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  CHAPTER 22

  Sarah

  12:14 am

  Apparently, it’s the middle of the night, or morning, but they are still going to keep asking me this stuff. Yes, I know who each of them is. I wiggle my toes and fingers. With each little accomplishment, there’s a collective celebration, as if I’ve actually accomplished something amazing. Cydni can’t stop beaming at me. “I’m here for you,” she keeps saying, hovering on the stool beside me. “Right here.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper. She’s such a good friend.

  “Please, Mom,” I beg, trying to keep my eyes open. “Let Cydni tell me what happened. It will help me … clear my mind and remember. Everything is blurry.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea right now. So soon,” my mother answers.

  “Really, Mom.” I try to smile, wondering if I managed to. “It will help.”

  “Do you think it will?” Cydni’s mom asks my parents.

  “Maybe,” says Dad. He gives a nod to Cydni.

  Mom scowls then turns her back to us and stares out the night-filled window.

  Cydni starts, and I try to focus on her face. “So, you were under the streetlight, and then you stepped into the crosswalk.”

  “Go on,” I say, as she blurs in my tears.

  “Well, there was a blue car,” she says, “coasting down the big hill.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “A Mustang,” Chantelle adds. She scoots her chair closer to the bed.

  “A what?”

  “A blue Mustang, Sarah.” Cydni pauses a second. “What happened was, you came across the street, but then you needed to go back for something you dropped.”

  “Maybe so?” I try to remember.

  “I offered to get it, but you said no. Then I was checking my phone. When I looked up and saw the car not even slowing down, I yelled. You stood up but didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. You didn’t have a chance.”

  I nod and jerk in shallow breaths.

  “And then the car hit you.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “The blue Mustang,” she says slowly, a knowing look on her face.

  I can only stare at her until she goes on. “When he hit you, all your stuff went everywhere. Your shoes, even one of your socks ended up in a bush. Maybe your messenger bag took a lot of the impact, before it was ripped apart?”

  “It’s possible.” says Dad, “Still, the doctor said the bruises on your legs will be sore for a good while.”

  The blanket is too heavy to move, so I can’t check my aching legs.

  Cydni keeps going. “So yeah, then you were bashed up onto the guy’s hood, all twisted, and your notebooks and papers went everywhere while you were thrown straight past me. I don’t know, twenty-five feet or something? When you hit the road, it cracked your skull right open, and you skidded pretty far.”

  I gasp, and then I’m blubbering like a baby.

  “Cydni, that’s enough,” says Chantelle.

  Glowering at my friend, Mom pushes past her to get to my side. “Was all that really necessary?”

  Cydni stands, tears in her eyes.

  “Her heart rate’s shot up,” says Dad on my other side.

  “Sweetheart, it’s okay.” Mom pets my arm, strokes my shoulder.

  I shrink from her excruciating touch. “That hurts. Stop. Stop it, Mom!”

  She pulls away as a nurse barges into the room and flies over all the machines. She increases one of the IV drips. “There’s some more morphine, dear,” she says to me, dabbing my cheeks with a square piece of gauze.

  An oozing calmness flows all around inside my body. I let out a big sigh.

  The nurse turns to everyone with a patronizing smile. “Let’s do our best not to upset the patient.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cydni whispers. “I’m sorry,” she mouths to me again.

  “It’s … okay,” I slur.

  The nurse leaves, and I manage to ask, “It was a man?”

  Cydni nods. “Yep. You could say that.”

  “Just some man,” Mom repeats through tight lips.

  “It was an accident,” my dad says.

  I reach up, touch my cheek, and find it all goopy, but my mom immediately takes my palm and lowers it. “You don’t want to touch your face, Sarah.”

  My arms go limp as the drugs take over completely.

  Through the covers, Dad squeezes my toes. “I don’t want you to waste your strength on hostility toward the driver, Sarah. All that matters, in this moment, is that my baby girl is alive. Do you hear me, Sarah?”

  I close my eyes and sniffle. “I’m glad you are here, Daddy.”

