Tiny Drops Read online

  Tiny Drops

  a novel

  Dusti Dawn Rose

  Copyright © 2018 Dusti Dawn Rose

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Erica Russikoff

  Cover Designer: Kat Savage

  Interior Designer: J.R. Rogue

  ISBN: 9781720288299

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retreival system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Brian,

  When I started writing this, I thought it was for me. I realized somewhere around the middle, that it was for you. Thank you for choosing to walk beside me through this life. I love you.

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part II

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part III

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  Social Media

  Part 1

  1995 - BRICE

  1

  What’s Happening to Me?

  I stir in my sleep, warmth waking my senses… I’m wet.

  What the hell? How did this happen?

  My covers slip from the bed as I toss my feet over. The floor sounds its protest at my sudden movement. Nighttime is for sleeping. I tiptoe to my dresser and grab a change of clothes. Opening the door, I slip out into the hall and rush to the bathroom. I can’t say how many times I’ve already gone tonight. I haven’t slept well in weeks.

  My mind is racing as I sit back down on the toilet. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes since I was here last, and it seems never-ending. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to rest again, and my body wants nothing more than that.

  Glancing down at my panties, I try to stiffle the sob as it escapes me; I can’t hold it in anymore. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it feels like dying, and part of me would welcome it. I’ve never before felt this bone-deep tired. I slip off my pants and toss everything into the hamper. I don’t know what to do.

  I’m fifteen years old; there’s no excuse for bed-wetting.

  I grab the undies that I brought in and slip them on. Pulling my mass of curls over my shoulder, I dip my head under the faucet and drink. I can’t get enough. I’ve never been so thirsty before. It’s no wonder I’ve wet myself. Every trip I make to the bathroom ends with my head under the faucet—drinking like I’ve been lost in the desert for weeks. What’s wrong with me?

  Sitting back down on the toilet, I go again. I won’t go back to the faucet. I can’t, not if I ever want to rest. But, as I try to swallow past the lump that’s become a permanent fixture in my throat, I know that it’s no use. The water may only offer a moment’s relief, but it’s all that I have, so I drink again.

  When I look up at the reflection staring back at me, my whole body stiffens. She can’t be me. I don’t look like that. I reach my hands up and rub at the dark circles beneath my eyes. It’s not traces of old mascara resting below my green irises—the dark shadows have moved in, taking a permanent place. How long have I looked like this? Felt like this? My skin’s sickly, pale. I want to lie on the floor beneath the sink; I’m so tired. I lean closer to the image across from me. “You can’t live like this,” she whispers, and I know she’s right.

  Goosebumps rise across my skin as I leave the bathroom, making my way down the hall. I have to wake her. She needs to know what’s going on. We can’t keep ignoring this; something’s wrong. I lightly rap my knuckles across the wood before opening the door.

  “Mama?” I whisper the words, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s something wrong with me.” A sob overtakes me as the blankets begin to stir. There’s something wrong with me.

  “Brice?” She reaches blindly for the bedside lamp, her voice laced with sleep. “What are you talking about? What’s going on, baby girl?” Light replaces the darkness, and I take a step back.

  “I…I….I wet the bed. I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

  “Shh… It’s okay.” She sits up, rubbing her eyes. “Maybe you have an infection. Whatever it is, we’ll find out tomorrow. We’ll get you to the clinic.”

  I knew I shouldn’t have come; I knew she wouldn’t hear me, not really.

  “Go back to bed, try to get some rest. We’ll get this sorted in the morning,” she says.

  I suck in a shaky breath. I’m lost—all alone.

  It’s not her fault. She works so much; she just doesn’t have room for this in her life. I haven’t really seen her more than in passing for weeks. She took a second job because Christmas is coming. When you’re a single mom with two kids, that’s what you do. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard her say that or something like it.

  Stumbling through my cluttered room, I reach the nightstand and flip on my reading lamp. Running my hand across the indent on the mattress, I feel no dampness on the sheets. My body sags with relief. I don’t have the strength to change them. A stifled sob escapes me. Slipping under the covers, I ball the top sheet in my hand and cover my mouth with it—letting go, my body shakes silently as fear screams within, its voice blocking every other thought.

  What’s wrong with me?

  2

  Wake-up Call…

  “Brice, come on… Brice! Wake up! Mom said you weren’t feeling well, and I should take you to the clinic before school. Come on!” Jesse yells, exasperated, right before he rips the covers off my bed.

