Chapter One
We don’t know
anything yet.
I’ve been hearing
this lie for the last six hours. Doctors, nurses, everyone who passes by me
says the same damn thing. I think the worst part is that I know they all know
something. Even I know at least one of them is dead. But I don’t know
who, or if it’s only one of them, so until I have some information I refuse to
cry.
Rather than
celebrating my eighteenth birthday, this is where I’ve been for the last six
and a half hours; unable to feel, unable to fully process what’s happening. A
voice in my head that sounds strangely like mine keeps repeating, This isn’t
happening, fuck, this isn’t happening, and I keep listening to it.
So I don’t cry. I
don’t react. Instead, I either count the tiles on the floor, or if I see
someone walking by, ask questions:
“Are they in surgery?”
“Ma’am, we don’t
know anything yet.”
“Is my sister
okay?”
“We’re not sure.”
“My parents?”
Before I can ask
anything else, they all walk away from me, saying, “I’m sorry, we don’t know
anything yet.”
With no answers, I
can believe that this isn’t happening. Truthfully, I want to scream, throw a
chair against the wall. I want to tell anyone who will listen that even I know
the prognosis is grim. Instead, because I’m convincing myself that they’re all
fine and that this isn’t my fault, I sit in a chair with my knees bouncing up
and down because I can’t contain the shaking within me, and keep my eyes out
for hospital staff. When I find one, I
ambush and continue to ask questions that won’t be answered.
At some point, my
eyes are dry, like I’ve left my contacts in for too long. I try blinking just
to keep moisture in them, but nothing is working. I hear footsteps around me,
but I can’t move. The chair has wrapped its arms around me, and though the plastic
is digging into my back, I’m comfortable. My legs stop vibrating up and down.
No, I tell
myself. You can’t sleep. Wait for answers.
I try blinking for
longer and longer amounts of time, but my eyes still feel dry, and every time they
close, they burn like my eyeball is a lit cigarette. I struggle to open my
eyelids, count the tiles on the floor. I pick my eyebrows up, stretch them as
far as they can go. I get to fifty-seven before my body leans back. I’m just
going to close my eyes for a second. Only a second.
I can’t sleep
right now.
It’s dark when I
hear my name. I’m not sure how much time passes when I hear it, but I hear it
all the same. I jerk out of blackness I didn’t know I’d fallen into.
“Sarah?”
It’s my dad waking
me for school. I wave him away.
“Five more
minutes,” I say.
The voice clears
its throat. When he asks, “Ms. Baxter?” I start to figure out that it’s not my
father.
As I come closer
to waking, there is rod is being jammed along my shoulders and back. The
comfort I’d had moments ago is erased when I realize I’m not in my bed. Where
am I? Through groggy eyes, I take in my surroundings; the hard chair that is
not, in fact, a rod, the tiles that I faintly remember counting moments ago. Was
it moments ago? Suddenly, I can’t remember the last time I’ve looked at the
clock. Where am I?
The sound of metal
hitting metal and shattered glass slams into me. I’m fully awake now. How could
I have fallen asleep? What kind of daughter am I? What kind of sister does that
make me?
“Sarah?” he asks
again.
I don’t know what
time it is. There are no windows where I’m sitting so I can’t see how dark it
is outside. There are just rows of empty chairs, while tiled floors, and neon
lights. My bones feel lagged, tired, like I’ve run six miles. With no watch, and
no windows, the residual weight in my eyes says that I should have been in bed
hours ago. I should be getting ready for school. I should be anywhere but in
this room.
I take deep
breaths as more flashes come back to me; birthday, car accident, sister, mother,
father, sister’s boyfriend, nursing staff not answering…The chanting in my head
returns, This can’t be happening. No, please, no.
I will myself to
go back to sleep, to go back where it’s safe, and dark. Where this isn’t real,
where I wasn’t feeling anything.
Instead, none of
it goes away. There is a man with glasses and a white uniform politely waiting
for me. I assume he’s the doctor but by now, I’m not sure what I’m sure of
anymore. Go back to sleep! I plead with myself. Please, go back to
sleep! This isn’t real, this isn’t real. The voice sounds like she’s on the
verge of crying.
