It Was Always You

by Sarah K Stephens

  Ormoran shifts forward towards my bed, and I think she might be about to reach and hold my hand, but her hands stay primly folded in her lap.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend.” She says this with her eyes fixed on mine, her hand hovering again above her knee as if she might reach out to touch my arm in an act of comfort.

  But she doesn’t.

  “What do you remember about the accident?” she continues.

  I tell her about the winding road, and about the oncoming car that Justin seemed to try and shift into, and how I pulled the wheel back. When I explain the call from “Mom” coming in on Justin’s phone, Ormoran murmurs something to Miller that I can’t quite catch.

  “Do his parents know?” I ask, desperately. Justin wasn’t close to them, and I never met them, but still—the thought of his mother learning that she was calling just as Justin drove us off the road, sends a dense shot of pain through my chest.

  “One of the first steps in any investigation like this is notifying next of kin,” Ormoran explains to me. “Can you tell me what happened after the phone call? What happened next?”

  “How are they doing? Do they want to talk to me?” My voice sounds warped and reedy. A dull throb starts to ache inside my head.

  “Right now, we need you to focus on telling us what happened.” Ormoran’s tone is kind, but a new firmness has crept in.

  I remind myself who I’m talking to, and do as I’m told.

  I pour it out for both detectives.

  The phone call, the look on Justin’s face, and the tree looming up in front of us. The churning chaos of the crash. And then nothing.

  When I’m finished, Ormoran meets my gaze, her face creased with concern.

  “That must have been frightening,” she says. Miller just sits there, taking notes in her little pad.

  I nod, because there’s nothing else to do.

  “Why didn’t you take over the driving?” Ormoran asks.

  “How could I?” Someone pokes an ice pick behind my right eye. I sound like a child who is already bored with this conversation. I look over to the tubes connected to my arm, and wonder what kind of drugs they’re pumping into me right now.

  “Of course, of course,” Ormoran nods obligingly. “But I’m sure that you told him to pull over, right?”

  “Yes. I thought he was having a panic attack. At first.”

  “Why would you think that?” Miller this time.

  “Because he was afraid of driving.”

  The two women look at each other, their faces surprised.

  “Well, if that’s the case, why was he driving?” Miller asks, her pad of paper forgotten for a moment.

  My mind scrambles back to the day we left, but I don’t know how I can explain Justin’s insistence to the detectives, other than to state the obvious. “Because he wanted to.”

  Ormoran raises her eyebrows, and Miller gives a soft “huh,” and scribbles something in her notebook.

  “He didn’t trust you behind the wheel?” Ormoran’s face puckers in disapproval.

  “No,” I correct her, and try to force my brain to stop whirring so I can pluck the memory back. “No, he was being considerate.” Was he? I think.

  “So, he was trying to be a gentleman? Trying to take care of you?” Ormoran asks.

  I nod in confirmation.

  “But, here’s my thinking,” Ormoran shifts her body away from the bed as she adjusts her position in the rigid hospital chair. She crosses her legs and is careful to tuck her foot underneath the bed. Her long legs leave her little room to get comfortable in the cramped quarters of my bedside. “There were better ways to show that, weren’t there?”

  I give her a blank stare back. I’m not sure what she’s getting at.

  “Where were you going? There are a lot of fancy resorts right around there. Not too much else, though.”

  “Justin wanted to go away for the weekend. We were heading to the Wolf Mountain Lodge when—” My voice trails off. I don’t know where to look, so I stare at my hands folded in my lap.

  “Wolf Mountain Lodge.” Miller repeats, her voice almost monotone. Whereas Ormoran is like a walking stick of empathy, Miller seems like an imprint of a person. She keeps fading into the background, and I almost forget she’s there until she interjects with her listless voice, notebook shoved in front of her face.

  “And he’d made reservations?” Ormoran chimes in.