  I reach out blindly, trying to find something, anything to snuggle with. Coming up with nothing, I relent. Tossing my feet over, I slowly pull myself up, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re such a jerk sometimes, you know that?”

  Looking up, I pause as his amused smirk morphs, the corners of his mouth turning down—a valley of concern appearing between his eyes.

  Everything about me feels slow: my movements, my thoughts. The only thing coming rapidly are my breaths.

  “What? Why? Why…are…you…looking…at…me…like…that?” I ask, each word spoken between a big breath. My mouth feels thick and dry, like I can’t get enough air. I try to stand, but I sink back down on the edge of the bed. I’m so weak.

  Jesse drops the comforter and rushes to the closet. Why’s he acting like this? What’s going on? Why do I feel like I can’t catch my breath?

  “W
hat are you doing?” My words come out strained.

  “It’s okay, Little Bit,” he says, coming over with my big boot slippers—the fuzzy ones I love that Mom claims are hideous. “We’re going to get you to the hospital.”

  “Can’t… Take me to the clinic. Mom can’t afford the hospital, Jesse.”

  He’s moving in slow motion now. Did he hear me? Pressure on my feet brings me back to the present, and I watch as he tugs the slippers on and then sits me up and pulls a hoodie over my head. When did I lie back down? Glancing down, I see that it’s my soft green one with light gray, tiny doves all over it—my favorite. I smile, but it’s an effort to raise the corners of my lips. Jesse’s such an awesome person—even when he’s being a jerk. Why can’t he just let me sleep?

  “If I do that, she’ll just have two bills. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we’re not messing around with it.” Scooping me into his arms, he walks to the front door.

  My head drops onto his chest, comfort spreading through me. This is the way it’s always been. Jesse’s always here to take care of me. He’s taking me to get help. I try to relax as he descends the stairs to our apartment two at a time.

  I’ll be all right.

  “Whoa, is everything all right?” A gruff voice rings out across the parking lot. I look up at the sky, marveling at how brightly the sun is shining—despite the cold temperatures. Winter in the Yakima Valley is frigid, in spite of the desert climate. The rolling hills that line the valley have traded their dusty color for pristine white.

  “My sister’s not feeling well, Bernard,” Jesse answers, without stopping. The car beeps as he unlocks it remotely.

  Who’s Bernard?

  “Let me grab that door for you.”

  The face of our neighbor from across the hall appears in front of me. He must be Bernard. Why didn’t I know that?

  “Thank you,” I manage to say on an exhale as I’m sat in the passenger seat, my tongue thick and strange in my mouth.

  “I’ll be keeping you in my thoughts, young lady,” Bernard replies. Reaching up, he gives a slight tip of his funny little hat before he turns his attention to Jesse, who closes the door.

  I struggle to listen to them, my mind slipping in and out of lucidity. Their words sound familiar, as if they’re old friends. How does Jesse know him so well? Who is this man?

  Jesse climbs in and gives a quick wave to Bernard before he buckles his belt and backs out of the parking space.

  “How do you know the neighbor? I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

  He glances over, eyebrow cocked in true Jesse fashion. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes, yes I would, which is why I just asked you, you jerk,” I huff, my breaths starting to come rapidly again.

  He glances back over, his brow wrinkling. “Just try to relax, Little Bit. We’ll be at the hospital soon,” he soothes, turning his eyes back to the road.

  I turn toward the window and watch as the buildings pass, one by one. Sometimes it feels like there’s no color in the wintertime—everything is either gray or white, and there’s nothing else to see. Nature’s life force is frozen—dead.

  My eyes lull, closing slowly. I slump to the side, and whack, my head knocks into the window. “Ouch!” I sit up, rubbing the spot, and chance a glance at Jesse.

  He’s chewing the edge of his lip and drumming his hand on the steering wheel.

  He clears his throat. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

  My heart begins to race as I search for an answer to his question. “I don’t know, a while. I’m just so tired. My whole body feels weighted, so heavy; every movement’s like moving mountains.” I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. “And I can’t stop peeing—it’s crazy. I’m probably peeing thirty or forty times a day.”

  “Jesus, Brice! Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

  I flinch at the sound of his voice; it’s desperate, afraid. “I don’t know, I guess I just thought I would get better, and everyone is always so busy. I know you have finals this week; I didn’t want to get in the way of that,” I whisper. Turning back to the window, I see a little blue sign with a white H and an arrow pointing straight ahead. I guess there’s color in winter after all.

