Mango Crush

by Bill H Myers

  I was relieved when it was over.

  The nurse put the used pads onto the cart she had come in with and then stepped over to the other side of the bed. She lifted my arm and said, “I'm going to pull the IV. You might feel a slight pinch.”

  Before I could ask her to explain, she peeled back the adhesive that held the IV needle in my arm and quickly pulled it off. Then she slowly removed the one-inch needle from my vein.

  With the needle removed, blood trickled out of the hole. It was my blood, and I preferred to keep it inside my body, not out, so I said, “I'm bleeding.”

  The nurse looked up and said, “That's normal. Nothing to worry about.”

  She quickly placed a cotton ball on top of the flowing blood and taped it down securely. When she finished, she said, “Put pressure on it for a few minutes. It'll stop the flow.”

  I was hoping she was right. I didn't want a fountain of blood spraying up out of my arm as I left the hospital. It might slow my departure. Seeing the blood, the doctors might want to keep me for a few more days. I didn't want that, so I put pressure on the needle point.

  The nurse picked up the tablet used by the doctor, typed in an entry and said, “Sign this, and when you are ready to go, we'll have someone come get you.”

  My right hand was still putting pressure on the puncture on my left arm, and I couldn’t sign. I lifted my arms to show the nurse, and she smiled.

  She pointed to my arm and said, “That should be long enough. Just leave the bandage on until tomorrow, and it'll be good. If it doesn't stop bleeding, come back in, and we'll take care of it.”

  She moved the tablet closer. “Sign with your finger.”

  Out of habit, I started to sign my real name but realized my mistake almost immediately. Abby must have seen what I was about to do, because she said, “Tony, hurry up so we can go. If you can't remember your name, I can sign for you.”

  The nurse looked over at Abby then back at me. “Are you having memory problems?”

  I shook my head. “No, not at all. It's just that my hand is a little shaky. All that skin and hair you pulled off my chest along with the needle you yanked out of my arm will do that to a fellow.”

  I quickly scratched out a barely legible signature and said, “There you go. It's signed.”

  The nurse nodded and checked the signature. Apparently, she was satisfied because she said, “Well, that pretty much covers it. You're all set to leave. After you get your clothes on, use the call button. I'll send an orderly to wheel you to the front door.”

  I started to protest. I didn't need to be taken out in a wheelchair. But as soon as I sat up and felt the waves of nausea, I changed my mind. A wheelchair sounded like a good idea.

  The nurse headed for the door, but before going out, she turned and said, “I'm glad you're leaving here alive. I've seen the video, and it looked bad. You must be living right.”

  She was the third person who had mentioned the video. I wondered where they saw it, but I didn't ask. I didn't want to do anything that might delay my departure from the hospital.

  Abby reached into the Bealls shopping bag and came out with socks, underwear, a pair of slacks and a polo shirt. She pulled the price tags off and said, “Put these on.”

  I like to pick out my own clothes, but since my entire wardrobe, which consisted mostly of cargo shorts and fishing shirts, had been destroyed in the accident, I had no choice but to wear what she had gotten me.

  I rolled out of bed and slowly stood up. The floor pitched to the right and then back to the left. I swayed to one side then rolled to the other. To keep from falling, I grabbed the bed's side rail and used it to steady myself.

  For Abby's sake, I pretended nothing was wrong. If the floor wasn't rolling under her then the problem had to be in my head. I stood still, looking around the room while supporting myself with the bed rail.

  If Abby noticed or was concerned, she said nothing. She'd picked up a People magazine from the small guest table and was flipping through the pages, seemingly ignoring me.

  But I was pretty sure she was watching. She wanted to see how I was doing and was ready to catch me if I fell.

  Fortunately, after a few moments, the floor under me steadied. No longer did it feel like I was standing on the deck of a ship in high waves. I still felt a bit dizzy, but it was something I could deal with.