  “Me, too, baby girl. You’ve got my full attention from here on out. Okay?”

  I lift my heavy eyelids. “Thanks.” I think I’m going to need it.

  From then on, it’s pretty quiet. Maybe everyone is afraid to say anything else that might upset me? But what more could there be? Some man ran me down. He hit me. I keep my eyes closed, while I drift.

  Eventually, Cydni’s mom says, “We should probably go. You’ll rest better, Sarah, without us leaning over you.”

  I look at her and smile, “’kay.”

  “But I don’t want to leave Sarah, Mom,” Cydni says, coming to my bedside.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I agree.

  She tilts her head. “I want to see them get all these creepo machines off.”

  “These machines are each doing something very important, Cydni.” Mom adjusts the tube on my right hand.

  “Right,” Cydni says. “I guess so. Well, I’ll come tomorrow after school. How’s that?”

  “Promise?” I ask.

  “Yep.” Cydni weaves her arms around and under the wires and tubes. She reaches me below the maze and gives me the gentlest hug. I don’t have any strength to return it.

  “Be careful there,” says Mom.

  “They are fine,” Dad counters.

  “I can’t believe he did this,” Cydni whispers.

  “I know,” I answer. “Thanks for being here with me.” I start crying again. “You are my best friend from forever.”

  “From forever to forever. I’ll be back,” she says, pulling away.

  Mom wipes the snot leaking out of me around the nose piece. She dabs my eyes.

  “So, um.” They all wait for me to go on. “Did anyone … find my flute?” I ask and hiccup. The silence is thick, like we are suffocating in Jell-O. They look at each other and dart their eyes from mine.

  “What flute, honey?” asks Mom.

  “Mine.” I close my eyes and then slowly open them again. “The one you bought me. You know, on eBay.” I wipe my nose on the sheet this time.

  My mother bites her ragged lip.

  Cydni pats my foot through the blanket. “Oh, you’re a little confused, Sarah. Remember? You don’t play flute. You don’t own one, but Dineva just got her open-hole flute. You must be thinking of Dineva’s.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. What? What does she mean? When I look at everyone again, more tears tip out. “Oh, riiiight,” I say. “Dineva’s.”

  Dad fishes in his bag. Mom tucks my blanket more tightly at the foot of the bed.

  “Well, then,” Chantelle says. “We’ll be going.”

  “Bye,” Cydni calls from the door.

  “Come back,” I mouth.

  “I will,” she answers.

  “Let me walk you to the elevator,” says Dad. The door closes behind him.

  My breath jags into my lungs in chunks. “Wasn’t Luke here, Mom? I heard him, didn’t I?”

  She turns and studies one of the monitors. “He was here, but he had to get home. He said — ​to tell you he loves you.”

  Right. I remember. But couldn’t he have stuck it out a little longer? Doesn’t he love me that much?

  “And the driver hasn’t been — ”

  “No, no.” She grimaces.

  Of course the driver wouldn’t come. “I do remember Luke being here,” I say. My voice sounds weak and pathe
tic, as drained as everyone’s faces looked when I mentioned my flute. Maybe they’re wrong. Because I remember it, the blue velvet lining the box.

  A chill crackles my back. Wait. I’m in speech and debate. It’s the same time as marching band after school, isn’t it? Why would I have a flute when I’m in debate?

  I pick at a loose thread on the sheet. Forget it. Forget it for now. And forget Luke not staying longer.

  “Luke was so upset for you. I lost count of how many times he threw up.”

  “Ew.”

  “He does care, Sarah.”

  “Sure.” I gently roll my head, but there’s no glimpse of Dad yet. My breathing starts to go spastic again, and I fight to calm it. The skin on my forehead pulls tight like when I was little and Mom tugged my ponytails up high. I carefully roll my head back and go to feel my face.

  Mom turns and quickly pulls my hand down. “Don’t touch,” she says.

  “Mom.” I sigh with as much exasperation as I can gather. “I think I can touch my own face.”

  “No, we can’t risk infection.”