  3

  Traffic on a Friday

  I’m so glad I have a big brother. If I had a sister, instead, I don’t think she’d be able to carry me. It’s a silly thought, but I can’t help it as I hear the whoosh of the automatic doors opening. My eyes are closed; it’s easier that way. I’m so afraid. I don’t know what they’re going to tell me here, but I know it won’t be good. I know it’s not normal to feel this way.

  “Can we stop at the bathroom?”

  “Sure.”

  He sets me on my feet in front of the ladies’ room. “Thanks, Jesse,” I whisper, gripping his arm while I try to get my balance. I take a step on shaky legs, and it’s as if I’m trying to walk through quicksand. Pushing through it, I make my way into the restroom.

  I take care of business, stopping at the sink to wash my hands. I glance up and freeze. My hair reminds me of Albert Einstein’s—wild and curly, sticking out in every direction. I wish I had a scrunchie. Hopefully I won’t see anyone I know here. I run my fingers through it, trying my best to tame it a bit. I stand for a moment and watch as it slowly loosens—returning to its former shape. There’s no fixing a mess like this.

  Pushing the door open, I watch my brother for a moment. He’s standing against the wall across from me, arms crossed, staring at the ground, his brow drawn together. His dark brown curls are almost as disheveled as mine. When he raises his head, I see a storm of emotion in his eyes—their usual clear, blue color replaced by a gray, turbulent sea. He tries his best to cover it, but he looks petrified.

  “There she is,” he says with a smile. “Let’s get you checked in.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I joke, swallowing to try to push down the lump in my throat. My whole body’s shaking now, and I don’t know if it’s the fear or whatever is happening to me.

  We put my name on the clipboard at the desk and take a seat in the front. There are only a handful of people in the waiting room—each of them lost in their own problems. None of them even take notice of the tiny girl with a head full of crazy curls. Good.

  “Brice Garrison,” I hear a lady call from the front of the room.

  “That was fast,” Jesse says, helping me to my feet.

  “Don’t get too excited,” the lady sitting closest to us remarks. “They’re just going to get you signed in, then you have to wait for the nurse, and then you have to wait for the doctor. Wait, wait, wait. This place is slower than traffic on a Friday.” She shakes her head.

  Jesse and I look at each other, not knowing how to respond. “Oh, okay. Thanks?” Jesse says. Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he gently guides me toward the front.

  “Slower than traffic on a Friday,” I whisper, trying to stifle a sudden giggle.

  “Shhh…” he whispers back, nudging me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

  We take a seat in front of the window, and the lady behind the glass pushes a clipboard out through the small slot at the bottom. “You need to fill out these forms. What brought you to the ER today?” she asks, finally looking at us, her expression bored.

  “My sister isn’t well. She’s really tired and has been going to the bathroom a lot, and her breathing is weird. Is there anything else, Brice?” Jesse asks, turning to me.

  “Thirsty. I’ve been super thirsty. It’s like I can’t get enough water,” I add, trying to think of anything else. How do you explain sheer exhaustion? “It feels sort of like I’m suspended in Jell-O or something. I can move, but every movement feels like there’s some invisible force field pushing back against me.” I feel the color rise in my cheeks when the lady behind the glass raises her gaze to me. I shrug, putting my hand over my mouth. Mom says I have an unusual way of explaining things.

  “Wa
it here for just a moment. I’m going to go speak to the nurse,” she says.

  “Looks like today is our lucky day,” I whisper between breaths. “Seems like we might get to skip the wait.”

  Jesse reaches over and squeezes my hand. His grip is so tight, it hurts. I wiggle my fingers, urging him to loosen his hold. He gives one final little squeeze before he sets my fingers free. Thank goodness…although I sort of miss the comfort of it.

  As if he heard my thoughts, he reaches back over and grabs it again, only this time, his grip is light, controlled.

  We sit like that for what feels like eternity. I squirm in my chair as the need to go to the bathroom again takes over. I’m just about to say something to Jesse when the lady returns, and an older man with kind eyes and a shock of white hair comes up behind her.

  He glances down at the chart in his hand before he looks up at me. He doesn’t even look at Jesse when he starts to speak. “Brice? I’m Wayne. I understand you’re not feeling well. We’re going to get you better,” he finishes with a kind smile before stepping away for a moment. When he returns, he’s pushing an empty wheelchair.

  “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll take you back to where the action is.”