  Abby put her magazine down and looked up at me. I smiled and did my best to look like everything was okay. She tapped the pile of clothes she had picked out. “Do you need help putting them on? We can start with your underwear if you want.”

  I was pretty sure she was kidding. But just in case she wasn't, I said, “I appreciate your offer, and I might take you up on it in the future. But not today. I’ll dress myself.”

  She smiled and said, “Okay, but if you change your mind, just let me know.”

  She stood. “You probably don't want me watching you get dressed, so I'm going to turn around to give you some privacy. If you run into a problem, let me know. I'm here to help.”

  She turned her chair so it was facing the door. Then she sat back down and picked up the magazine she had been reading. She was still close but wouldn't be watching as I got naked.

  It shouldn't have mattered. She'd seen me naked before, but this time it was different. Back then we were both naked. Both confident in our bodies and in top form. But being in the hospital, I felt like damaged goods.

  I was eager to leave, and that gave me the strength I needed to get dressed. As soon as I had a shirt on and my pants zipped up, Abby used the call button to let the nurse know we were ready.

  A few minutes later, a male orderly came in the room pushing a chrome wheelchair with a blue seat.

  He said, “Hi, I'm Shane, and I'll be taking you to the door. Before we go, I need to make sure you are the right person. Tell me your name and birth date.”

  I'd learned earlier that the hospital kept track of patients using their last name and date of birth. Give the correct answers, and they'd know you were the right one for whatever treatment or test they had planned.

  I told him I was Tony Mendoza and recited my birth date from the fake ID. The date was the same as my real one; Abby had made sure of that. She'd also made sure it had my real height and weight.

  She wouldn't tell me who made the fake ID, saying it was better that I didn't know. But she did say that using the real birth date made it easier to get things right when questioned.

  I wasn't sure why she knew so much about fake IDs. It was probably better that I didn't ask.

  The orderly smiled when I gave him the right answers, and he said, “You're good to go.”

  He helped me into the wheelchair and rolled me out of the room. We went down a series of halls, into an elevator, and then to the lobby leading to the discharge area. Abby followed, staying close behind.

  When we reached the sliding doors that led out to the sidewalk, the orderly said, “We'll wait here until your car arrives.”

  He turned to Abby, “You driving?”

  She nodded and pulled a set of keys from her back pocket. She showed them to the orderly then kissed me on the cheek and said, “I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.”

  Four minutes later, she rolled up in a late model Toyota Sienna minivan. Pearl white with dark tinted windows.

  She got out on the driver's side and opened the passenger front door.

  The orderly rolled me to the van and helped me out of the chair. His parting words were, “I've seen the video, and it's pretty amazing. Glad you made it out alive.”

  Chapter Ten

  I settled into the leather passenger seat of the minivan and waited for Abby to get in on the driver's side. I closed my eyes and let the cool air coming from the dash vents wash over me.

  It was good to be out of the hospital. Good to be away from machines that beeped all night and strangers that came in to poke and prod me.

  After Abby climbed into the driver's seat, she turned to me and said, “F
asten your seat belt. We're not leaving here until you do.”

  Leaving the hospital after being in an accident where a shoulder belt had probably saved my life, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the belt, pulled out the strap and pushed the silver end into the lock until I heard it click.

  Abby patted my thigh and said, “Good, we're all set. You just sit back and relax."

  She put the car in gear, pulled away from the curb and drove slowly around the circle drive that took us to the street. We waited for traffic to clear then she pulled out onto San Marco and waited for the red light to turn green. I wasn't sure where she was taking me, but I knew that we'd be turning either north or south onto Tamiami Trail.

  If we headed south, we'd be going toward the scene of the accident. Not a place I wanted to revisit any time soon.

  When the light turned green, she headed south.

  It was either the realization that we might be getting close to the wreck site or the sudden motion of the car that made me queasy. I didn't think I was going to throw up, but it was a real possibility.