  I roll my aching eyes. Whatever. I’ll fight with her later. “So what is all this?”

  She points to different wires. “Blood pressure, oxygen, IVs. The circles are from EKGs. Let’s see … pulse, drain tube, and catheter.”

  “Ugh. That’s what hurts down there.”

  “The nurse said the catheter will probably come out tomorrow.”

  My blush burns up into what must be tight stitches.

  “Oh, and compression boots on your legs. Do you feel them?”

  “Yeah.” Every now and then it feels like big socks squeeze my calves. “That’s so weird.”

  “Take a sip.” Mom holds the water cup and straw, and I pull in the coolness. My mouth is coated with paste, or I would have said no.

  “That’s good,” she says. She reaches over and rubs some lotion into my hands around the tape and wires. Deep anxiety nests between her brows.

  “Thanks.” I hold up my finger with the clip squeezing it. The monitor glows red on the end. “E.T. phone home,” I say, like everyone else who’s ever had to wear one of these things. But it makes my mom smile. “I want to sleep, Mommy.” Did I just call her Mommy? I’m so obviously drugged.

  She rubs the excess lotion into her own hands. “You do that, Sarah. I’ll be right here.”

  Flute music vibrates my cracked skull as the car approaches again. Dad’s words wash over me. Don’t waste any energy on the driver. With the morphine, I don’t know if I’m hearing him repeat himself or I’m imagining him.

  “She’s alive. She’s speaking. She’s likely not disfigured permanently. There may not be lasting brain damage. There’s so very much to be thankful for, Janet.”

  Mom whispers, “But she thinks she plays the flute.”

  There’s a long quiet, and then someone says, “It’s as if every stitch pokes in and out of my own heart.”

  And then I hear crying. Is it Mom? Dad? For all I know, it could be me.

  2:30 am

  I wake a lot less groggy when the neurologist arrives to check my reflexes. His little goatee twitches as he tests and records everything.

  The examination shows my legs and arms have good movement and feeling. I don’t have to wear the compression sock things anymore. “So I can walk and stuff, right?” I ask through clenched teeth, riding the pain from all the movement.

  “Yes. Yes, you can.”

  “Thought so.” I let out a jerky sigh.

  “When the anesthetic wears off, you’ll need further painkillers though. Just be sure to ask,” the doctor says.

  “She will,” my mom answers.

  “Mom, he was talking to me.”

  “Even your irritation sounds wonderful to me, Sarah.” Mom grins like a loon. She turns and talks under her breath to Dad. “She was just confused for a second about the flute. I’m going to still ask though …”

  “Okay,” says the doctor. “Try to sleep, despite the nurses checking on you frequently. Any questions?”

  A thousand cluster behind my lips, but I can’t grab hold of any. Before either of my folks can ask a single thing themselves, the neurologist excuses himself. “I’m being called.” He exits right away.

  “There was one thing — ” Mom says too late.

  Dad quickly tries to counter her frustration. “No worries. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to get answers. Since he okayed clear liquids for Sarah, why don’t I head down to the nurses’ station to see if I can score a Popsicle? I saw they keep a stash in the fridge.” He winks at me. “Be back in a sec.”

  While we wait for Dad, Mom rinses my bloody washcloth in the sink beside my bed. The red swirls in circles before slipping down the drain. I mutter aloud by accident, “I wonder what it would be like to see the driver? He’s not in jail, right?”

  “No, he’s not at this point, but are you saying, Sarah, that you would want to see him?”

  “No. No, I mean, how could he hit me, right? I don’t know what I’d do if he came through the door right now. Cry or scream, but maybe I’d like the opportunity, you know? It’s what my mind keeps turning back to … the missing piece, I guess.”

  “Well, let’s focus on your healing instead,” she says and wrings the cloth super hard before hanging it on the side of the sink.

  “Okay, but it was an accident. Right, Mom? There’s no way that man meant to hurt me, is there?” I whisper.

  Mom sits on the tippy edge of my bed and traces the IV tube. “Of course he’d never mean it intentionally, Sarah, but he did hit you. I, personally, will never be able to forgive him.”

