Straight River by Chris Norbury

Author:Chris Norbury [Norbury, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense, Thriller. Mystery
Publisher: Indie Author Project
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

“Matt . . . Matt. Wake up.” The muffled female voice reminded him of jazz legend Sarah Vaughan—warm, sensual tones with hints of a reedy clarinet. Was this hauntingly beautiful speaker welcoming him to heaven? A hand touched his shoulder and shook him gently.

“Mmm. Wha—” He forced his eyes open, but they balked at the bright light. Wincing, he turned away from the light and focused on the woman who leaned over him. She wore a floral nurse’s uniform top. A stethoscope hung around her neck. I guess I’m not dead—yet.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“The Straight River Hospital,” Nurse “Sarah” said.

“What time is it?”

“About eight o’clock in the morning.” Her nametag read: Julia Deason, LPN. Taller than average with light-brown hair and sharp facial features, she projected a robust, earthy aura that suggested she’d been raised in farm country.

Memories of fire, pain, and an explosion edged into Matt’s mind. He groaned. “My head’s throbbing and my ears are ringing like church bells. I’m having a tough time remembering what happened.”

“Your house exploded,” Deason said. “You banged your head pretty hard. In addition, you’ve got three broken ribs, a severe laceration on your left hand, several lacerations on your back and legs, and some minor abrasions.”

“Is that all? I thought it was serious.”

She didn’t react to his dark humor. “On a scale of one to ten, describe your pain level.”

“Worst I’ve felt in recent memory, so I guess around four or five.”

She nodded, then adjusted the drip rate on the IV bag hanging above his bed that was hooked up to his right hand. “I increased the med flow, so the pain will lessen soon. We did a CT scan on your head—no fractures or brain bleeds. X-Rays showed no broken bones other than your ribs. The doc wants to keep you here for a day or two to make sure you’re healing properly.”

“I’m good with that,” Matt said, weak and disoriented. He vaguely remembered being worked on in the emergency room. Everything since the blast seemed like a nightmare rather than reality.

He raised his left hand and studied the bandages encasing it. He wiggled his fingers with great difficulty, then wiggled his right-hand fingers in comparison. Much easier. Sickening dread hit him as he wondered if he’d recover his full range of motion enough to play his bass again. His left hand was the fingering hand. The index and middle fingers were hardest to move. They were also the fingers that did most of the fretwork.

Playing bass had been a daily part of his routine for more than twenty years. Even assuming a full recovery, he didn’t know if he’d still be able to play the most technically demanding classical or jazz bass parts as fluidly as needed to keep his regular gigs. If not, could he make a living solely by teaching? In his mind, teaching paled in comparison to playing. Panic coursed through his veins. Life without performing? Inconceivable.

Despite his pained and confused state, frustration forced itself upward from deep inside.

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