To H: A very, very belated "happy birthday" to you! Hope it was a good one. Very sorry to leave readers hanging for so long, but it couldn't be helped (there's an update explaining this in my profile section for the curious). And I know, I know—lots of people love Fern and want to know how she's been getting along. Well, you're all in luck 'cause this chap is all about her. And as we continue through these final chaps, you'll definitely know more about Buster's situation as well as see more of Catherine/Chip (or Frenskwire or whatever you want to call them—sorry, I don't know ship names). Oh boy, will you ever. We're in the homestretch, but there's still loads more to cover. Trust me.

Chapter 45

What Remains of Danger Girl

Five long days had passed since those terrible hours in the farmhouse basement. Fern had expected them to feel long. How could they not? She was stuck at home, convalescing in her father's recliner, unable to do much apart from passively watching DVR'd episodes of Miss Marple in the family den, trying not to think about how much pain she was experiencing. The pain was the worst part. As each day passed, it improved by a tiny margin, but it was ever-present, and her ankle flared with every jostle, her ribs twinged with every deep breath. The Norco, a combination of hydrocodone and acetaminophen, was hardly putting a dent in her pain, or so it seemed. One thing at which the medication excelled, however, was making her dizzy and nauseated, and her mother would sit by her side in a chair she had pulled from the dining room table, holding the bathroom wastebasket for the first couple of hours after Fern downed the tablet. Thankfully, she had yet to throw up, but there had been a couple of close calls. The sickness was enough to make her want to give up the Norco, but if she was this bad off with the pain pills, Fern did not want to discover what it was like to be without them.

The den was almost exclusively hers for the time being, a temporary living quarters until she could again manage stairs. It was just as well. Sleeping in her bed was out of the question; her ribs would not allow it. So the recliner was where she spent all of her time unless she needed to use the bathroom, in which case she would call for her mother, who would aid her in the agonizing crawl out of her seat and into the rented wheelchair, then it was down the hall to the washroom. She had to get around by wheelchair until her orthopedist appointment on Tuesday, when she would hopefully be fitted with a walking boot instead of the Air-Stirrup given to her at the hospital. The stirrup worked well enough for stabilizing her ankle, but Fern hated the way her bruised and swollen flesh seemed to ooze through its gaps, like purple-black Play-Doh being pushed through a plastic extruder. She never had to take in the sight for very long. Thanks to decreasing temperatures, she frequently felt a chill, and her mother was always there with a sympathetic tone and a deft hand, covering her ankle with a blanket and rolling up a single sock to fit perfectly over Fern's freezing toes. If not for her mother staying home from work and barely leaving her side, Fern did not know how she would have fared through this ordeal. Her father was home, too, but he worked from his office down the hall when he was not running errands or performing light housekeeping, and although he checked in with her frequently and spent time with her before turning in for the night, Fern sensed that he just might be taking a back seat in order for Fern and her mother to spend more time together. And Fern was not mad about it. On the contrary, her mother had turned out to be quite the welcomed companion in her den of recovery.

When things were calm, her mother would curl up on the sofa and watch TV with Fern, always trying her hardest to solve the case before Miss Marple did. But she missed the mark on every guess she made, badly at times, and Fern would cringe inwardly, deciding her detective skills were in no way hereditary. Still, she managed to smile a couple of times despite her discomfort. Her mother's concentrated effort to engage with her daughter's interests for a change was undeniably endearing, and a part of Fern dreaded the moment they ran out of Miss Marple episodes to watch.