  “Right.” I clasp my hands.

  “One missing piece that you can control, honey, is to see yourself. Would that help you process things? I have a hand mir — ”

  “No!” I snap. I definitely don’t. The creeps crawl over my skin.

  “Oh, all right. I’m sorry; that’s fine. It was just a thought.” She gets up and tidies the room.

  I feel bad for the people who have already had to look at me. Still, I’d rather not know what they’ve been looking at yet. At least Haddings won’t see me like this. It was humiliating enough to listen to his stupid poem last class, and that Shiki one about being alone. How horrible to think of him seeing me now, whatever I look like. Goopy is all I know.

  I lift my face. Well, it’s not like Haddings would come here, and who knows when I’ll make it back to school — ​if I make it back. To my school. Which is called … uh. Its name is … Well, it will come to me. I’m for sure not asking and freaking out Mom again. Stuff like that slips everyone’s mind, right?

  Wait! My poem for Haddings, the one to counter his. It’s out there somewhere. Is it still in my pocket? If anyone finds it, it could be damaging to both of us. I’m so stupid!

  And, and that’s why I darted back into the street. I ran for the stupid poem. A chill stipples my skin. Is it my fault I got hit?

  I blink slowly, and my panic settles. No. No, it’s not my fault. There’s no way, because how could the driver have not seen me in the crosswalk, under a streetlight? Oh, and I even motioned for him to wait. I totally remember that.

  “Um, Mom, where are my clothes from the accident?”

  “I don’t know, honey. Don’t worry about them. We’ll replace everything,” she says as a nurse enters the room.

  “Look’a here.” It’s the nurse with the accent. Dottie, maybe? She’s carrying an enormous vase of red roses. I inhale quickly at the surprise and beautiful scent. “There’s not a card anywhere to be seen,” she says and stops to smell the blooms. “Now, I don’t know how this happened, because flowers aren’t allowed in ICU, but these were delivered, and I couldn’t bear to send them back. I’ll keep them in the nurses’ break room until you are relocated, but I thought you’d like to see them for just a sec.”

  “Thank you,” I answer.

  Mom steps over and breathes in the scent. “Maybe they’re from the gals at work? Or fro
m your dad’s office?”

  “Maybe a secret admirer?” Dottie teases and moves the IV stand closer to my bed. She holds the bouquet to my nose.

  “So beautiful,” I say.

  She winks. “I’ll have them for you later, okay?”

  I nod, and she carries out the vase. A flush lingers on my face. Red roses … from Haddings? Did he hear about the accident? The roses are like the poem by Robert Burns, which I memorized straightaway after he quoted it.

  A Red, Red Rose

  O my luve’s like a red, red rose

  That’s newly sprung in June;

  O my luve’s like a melodie

  That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in luve am I;

  And I will luve thee still, my Dear,

  Till a’ the seas gang dry.

  Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,

  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:

  I will luve thee still, my Dear,

  While the sands o’ life shall run.

  And fare thee weel, my only Luve!

  And fare thee weel a while!

  And I will come again, my Luve,

  Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

  After he read it, Cydni and I fought for days over whether it was a secret message. I drove her crazy bringing it up. At the time, I totally believed Haddings was declaring his love to me. Cydni said the “Never” poem proved the Burns poem was a fluke; he wasn’t ever really into me. So, why would he send red roses now?

  No one would describe me as “fair” after this accident. A lump sits in my throat.

  The rich scent lingers. Hold on a second. Is he saying he didn’t mean his stupid poem after all? Did he hear I was hit and come to his senses or something?

  “My luve?” I whisper. “Could he care?”

  “What, dear?” asks Mom.

  “Nothing.” Crushing grief swoops onto my chest and stabs the chirp of hope before it can hatch. It’s too late, with my bashed face and cracked head, and who knows about my brains, remembering stuff that didn’t ever happen, not remembering other things I should. Maybe something with Haddings was actually possible before, but now it’s too late. I measure my breath to get it under control, but it’s so, so hard when I’m crying.