl,” her mother’s gentle lilt commanded with a thread of steel.  “You’re gonna need to be openin’ those eyes.  You hear me?”

“Tryin’.”

“You give your Papa and Mama new gray hairs, kardia mou.  It is not good for an old man to worry this way.”

“Sorry, Papa.”  Even those few syllables were a struggle.  The skin inside Delaney’s mouth stuck to her teeth, making it a challenge to form coherent words.  “Water?”

Her mother’s hand relinquished its hold, and almost before Delaney released it was gone, a straw bumped her bottom lip.  “Sip, darlin’.”  

The sensitive, dehydrated skin inside her mouth absorbed the water with glee, and Delaney savored the teaspoon of liquid by gingerly swishing it into all the parched recesses before allowing it to slide down an equally dry throat.  She would have taken another greedy gulp if the straw wasn’t taken away.

“Not too much.”

She murmured agreement and shifted her head, the hair making an obnoxiously loud scratching sound against a pillow that was as comfortable as a pile of saltines.  The pressure incited a pained wince but didn’t do anything to pop the eyelids that were superglued shut.  Why couldn’t she open her eyes?  Ma had said something about a nurse, which suggested a hospital, but Delaney was having trouble coming up with the scene that put her here.

“What hap’ned?”

One of Papa’s heavy hands stroked along her forearm while the other cradled her fingers like a butterfly – as if he were afraid of crushing them.  “There was accident, koukla mou.  You fell.  Hit your head.  Not wake up.”

She still didn’t have much interest in waking.  With one of her parents on each side, creating a sense of comfort and safety, it would be effortless to slide back into sleep. 

“But she’s awake now, aren’t you Laney Girl?”

“Mm.”

The soft, fuzzy darkness beckoned to her.  There was no excruciating pain there, only peace and rest.   It was so much less effort than trying to pry apart her upper and lower lids.  She’d nearly decided to let herself drift away again when there was a stirring of air that indicated a presence other than Ma or Papa.

“Well, I guess a heart attack is more time-sensitive than Delaney waking up,” Petra announced with a lightness that even semi-conscious Delaney recognized as artificial.  “We won’t have medical attention for a few minutes but look who I found in the hallway!”

Fiona Giannopoulos’s hand slid from her daughter’s with a quiet gasp as Delaney registered a multitude of muffled footsteps in the tiled room.  There was her sister and at least one other person; perhaps, two.  It could be that Max and Benny had returned safely from their food-seeking mission, but Papa’s gentle throat-clearing cough was often a sign of discomfort.  His son and brother wouldn’t prompt discomfort. 

“Hello,” came an unrecognized voice, its pitch and volume appropriate for that of a hospital.  “We don’t mean to intrude but wanted to see how Delaney was doing.  Petra said she was awake now.”

“Only just.” 

“Laney,” Petra crooned, taking their mother’s vacated spot on the left side of the bed.  She stroked Delaney’s hair as their parents spoke with the visitor in undertones that made it difficult to decipher the conversation – particularly since Petra was filling her ear with a quiet, “You have company.  Wake up and see who’s here.” 

“Don’t care,” she muttered crankily.  “My head hurts.”

“Yes, you do care,” her sister contradicted with a sweet kindness that made Delaney wonder about the extent of her injuries.  “I’ll go rob the pharmacy at gunpoint for pain meds if you’ll just open your eyes and say hello.  I promise it will make you feel better.”

She must be dying if Petra had assumed the role of doting twin.  This was very, very bad.  Had God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost arrived to act as Delaney’s escort team to the other side?  Is that what would make her feel better?  Dying? 

Common sense would dictate that there wasn’t a Heavenly trio waiting to Uber her to the pearly gates, but Delaney’s common sense was still in a deep slumber.  It was irrational curiosity and fear that forced her to creak open unwilling eyelids just far enough to survey the room’s occupants. 

There was Papa on her right, as expected, but looking so troubled that it made her heart hurt.  She clasped his hand in reassurance and persuaded lethargic eyes to meander past him to the end of the bed.  There she found her mother with a dour expression that indicated Fiona was unhappy, but the excruciating pressure inside her skull had Delaney moving on without asking why.  

There were two figures stationed behind her mother, just inside the door.  The first was a man wearing a dark ball cap, jacket, t-shirt and jeans, and he had both hands tucked into his front pockets.  The woman was similarly attired, but her t-shirt was white and both arms were folded across the waistband of her jeans.  

Delaney let her gaze creep upward, squinting at first one face and then the other she could establish their identities.  Then, the eyes that had been so reluctant to open went as big and round as New York bagels, fueled by her rapidly pumping heart.  If she was dying, it might be now, because that acceleration in heartbeat also carried streaked pain beyond the right half of Delaney’s skull and into her forehead.  It felt lethal. 

