Read Online The Memory Jar by Elissa Janine Hoole - Free Book Online Page A

so soft, and once again I’m afraid she knows. I need her to leave the room. “Maybe … ” I trail off, pressing my hand against my face as though I’m suddenly flushed, hot. “Oh, it’s okay. Unless you could get me a cup of water. I’m sort of … ” I leave it open-ended.
    Her eyes are wide. “Oh!” She smiles and picks up a small cup off the bedside table, still wrapped in plastic. “I’ll get you some from the drinking fountain in the hall. It tastes a little better.”
    â€œThat’s perfect, thank you so much.” I’m going to have to be fast. As soon as she’s past the edge of the curtain half drawn around Scott’s bed, I duck down, wedging myself into the space between the wall and the machinery that checks his vitals. I see nothing, so I glance up to make sure Emily isn’t coming and then I push the chair back with my ass and get all the way down on my hands and knees, pushing the cords to the side carefully, searching for a glint of gold, zirconium flakes shining against the off-white tile. Nothing.
    This is so uncool. My hands skitter across the floor in all directions, reaching around the bottom of the bed. I crawl to the foot of the bed and around to the other side, hazarding a glance up at the door, hoping that Emily takes a while with the water. It’s still clear, but I don’t have much time so I quickly search the floor around the bottom of the curtain and climb to my feet, straightening up just as Emily enters, closely followed by a young Asian guy in a shirt and tie. The news. He carries a camera, but it’s not a still camera like a person working for a newspaper would have. It’s a video camera.
    My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I distract myself from the intensity of Emily’s kindness by pulling it out and reading the text.
    I frown. The number isn’t in my contacts, and the message is brief but it takes me by surprise. Abortion is MURDER.
    â€œAre you all right?” Emily can clearly see I’m not, but I nod and slide my phone back into my pocket. Who would send me such a thing? I run through the list of everyone who knows, and it’s a short list. Joey? Could it be him? We haven’t even mentioned abortion.
    Emily turns to introduce the guy behind her. “This is Tom Baker, from channel seven.” He waves and gives me this little smile that manages to instantly communicate an idea of kindness, of empathy. He’s also gorgeous. I look away quickly.
    I stuff my hands into my hoodie, search the floor out of the corners of my eyes for the stupid ring that I don’t even want, my mind fully consumed with the awful text. Can I call the number back? The thought makes my stomach lurch in a way that feels unexpected, and I give the guy a little nod, figuring there’s not much more expected from the girlfriend of a boy in a coma.
    â€œI’m doing a piece on the crash,” says Tom, a thin tripod expanding like magic beneath his hands. “I mean, not all about the crash, I’m sorry if I’m being insensitive. I’m doing a series on traumatic brain injuries. So far we’ve talked with a couple of soldiers, and I was reading about Scott on the update site Emily set up.” He’s casual, non-threatening. He holds out his hand to me.
    I look down. A microphone, a tiny fly to clip onto my sweatshirt, hangs between Tom’s finger and thumb. I shake my head. “I don’t know—”
    â€œWe don’t have to show your face,” he says. “Can I just … ?”
    My face. I allow him to attach the mic and then it all seems inevitable—the questions, interrogations. Guilt blooms in my chest, and I don’t know, I don’t remember. “I can’t.” I try to tug the mic off but my hands are heavy and numb, my heart erratic. Panic? What is this?
    Tom stands beside the camera, and he has a nice smile. I focus on that, on