  “I guess so,” I say. “I just assumed he had.” I hadn’t asked Justin, because he’d planned the entire trip. Spur of the moment. I wasn’t supposed to worry about a thing. “I really, I just. . .” A fist of grief clenches at my throat.

  Dr. Holdren must have been just outside my door, because as soon as I start sobbing she is in my room, fanning her arms and making it clear that the detectives’ time is up.

  “We were just about to leave, anyway,” Ormoran says, and gives a heavy glance in my direction.

  Dr. Holdren returns Ormoran’s look with an icy stare.

  “We’ll come back later, Ms. Kalson. Get some rest.” As she leaves, Ormoran taps the foot of my bed twice, as if to confirm that she and Miller haven’t caused any harm with their interview.

  Miller stands up and packs her paper notebook into a garish pink purse I hadn’t noticed when she came in and sat down. It strikes me as odd, because such a colorful purse seems to clash with her persona.

  “We called all the resorts around there, hoping to figure out where the two of you were headed,” she says, “including the Wolf Mountain Lodge, but there were no reservations anywhere. Not under McBride. Not under Kalson. In fact, when we called Wolf Mountain Lodge, we were lucky to get hold of anybody. It seems they’re closed for renovations until further notice.” She finally looks at me, and her beady brown eyes scan me up and down like she’s surveying a horse that’s just been discovered to be lame. “You take care.”

  The door brushes against the linoleum of the hospital’s floor as it closes.

  Dr. Holdren is still there, actually looking at me for once.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

  My doctor says nothing, but she does nod her head slightly before putting my chart back into its holder and walking through the door herself. I’m left alone. Thoughts scramble to the surface, trying to make sense of what just happened.

  Which is when I understand why Ormoran asked me about the rugby team.

  She wanted to see what I looked like when I lie.

  17

  When the detectives leave, I am too anxious to sleep. My legs twitch from nervous energy.

  Suddenly I’m desperate to get online and read the news reports about Justin’s death. I want to meet his parents—he said they didn’t have the greatest relationship, but still I want to see them, say how sorry I am. And, yes, go looking for answers.

  I want to call Annie.

  And that’s what my mind fixes on, sitting there in my hospital bed with a gown that opens backwards and with no one to give me information, grieving and terrified that the detectives will be back soon and that they think I had something to do with Justin’s death.

  I need to talk to Annie.

  I hit the button by my bed, which I think must call the nurse because that’s what I’d seen on the television doctor shows I watched as a kid, and sure enough a few minutes later Nurse Debbie bustles in, calling me “love” and asking what I need. Today her hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, and her scrubs have tiny white and brown dogs on them.

  “Do you know where my personal effects are?” I chide myself for sounding so goddamn formal, and then recover. “I really need my phone to call my friend.”

  Nurse Debbie furrows her brow. “I don’t know where it might be. But, I tell you what, I was just about to come in and get you up for a walk around the hallway. Doctor says it’s good for healing your ribs and muscles. We can ask around while we walk, okay?”

  I nod as I start to lift myself out of the bed.

  “Whoa, whoa ther
e—let me unhook these.” Nurse Debbie rushes over to get my IV adjusted for traveling, and then puts my arm around her shoulders to help lift me up. We walk gingerly to the doorway, and as we do, the need to use the bathroom comes on with sudden urgency.

  What the hell have I been doing this entire time? I wonder. I’d know if I had a catheter. But then I recall the crinkling of the sheets. I should have known as soon as I shifted in bed and heard the telltale scrape of cotton against plastic. Rubber sheets are fundamental to the group home experience—they come standard with each bed so mattresses don’t have to be switched out each time a kid has a nightmare.

  “Um—can I go in here for just a moment?” I ask, waving my hand towards the bathroom door as we pass it on our journey around my bed and towards the hallway.

  “Of course.” Debbie shifts her weight to help me change direction and enter the extra-wide doorway that leads to the bathroom. “Here you are.” She holds onto my IV and lifts the lid of the toilet for me.

  She doesn’t want to leave me alone in the bathroom.