The days were tough, but Fern had managed to acclimate to her struggles. She took comfort in knowing that she would eventually recover and her physicality would return to normal, even if time seemed to drag onward. She had been through much worse, so of course she could endure. The days were long, but they were bearable. Fern always came to this realization just before sunset, and then she would begin to grow uneasy. There were no windows in the den, and therefore no natural light, but Fern could still feel the night falling upon her with pressing inevitability. Her father would visit the den to chat while he checked in on the evening news. It was half past five by then, and that meant it was already dark outside. Knowing this, the pit of dread would form in Fern's stomach. Throughout dinner, which she awkwardly ate off a tray, still in the recliner while her parents dined over on the sofa, the pit seemed to migrate to her chest. Bedtime would not be far off, and then the house would grow quiet. Worse, it would be dark. Falling asleep took forever. Fern would close her eyes, and within seconds the pale tongue of the farmhouse floor or the sight of her bloody thigh in the beam of her Maglite would flash in her vision, and she was sure she was back in the basement, sitting on the cold fridge. The pit would now be full-fledged panic. She would only open her eyes once she felt around and patted the soft cushions of the recliner's armrests, confirming she was definitely home. Her eyes would strain as she peered through the dark room at the sofa, where her mother had been sleeping since Fern had come home from the hospital. Always, her mother was still there, and as long as she was still there, she would not let anything bad happen. Fern would think about how grateful she was for that until exhaustion overtook her and she finally drifted into sleep. As long as the days felt, the nights were longer, but at least she had her mom.

Thursday night had been the longest night yet. That was when her mother had told Fern that she would no longer be sleeping downstairs.

"I know I'm probably smothering you, so I want to give you your space," she had told Fern after dinner, sounding apologetic. "You've been sleeping through the night with no trouble. At this point, I'm afraid I'd just be doing it to make myself feel better. But I'll keep my phone on just in case. Text me if you need me, okay, honey?"

Her mother had no idea what she was talking about. I do need you, Fern wanted to protest, but she said nothing. There was no way she, Fern Walters, was afraid of the dark now. That was just not possible. She could get over it. And she would. She just needed time.

That night had been horrific. Unable to shake the feeling that she was back in the basement along with relentless visions of yellow tongues, flashlight beams, and all sorts of unforgettable imagery from her time on Raccoon Hill, Fern gave up on the dark after what felt like hours and turned on the TV, and she cherished the bluish glow of Conan O'Brien on mute. The light illuminated the room just enough to ground her, to assure her that she was safe. She realized she had been up all night when she heard the faint sounds of her father fumbling around in the kitchen as he fired up the coffee maker and made breakfast. The sounds and aromas of life and normalcy instantly put Fern at ease, and she finally drifted off. Her parents only woke her so she could eat and take her medicine. Otherwise, they did not bother her, likely because they assumed she needed the rest. She had slept through Alan showing up to drop off this week's school assignments, and at some point, her father had left for VaulTech's home office to attend the company's yearly Thanksgiving luncheon. She had known these events had taken place only after overhearing her parents discuss them while they ate dinner. She had slept the entire day away, and that meant she would be wide awake for the night. There was no time for the pit to develop. There was only panic.

"Okay, Fernie, I'm heading upstairs," her mother said as she gave the accent pillows a final fluff before repositioning them in their proper placement on the sofa. Two hours had passed since dinner. "Unless you need anything?"

Fern shook her head, ignoring her every instinct. "I'm fine."

"Well, then, I guess this is 'goodnight'. Remember, I'm just a text away, even if it's just for the bathroom."

"I know."

"Love you, dear."

"Love you, too, Mom."

She could do this again, face the night, survive it. She would watch TV until daybreak, sound off, maybe try to read lips. It would take her mind off the isolation, the darkness, the eerie shadows that flickered in her periphery. Then she could sleep in the daytime when all was well. Then the cycle would repeat. This would become the new normal. She would become nocturnal.

"Mom!" Fern called out, the jab in her ribs making little difference to her. She could not take it anymore.

Her mother had been at least partway up the stairs, for Fern heard a few thudding steps as her mother descended the staircase in a hurry.

"What?" said her mother, rushing into the den so quickly she had to take hold of the door frame to stop herself.

"I…I want you to stay with me. If you don't mind. Please? I can't sleep, and I don't want to be in the dark. I hate it. All I can think about is Van Houten…and it feels so real."

At this, her mother's mouth fell agape, but in her eyes there was only pity. "Oh, Fernie, honey, I wish you'd said something sooner."

"So do I. I thought I'd get used to it, but it's only gotten worse. I know it's probably annoying, sleeping on the sofa, but—"

"Say no more," her mother said, shaking her head. "If you want me here, that's all the explanation I need. I'll stay until you tell me to go, all right?"