As my stomach
starts turning, my heart picks up. I no longer feel lagged, like I’ve been
running. No, instead, I’m ready to go running. Out of this hospital, out of the
city. Away. I can’t control the adrenaline being pumped into me. My hands are
now shaking, as well as my entire being. Would this be what it feels like to
put your finger in an electrical outlet? I ask myself.
No, this is
what it’d feel like to have your entire family in a car wreck.
I nod to the man
who’d called my name, acknowledging that I’d heard him. I look to my side and
grab my jacket that’s covered in dried blood and pull it on. He looks at it and
some expression flashes across his face that I can’t quite read. Disgust,
maybe? I try not to care. If this jacket is the last thing my mother gave me,
then I’m not throwing it out. I pretend like I don’t see his reaction, like
he’s not about to tell me my entire world has collapsed. I take another deep
breath. I suck in so much air that my stomach feels like it can inflate and
float away. When I’m drowning in air, I push it out through my lips the way my
mom told me to do when I’m stressed out. Deep breath in, take a step, push out.
When I’m closer, I
see how bloodshot the doctor’s eyes are. His hair is a soft brown color, and
from the looks of things, he hasn’t run a comb through it in ages. It is matted
down, as though he’d been wearing one of those surgical caps, and then it hits
me. Was this the man who was working on Mom? On Dad? Allie?
Upon closer
inspection, it looks as though he’s been crying, but maybe he’s just as
exhausted as I am. I find myself walking slow, buying myself more time.
“How is she?” I
ask referring to my sister, and immediately feel bad for not asking How are
they? My whole world was in that car.
My father had kissed
me on the forehead as we left the restaurant. “Happy birthday, Baby,” he’d said
before getting in behind the wheel. I’d cringed at the name. I’m eighteen now.
An adult. I can vote in the next election, Dad.
My mother had wrapped
me into her arms, “I’ll see you at home. Drive safe, don’t forget to turn on
your headlights.”
I nodded, rolling
my eyes. I’d had my license for almost two years now; I think I’ve gotten the
hang of it. “I love you, Mom,” I’d said instead.
Out of the corner
of my eye, my sister and her boyfriend kissed. When Mike pulled away, Allie
smiled a naive smile, the one that exclaimed to the world that she whole
hearted trusted this boy. It reached her mouth, her eyes, her body. She had no
fear in loving him. Together, the two of them climbed into the back seat, my
sister biting her lip as Mike opened the door for her.
“Happy birthday,”
she called out before sliding into the middle of the car where his arm wrapped
around her.
They, I
scold myself. I should have said They. All of them.
The doctor takes a
jagged breath before speaking and I brace myself, or try to. I wish I’d stayed
closer to the chairs. I want to put my hands on the back, to give myself something
stable to hold onto. I’d kill a baby for a teddy bear right now.
“Your sister may
have sustained head trauma from the impact. She is currently in a medically
induced coma, we’re hoping to allow her to heal, but she’s alive. It’s a
waiting game with her, there’s a lot we can’t tell from tests alone. Her
recovery will be up to her.”
Head trauma. The
words repeat over and over, and can’t help but to blurt out, “Is she
retarded?” When I hear what I’ve said, I’m appalled. I ask myself again what
kind of sister am I? And then I imagine my sister, the one who’d been there
when I broken my arm. When the doctors told my parents they’d have to re-break
it to re-set it, Allie asked if she could watch. When I was in physical
therapy, she asked them to make me cry.
It’s what we do;
face things head on to make the impact of the situation a little less hard.
When the physical therapists did make me cry, she held my good hand and sat
with me until the ice numbed me. Later that night, we laughed about it.
I want to laugh
about this.
I’m not sure how
to read the doctor’s expression. Maybe he’s thrown off, I’m not sure, but I
don’t really care. I’m trying to understand who my sister will be when she
wakes in a way that makes it easier for me to deal with. The more blunt you
are, the easier it is to hear, right?
I expect to hear,
“We’re taking preventative measures,” or, “She’s fine, just sleeping,” or some
variation thereof.
Instead he answers
slowly, “We’re not sure how substantial the damage is.”