  “Can I just have some privacy? You know?” I try to give her a meaningful look that says that I don’t want to pee in front of her, but the swelling in my cheeks makes it difficult to control the muscles in my face.

  Nurse Debbie clucks her tongue. “I’m not supposed to let you in here unsupervised.”

  “Oh, really?” I imagine this is standard hospital policy, and start to work up a reason that it wouldn’t apply to me, when she adds, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s because they’re worried you might hurt yourself.” Nurse Debbie whispers the last part, as if she’s embarrassed to admit the hospital has such a poor opinion of me.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “How about I just stand by the door, and you leave it cracked while you go?” Although I’m thankful for her compromise, and as soon as she is on the other side of the door I sit down to relieve myself with an urgency I hadn’t quite known was there, I’m also starting to wonder at how good of a nurse she is. At least, I mean, it seems as though she takes the hospital rules as guidelines more than rules—and that can’t always be good, right, can it?

  As soon as I flush, Nurse Debbie is back inside the room and busying around me like a mother hen, helping me adjust my robe before I make my way over to the sink to wash my hands. There is a mirror above the sink, and it’s the first time I’ve seen myself since the accident. My two eyes are turning from purple to yellow, making my entire face look jaundiced. My hair has been shaved in random patches where stitches or sutures—I realize I don’t know the difference between the two—were needed. Like I used to joke with Annie after I finished my doctorate and she’d call me with some random medical question that was burning a hole in her mind. “I’m not that kind of doctor.” To which she’d inevitably reply, “What good are you, then?” and we’d both bray like some middle-aged insurance salesman with a drink. After the stress of defending my dissertation and having to convince my review committee that I was worthy of finishing my degree, it felt good to treat my Ph.D. like it was no big deal. It took the pressure off, which is something Annie’s always been good at doing for me.

  There is a wide band of purple bruising, running from my right shoulder, between my clavicles, and down towards my sternum. The coloring is so deep that I see it through the slightly transparent fabric of my hospital gown.

  Debbie notices the expression on my face—one of horror and anxiety and disgust all mixed together, because that’s exactly what I’m feeling—and says, “Not to worry. Most of this will be gone in a few more days, a week at the most. Seat belts are wonderful, aren’t they?”

  She nods her head towards the band on my shoulder and chest.

  I touch the skin gingerly, and watch myself flinch in the mirror.

  Nurse Debbie moves to turn me around and back out into the hallway. “Just imagine if you weren’t wearing yours, and count your blessings.”

  In my mind, I see Justin unclicking his seat belt just before I grabbed the wheel and we swerved off the road. Snippets of color creep into the black of my memory. The sound of crunching gravel. Shadows and glass. Movement where Justin was, on my left. But Justin wasn’t there, because I’d heard him crash through the windshield. Or had I?

  I bend over and retch, but there’s nothing in my stomach. Nurse Debbie pats my back, and murmurs something soothing. “Let’s get you back to bed,” she says, steering me towards the cot and the waterproof sheets.

  Think about something else, I tell myself. I will myself. Get your phone.

  I stand back up. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little woozy.” I pat Nurse Debbie’s arm, willing my fingers to feel warm and sturdy on her skin. “Let’s keep going.”

  She gives me a skeptical look, but turns our direction back to its original path.

  We are at the door to the hallway now, and I hear the bustle of the hospital outside for the first time. Where my bed is, the din of the working hospital never reaches me.

  Nurse Debbie holds the door open and I shuffle out into the hallway, taking care to not bump any of my body parts on the doorframe. I’m already exhausted, my body ready to give up, but I need to talk to Annie. I need some connection to the outside world. I lift my chin up and straighten my back as much as I can without visibly wincing.

  “Come on now, love. Just down to the nurses’ desk and back. We can ask about your belongings there.”

  The concrete goal helps, and the two of us begin to make slow progress down the hallway, with faster moving men and women careening down the hall with a purpose and charts in hand, shifting their paths around us without so much as a word.