Cheese on a cracker.  I really am gonna kick the bucket.  Granting a dying wish is the only reason Jon Bon Jovi would be in my hospital room.

It didn't take a genius to pinpoint the moment Delaney recognized Jon.  Those funky gray eyes of hers tripled in size and a pale complexion deteriorated to chalky in the instant before high color lit her cheeks.  Her usual air of sassitude was notably absent, replaced by shock and pain that had his stomach lurching.

He knew letting Petra coerce him in here was a shitty idea.

When she came dashing into the hall demanding medical attention for the sister who had miraculously just emerged from her “life-threatening coma”, Jon should’ve hooked an arm around Dorothea’s waist and hightailed it out of the hospital.  Regrettably, he’d barely had the thought and was unable to follow through with it before Piranha Petra caught sight of them.  The overly polite tongue-lashing she was issuing over this “fucking place’s staffing shortage” came to an abrupt halt so that she could swoop in with effusive greetings and the assurance that Delaney would be thrilled to see them. 

The girl at the desk whose ass-chewing got cut short was thrilled to see them.  Delaney was not.

The magnetic spitfire whom his horny subconscious had spent the past three nights fucking into oblivion zipped her attention right past him.  From the way she pulled the thin blanket over her like a coat of body armor, it was as though she knew about those filthy dreams and was embarrassed by his presence here – accompanied by his wife.  Without ever fully meeting his eyes, she directed her anguished gaze toward Dorothea.    

“You… were in the ambulance with me.”

“That’s right.  My name's Dorothea.” She stepped around the mother to deposit a little pot of mini roses they’d brought as a get-well sentiment.  “How are you feeling, Delaney?”

She started to shake her rumpled head but thought better of it, stopping suddenly to squash both eyes tight and clutch the hand her father still had twined in hers.  Jon could almost feel her disorientation as she cautiously eked open one eye at a time.

“I’ve been better,” was her slow admission.  “Thank you for… whatever you did while I was out of it.”

“You’re welcome.  Thank you for your kindness as well.”

Spiky lashes batted slowly as Delaney leaned back into the tiny hospital pillow as though stabilizing the position of her head would keep the room on an even keel.  “I’m sorry.  I’m having a little trouble piecing words… thoughts… things together.  Not really sure what you mean.”

“That’s okay,” the ever-soothing Dorothea assured.  His wife was much better with people than he was.  “You were just very complimentary of my sons when delivering flowers to me yesterday.  It was pleasantly unexpected.”

“Oh.  I didn’t remember.”

It was hard to watch Delaney this way, and Jon winced as her lids fell shut in a visible attempt to recall the scene. 

“It’s okay, Laney.”  Petra absently smoothed Delaney’s disheveled hair to reinforce the reassurance, but  neither the words nor gesture could camouflage the blatant worry that she tried to keep hidden from her sister.  “Don’t you think you should say hello to Jon, too?”

That subtle coaching did the trick.  Hesitant eyes finally connected with his, delivering the jolt of electricity that Jon not only had come to like but was starting to crave.  Every time he saw her, it was the same yet different, and he wanted her a little more each time. 

Dave and Matt could not find out, but he was ready to own what his subconscious had known almost from the start.  There, in that moment – with her in palpable pain, looking battered and broken and with Dorothea standing at his side – Jon accepted the foregone conclusion that Delaney would be the next woman in his bed. 

The timing was eight steps beyond fucked up, but making the decision brought with it a wave of serenity that he hadn’t known in months.  He would give Delaney new memories beyond maracas and music, and she’d do the same for him. 

“Hello, Mr. Bon Jovi.”  His future lover leaned forward and primly extended a hand, her eyes devoid of any discernable thought or emotion.  “I have no idea how my sister lured you here, but it’s an honor to meet you.  I’ve been a fan for years, and your music has meant a lot to me.  We’re looking forward to seeing you in concert.”

Lightly folding her fingers in his, Jon barely registered the crackle of electricity created by their scraping palms.  It was the first time since meeting these sisters that he sought Petra’s eyes instead of Delaney’s, and when he found them, his thoughts were confirmed in their depths. 

Any doubt he may have had was erased by her gently broached, “Laney.  The concerts were last week.  We went to soundcheck and a party afterward.”

“What?  No.  That’s impossible,” the wounded twin declared with quiet defiance.  “Those shows aren’t until May ninth and tenth.  Today’s only the…  What’s today?”

“Today is Mother’s Day, kardia mou.  May the thirteenth,” her father supplied despondently, now realizing the same thing that Petra and Jon did.    

New memories hell. She doesn’t have any fucking memories of me at all.

There was a whole new can of awkward for Matt to chew on.