My heart seizes in
my chest, and though I don’t want to, I’m starting to feel again. My heart
picks up speed again, my hands feel cold and clammy. My stomach feels like that
time I’d had four shots too many and wants to relieve itself on the floor. My
sister may be retarded. Allie, the girl who got straight A’s and cried when she
got a B+.
The only reason
I’m sure I’m breathing is because I’m still currently standing. The voice that
had been reassuring me that this isn’t real is suddenly silent. I plead for it
to come back.
Somehow, it’s ironic.
All night I’ve been asking questions. Now, when I’m getting answers, I’m not
sure I’m ready to hear them.
I nod and wait.
Wait for tears, to stop feeling how hard my heart is pounding, for more
information, something. It doesn’t come. I focus on my breathing and prompt it,
“Her boyfriend?”
“We’re waiting to
speak with his parents first.”
I try to read his
face, but am unable to. Though my throat is tight, I swallow and try to accept
the answer, but it’s still hard. The doctor doesn’t understand that in the last
two years Mike had become like my brother. He doesn’t understand and he doesn’t
seem to care that I love that fucking kid. He doesn’t know that Mike is my
brother, that I am family, too.
When was the last
time I saw Mike’s parents? They’d arrived at the hospital within ten minutes of
being called. We’d sat together, paced together, but none of us could cry… still
in a state of shock, we’d held hands for a long time, his mother silently
praying for her son. His father, resting his arm around his wife. Me, the
lonely member of my family, praying for everyone I love.
I try to remember
where they went.
I only remember
holding their hands.
My throat tightens
more. There is only one question left to ask, and there is a shift in the room where
the world stills and I’m completely alone. I listen for a clock tick, the sound
of feet on the floor but hear nothing. My chest refuses to expand like I’m
trapped inside a corset, and I try to take shallow controlled breaths. My body tries
to brace for impact while I try to remain focused on breathing. It’s like
standing outside in winter for too long; that moment when your hands feel like
they’re on fire because it’s so cold, but you can’t really feel it anymore.
My heart hurts, like
it can’t beat. It’s like someone has reached in and is trying to make a fist
while holding it, but I’m not sure why. My eyes well with tears, and then a
voice that sounds like mine breathes out, “My parents?”
The doctor’s face crumples,
just a fraction, “We did everything…” and my head starts shaking before I’m
aware of it. A hollow sound emerges from my stomach. I think I’m screaming the
word No, but I can’t be sure that I’m not just screaming. My stomach
turns and tries to retch all over the floor. I wrap my arms around myself just
in case because even though nothing is physically coming out, my insides are still
being ripped out of me. The fist around my heart tightens. Suddenly, I’m being
crushed in a vice, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
Though I can see
the floor, somehow my legs refuse to stand on it. There is nothing keeping me
erect. My legs go limp. The floor slips away from me. My knees thud against the
linoleum but I can’t feel anything except the crushing in my chest.
Slow whispers come
out of my mouth in between gasps, “No,” wheeze, “no,” wheeze, “no.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.
We did everything we could,” he offers. His hand is on my shoulder. I want to
scream at him that he should have done more, that his everything isn’t
enough.
“No!” I scream
removing his hand. “No!” I can’t stop, I can’t stand. No, no, no, no. God,
this cant be happening, don’t let this be happening.
My stomach tries
to retch again, and I succumb to struggling on all fours. The only thing I’m
aware of is the constant pain in my chest, in my lungs, and the need to make it
stop. My body is in a heap, and I’m rocking back and forth screaming, but I’m
not aware of any of it, I don’t feel any of it. I can only feel this pain.
I don’t know how
long I’m like this. I don’t know how long I scream for before someone offers me
an injection, and I nod my head, still screaming. Soon everything goes limp.
“Sarah?” a new
voice asks.
I try to look up
but I can’t. The floor around me changes and somehow I’m in an office of some
sort. My insides don’t feel like they’re crushing me now, everything is just
going really, really slow. I appreciate that I’m drugged, probably sedated, but
it doesn’t hurt, I can’t feel my own emotions.
“Do you know if
your parents had life insurance, a will?” the voice asks in a hazy way.
Suddenly it’s like
I’m made of glass and that one question was a wrecking ball. I explode and
start sobbing again. No amount of medication can lesson this.
Somehow, this is
all real.