Fern had not thought it possible to feel even more grateful for her mother, but somehow, she did. It was amazing just how much had changed in a week's time. She nodded. "All right. Thanks, Mom."

Minutes later, the accent pillows had been tossed into a nearby chair so that her mother could once again make her bed on the sofa. Though the overhead light was off, the den remained bathed in the warm golden light of the two end table lamps. Her mother had insisted the light would not bother her, that her sleep mask would do a fine job of shutting it out.

"And remember," she added, folding down her blankets, "you can wake me for any reason whatsoever, even if you just want to talk. Now, is there anything I can get you? Anything at all?"

Fern was going to tell her mother she was good before receiving a last-minute jolt of inspiration. It felt like ages since she had so much as entertained the idea of writing. Perhaps this was a sign she was healing. Of course, she was not in the mood to write per se, but she was feeling more alert than she had in days, and she knew she would be bored until she finally got tired enough to sleep. It was probably a good idea to use this free time to her advantage, to go over what she had written and keep her story fresh in her mind until she was feeling up to it.

"As a matter of fact," said Fern, "I'd like to read over my Danger Girl notebook. Could you get it for me?"

Curiously, alarmingly, the color seemed to drain from her mother's face. "That wouldn't happen to be the green notebook, would it, dear?" she said. "The one that was in your bag Saturday night?"

"Yes," Fern said slowly, not liking the nervous tone her mother had adopted. "That's the new novel I'm writing."

"Um, well, I can get it for you…but…but you should probably brace yourself, honey."

Her mother was out of the den. It was as if she had avoided Fern's stare right before she turned to leave. She returned moments later, clutching a coverless stack of rumpled paper bound together with a silver spiral.

"Do you remember how you got sick going up the stairs?" she said sympathetically, speaking of how Fern had dragged herself to the first floor of the farmhouse, step by excruciating step, vomiting on herself as she ascended. "Well, it got all over your bag, I'm afraid. Seeped right through."

Fern remembered. It had seemed so inconsequential at the time, just how much of a mess she had made of herself. Her concentration had been solely focused on her survival.

"The paramedics didn't know," her mother continued. "They just tried to wash your bag off with bottled water before leaving it with the hospital. I found it after you came home. The cover was absolutely ruined, and I tried to air it out, but…I'm sorry, honey."

Fern swallowed hard as her mother handed over the remnants of her Danger Girl notebook. It was dry now, but it was unrecognizable. With her functional hand, she flipped through the pages, which were as good as blank now. The ink had smeared from water damage, and she was lucky to make out words here and there such as "Kelly" or "storm". "Warehouse" had been partially blurred, leaving behind a stark blue "rehouse" in the middle of the faded clouds of lighter blue. Other pages had been wiped out entirely. Large rings of dried ink were the only signs anything had been written on them at all. Even the college rule lines were gone. Only a fraction of what had been in this notebook had made it to her word processor. Everything else was gone. Fern's stomach lurched, and it had nothing to do with the Norco, nor did it have to do with the foul smell wafting from the book. She sniffled, her eyes welling in an instant.

"This…this is months of work, all down the drain. It's gone, Mom!"

The outburst had cost her another jab in the ribs, and the sobbing jag that followed had been equally as painful, but she rode it out. The pain suited her, especially since this was her fault. Suddenly, she was surrounded by warmth. Her mother had taken the chair next to the recliner, the one she sat in while she was on nausea duty, and she was hugging Fern, cradling her head in her arms.

"I'm sorry, Fernie. I'm so, so sorry."

There her mother stayed as Fern wept, offering soft and soothing words, but Fern could not take them in. Danger Girl had been her favorite work to date, her best work, and knowing that it simply did not exist anymore was beyond devastating. It was like hearing a friend had died. No, it was worse—it was like hearing she had been responsible for the death of a friend. She just had to travel up Raccoon Hill. Because of her carelessness, Danger Girl was no more, just another thing she had managed to destroy in the course of one evening. In her despair, Fern could not help but wonder what else she had to lose.

To be continued…