  We find ourselves at the nurses’ desk after what seems like an eternity of right foot-left foot shuffling. I can’t remember putting them on, but look down to see a set of paper slippers on my feet. Nurse Debbie stays by my side, holding me and the back of my gown, making encouraging noises with each step I take, and I feel guilty for thinking earlier that she wasn’t good at her job.

  There is a man in pink scrubs sitting at the nurses’ station, and as we make our slow arrival, Nurse Debbie leans her huge bosom over the counter and calls out, “Tom, love—how’re the little ones? And Sheila?”

  Tom turns towards us and, glimpsing Debbie, gives her a broad smile. “They’re just fine. Thanks for asking.” He looks at me next. “And who’s this?” Tom smiles again, this time less vigorously as he clocks my bruises.

  “This is Morgan, from over in 223B. She’s been in a car accident. . .”

  “Ah, poor thing,” Tom offers, and his eyes crinkle in concern. “But you’re healing up, I see?”

  I don’t have a chance to answer as Nurse Debbie barrels on, which I’m learning she tends to do as a rule.

  “And see, Morgan’s a professor at the university, and she needs to see what’s going on with her students, but she can’t because her phone was in the car, along with her purse and other things.”

  I haven’t told my nurse any of this, but don’t feel the need to correct her.

  Tom’s eyes brighten up. “Ah, I see.” He swivels his chair around and shoots himself, feet planted on the floor, across to the opposite side of the circular desk area. “Let’s see what we have for 223B.”

  He begins shuffling through a stack of cubbyholes seated underneath a computer kiosk, with plastic bags containing shoes, keys, and various items of clothing. It only takes him a second to pull out a plastic bag with a flourish, and I know it’s mine because inside are the black Doc Martens I was wearing Friday night and my bright red wallet. I also see my phone, which has a zebra-striped case.

  “Here you are, dear,” Tom says, handing over the bag. There’s a bright yellow slip lining one side of the bag, with the words “Evidence Release” printed in bold black across the top. A series of signatures follows a paragraph of fine print that I can’t seem to focus my eyes on to read. The bag itself has a dusting of black powder clinging to the insides of the plastic.

 
; I mumble a thank you and look away, cowed by the evidence slip.

  “You are most welcome,” he replies cheerfully, not phased in the slightest it seems by the contents of my bag. “Enjoy your walk back.”

  Nurse Debbie thanks Tom and gently turns us around to start the long trek to my room. My legs feel more wobbly than they did on our way out to the desk, and without thinking I reach and take hold of Debbie’s elbow. She puts her hand on top of mine, and when we are several steps away from the desk and beyond earshot of Tom, she says, “He’s a real sweetheart. But don’t go losing your heart to him, love. Gay as a songbird, that one.” And she gives me a wicked smile that I can’t help but return.

  I’ve decided—for better or worse—Nurse Debbie knows what she’s doing.

  As we make our way down the hallway, I spot Dr. Holdren standing outside my door, her head bent towards another, smaller figure with dark hair and huge chandelier earrings. As I see the woman’s hand reach up to brush a strand of stray hair that’s fallen from her braids, I know who’s waiting for me and Nurse Debbie.

  Dr. Koftura has come for a visit.

  18

  I resist the urge to call out to Dr. Koftura, her face being the first familiar one I’ve seen since the accident, and instead wait patiently for her to look up and notice Nurse Debbie and me approaching, my IV pole in tow.

  “Morgan,” and the way Dr. Koftura says my name makes me let out a small yelp of a sob. She is the exact opposite of Dr. Holdren.

  I sense Nurse Debbie give me a glance, and then look over at the two doctors waiting for our arrival. “You know her?” Debbie asks, under her breath and with her hand brushing at her cheek to cover her mouth partially.

  “I do—she’s my doctor.”

  “No, not her—the other one.” Debbie must have thought I was being droll, pointing out Dr. Holdren as my doctor.