The Chime of Bluebells

4

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Shandra had relieved me from bed in the Awakening unit and called for the same nurse that brought Noah to his new room. He was tall and slender, with a calming smile and lazy aura—as if he were another version of a hippy or on drugs—and carefully helped me into the wheelchair. For over an hour, I'd been biting my lip, nervously wondering how Noah was doing. We'd separated on bad terms and I'd caused that. If something had happened to his family, and he'd suppressed those memories for his own good, I'd just made them resurface.

All those guilty feelings went away as the hippy nurse rolled me out of the elevator and my eyes met three people, slumping on a row of blue chairs.

"Mom, Dad."

The woman's head snapped up, her deep blue eyes locking in mine and without losing it, or even blinking, she pushed gently on her husband's shoulder. His arm gave way beneath his chin, and he awoke from a light, possibly anxious, sleep since he worriedly looked around, pupils decreasing in size. Then, they found me and expanded.

"Noli," Mom exclaimed in a voice too small to even be called a whisper and she ran the small distance between us, falling to her knees when she embraced me. "We were so worried. How are you feeling?"

Dad came up behind her, eyes stung with tears. Even though he wasn't much of a talker in private, he could speak more with his eyes than any talkative person I'd ever met. His gaze held volume.

"I'm alright," I smiled convincingly.

Mom laid her palms on my cheeks, struggling to smile through her tears. "Oh, honey, I... We shouldn't have let you go. This— This is on us."

"You?" I furrowed my brows. "What do you mean?"

"She means that boyfriend of yours." It was Quinnie, slowly coming up from behind Dad, blueish bags beneath her inherited eyes from Mom. "The one in jail."

"Like there are more?" I raised a brow at her, who only shrugged one shoulder, smiling: "You never know what your sis is up to."

I couldn't resist smiling. She was my sister alright, but also one of my few close friends. Although we might not always tell each other everything, we had some sort of telepathic twin power—or a sixth sense, if you're more comfortable using that concept. In other words, we often knew what the other felt or what the other one wanted or needed. Growing up, we were the pair of twins no one actually knew were twins—or even sisters. People often thought we either lied or said "we are sisters", meaning sisters in everything but blood, which wasn't the case. We were sisters, twins even, but perhaps not as close as people think twins might be or how movies and series portray us. I often thought about fictional twins: was that how twins were suppose to be? Or did it only apply to monozygotic twins? When discussions blew up regarding our blood relation in school, it was often caused by the fact we looked nothing alike. Where Quinn was tall and slender, with the darkest raven hair and deep ocean blue eyes, I was shorter and a little more curvier with fair hair and green eyes. She was all skin and bones, whilst I was normal sized with delicate curves. Something I, however, was a little envious of were her breasts. I'd never understood how such a flat plank for a body could have fine round breasts, whilst I who had curves could not. What is the point of curves if you don't have breasts? I often thought as a fourteen year old, when puberty had struck harder. But I knew Quinn had been jealous when my first period had come, at age eleven, and she'd had to wait for two more years before her friend had visited the first time.

I remembered in high school when she'd been popular and boys casted long glances after Quinn, with her perfect flow of hair and sparkling dreamy eyes. Unfortunately for them, she was a real tom-boy, without what auntie Carolyn called "proper manners". No matter how she behaved, boys still seemed to make an effort to catch her attention—something the Queen Bee's didn't appreciate. Once, a girl named Madelyn had trashed-talked behind my back just because I was the Boy Swooner's sister. Quinn had been furious and put her plan of vengeance in motion. It was odd seeing to Quinn wasn't the get-back-at-you kind of girl. She didn't care what other people thought or said, as long as they didn't drag innocent people into it. That, I could understand. I'd felt the same type of overprotective duty when Johnny had pulled Quinnie's braid in second grade and I'd immediately stepped in and cursed him—using fancy, advanced words his underdeveloped childish brain couldn't manage. Besides, I'd always been very bright for my age. Johnny had ran off with a grimace, screaming how much of a freak I'd been. I don't know how much use I'd been when trying to "rescue" Quinn, but she'd seemed happier than ever and proudly slung an arm around my neck, yelling back at Johnny: "That's what you get messin' with tha' Langner sisters!"