  I looked around the front seat and didn’t see anything that I could use as a barf bag. I turned to the back and saw a white shopping bag from Bealls. It was empty and exactly what I needed. I grabbed it and put it in my lap.

  Abby looked over and asked, “You feeling okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy. The doctor said to expect it. He said it's normal after a concussion.”

  I wanted to change the subject, so I asked, “The orderly, the one pushing the wheelchair? He was the fourth person who mentioned seeing the video of the accident. I thought only the police had it. How are other people seeing it?”

  Abby knew the answer. “It's on YouTube. One of the cars behind you had a dash cam. It recorded everything. It shows the Vette going airborne, crashing into your RV and tipping it over onto its side. Then the smoke and fire.

  “The video is about ten minutes long. It starts right before the crash and keeps going until they’ve taken you to the hospital and the police are clearing the scene.

  “You can see the Corvette blowing through the red light. And then it goes airborne and crashes into you.

  “The guy with the dash cam put the video on YouTube and it didn't take long for it to go viral. It's already gotten more than eighty million views. Everybody is talking about it.

  “When you get better, you'll want to see it. But not yet.”

  I didn't like the idea of a YouTube video showing me in a wreck being seen by millions. It wasn't something I would have ever agreed to.

  “Abby, does the video show me? Can you see my face in it?”

  She shook her head, “No, it doesn't. The guy with the dash cam was sitting at the light on the northbound side of Tamiami Trail. The camera's sight line picked up all the action from the back and the side but never got a clear view of you.

  “When the paramedics took you out, you were covered with a white sheet and had an oxygen mask on your face. No way anyone would have recognized you.”

  I nodded. That was good news for me. But still bad news for the motorhome.

  Abby said it had been destroyed, but that didn't seem right. Surely it could be fixed. Even if it couldn't be, there were things inside I needed to get. I turned to Abby. “Take me to the motorhome; I want to see what it looks like.”

  She shook her head. “No, you're not ready. You need to rest a few days before you see it.”

  She kept driving south, and we got closer and closer to the site of the accident. I wondered if she was taking me there to see how I'd handle it. She kept going, and when we got to the light where I'd been hit, I could see skid marks and gouges in the pavement on the northbound lane. Probably left there when the motorhome went over onto its side.

  I had a sinking feeling in my stomach and didn't want to look. But I couldn't help myself. I looked at the skid marks and tried to remember what had happened.

  I had been sitting at the stoplight, feeling good about getting back on the road. I had stocked up on food at Walmart, topped off the fuel tanks, and was starting the drive to Saint Augustine.

  When the light turned green, I waited for the car in front of me to turn, and then I followed. I couldn't remember anything after that. Not until I woke up in the hospital. I hoped the YouTube video would help me fill in the gaps.

  Abby slowed just before we got to the intersection, flipped on her turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of the CVS drug store. Instead of parking, she drove around the building and pulled in behind the three cars that were in line at the drive up.

  She put the mini-van into park and turned to me. “We're going to get your prescription filled. Then I'm going to take you home so you can rest. Are you doing okay?”

  I wasn't. All I could think about when she said “home” was my motorhome had been my home. It wasn't anymore. It had been destroyed. I asked, “Home? Where is that?”

  She patted me on the shoulder and said, “Manasota Key. I found a small beach house overlooking the gulf. I think you'll like it. It's right on the water and has a large deck where you can sit and watch the dolphins play.

  “But there's no TV, no internet, no computers. It's just what the doctor ordered. And it's only about ten minutes from the hospital, just in case.

  “You won't be alone. I'll be staying there with you most of the time. When I'm away, you can use the burner phone to call me. It, along with your wallet, survived. They gave me both before we left the hospital.”

  I nodded. I needed to recover, and Abby was going to take care of me. For that, I should have been grateful. But I wasn't. I was angry. I wanted my old life back. The way it was before the accident. Before I lost Bob.

  I could get a new motorhome but couldn't live with myself if I didn't find the cat. No way was I going to leave him to fend for himself. I had to find him.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat wondering how long it was going to take to get the prescription filled.

  Sometime later, Abby tapped me on my shoulder. “Walker, wake up. We're almost home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  We were crossing the drawbridge that led to Manasota Key, a small barrier island off Florida's west coast. About eleven miles long and a half mile at its widest point, it's separated from the mainland by the Intracoastal Waterway, a deep canal maintained by the Corp of Engineers, stretching from New York all the way down to the Florida Keys.

  Because it cuts Manasota Key off from the mainland, the only way to get to the key is to either take a boat or cross over one of the two drawbridges. The north one is in Sarasota County; the south is in Charlotte.

  We crossed over the north one.

  Since moving to Florida, I'd spent a lot of time on the key. It was four miles from Mango Bay, where I lived in my motorhome when I wasn't on the road. I'd been at the park almost a year and had made friends with the owners and many of my neighbors.

  As Abby drove, I wondered if any of the people there had seen the video of the Vette crashing into my motorhome. Some probably had. But did any of them realize it was me in the RV?

  Had they known, some would have tried to call to see how I was doing. But they wouldn't have been able to reach me. My old phone hadn't been found. I assumed it was still in the RV, if it had survived the crash.

  If my friends couldn't reach me by phone, and had called the hospital asking about a patient with the last name of Walker, the answer would have been, “He’s not here.” The hospital had admitted me as Tony Mendoza, and no one in the park would know me by that name.

  When Abby told me that she had rented a place on Manasota Key, I thought about all the mega-mansions that lined both sides of the road that went down the middle of the island. Most of the original fishing cabins and quaint shacks had been gobbled up and bulldozed by the rich and famous.

  They had built huge multi-story mansions overlooking the water. Most remained empty nine months of the year, the owners being too busy being rich to live in them
.

  The starting price of even the smallest place on the north end of the key would be well over a million dollars.

  The multi-story homes on both sides of the narrow canopy road created a canyon blocking the view of the beaches and the gulf waters beyond. Only the rich could enjoy what had previously been open to all.

  There were still a few places where visitors could get to the beach. On the north side, just beyond the drawbridge, there was a public beach and boat launch. For those wanting more privacy, there was Blind Pass, also known as Middle Beach, a narrow slice of sand that went for miles in both directions. Walk a hundred yards north or south from the beach entrance and you'd have no one around you.

  For those that preferred crowds, Englewood Beach on the south end of the key was the place to go. It had a paved parking lot, a playground, large restrooms, and a deck over the dunes leading to the beach.

  On sunny days in the fall and spring, the beach parking lots would fill up quickly with visitors wanting to enjoy the sand and water.

  Unfortunately, it looked like it would be a while before I could join them.

  Chapter Twelve

  After crossing the north bridge going over the Intracoastal, Abby turned left and headed south on Canopy Road where tropical trees lined both sides of the narrow road, creating a surreal umbrella of palms that let in almost no sunlight.

  Driving under the canopy, with glimpses of the gulf on one side and the waters of the Intracoastal on the other, was a welcome change from the stop and go traffic of the mainland.

  We continued on and soon the canopy of trees gave way to manicured lawns behind iron gates leading to the oversized mansions that seemed so out of place on the narrow key.

  I was wondering which of these places we would be staying in. Abby had said she'd found a place on the key and, other than the mansions, there weren't many other choices until you crossed over into Charlotte County on the south side.

  Traffic had been light that morning, and we'd gone about half the distance from the north end of the key to the south. We were about a mile north of the Charlotte county line where the high-rise condos and cheesy beach motels began. I was hoping we weren't going that far. The beachfront motel I'd stayed in had carpet that smelled of wet dog, a sagging bed with threadbare linens and an air conditioner that struggled to keep up with the heat and humidity. On the plus side, it had direct beach access, which made up for most of its faults.