Most of her injuries, soreness, and stiffness were on the right side of the body since she was leaning to the left when the airbags deployed. She was told by one of the emergency room nurses that injuries caused by airbags can be greatly reduced if you are positioned properly. Yeah, right! Try telling that to a mother whose only instinct at the moment of impact is to protect her child. When Mattie and Alex were big enough to finally ride in the front seat, her instinct was always to throw an arm across them if she had to suddenly step on the brakes. And so it was still. And so it would always be. She leaned toward Alex but it didn’t help. Nothing she could do could protect him.
They waited in an alcove, hung with curtains on all four sides, both of them on gurneys, Alex with his head elevated and an ice pack over his nose. Frank insisted that Alex recount the details of the accident over and over again, each question fired at him sounding more and more accusatory, as if he was trying to find some error the boy had made and some way it could have been corrected.
“Stop interrogating him, Frank. What’s done is done,” Allison said with some difficulty, each word uttered causing her to hurt.
“I’m not interrogating him. I just want him to think about what happened and how it could be avoided next time.”
She wanted to scream at him that this wasn’t what the boy needed right now. She wanted to shake him and make him understand that maybe no amount of caution can protect us from all calamities and collisions. But she couldn’t do that because she was in pain and injured and Alex didn’t need to see his parents arguing right now. She paused and thought about it. Maybe it was a lesson she needed to learn. Maybe we have less control than we think. Maybe the tragic and unforeseen is destined to crash in upon you despite all your best efforts. Frank continued his interrogation while Allison mouthed the words silently to herself. “I will not enter the dance of destruction. I will not enter the dance.” Hell, I’m too beat up and tired to enter the dance, she thought trying to tune out Frank and Alex.
Over and above the sound of Alex’s voice trying to convince his father that he wasn’t driving too fast and wasn’t riding the guy in front’s bumper, came the sound of another voice. It was the sound of a woman’s voice, loud and confused, incoherent, whining, and either drunk or insane; possibly both. It was coming from the alcove next to them. Alex suddenly became quiet, and Frank finally ceased his interrogation of the poor boy. The voice had caught their attention too. How could it not? Other voices were heard as well; voices of medical personnel, more than one, at least two, maybe three. All of these other voices blended and blurred together, some male, some female, some calming and reassuring, trying to quiet the upset woman; other voices were firm and strict, reprimanding, as if speaking to a child, giving brief terse instructions, trying to bring the woman back into reality.
“Hold still. You know we’re not going to hurt you.”
“Oh, oh,” the woman pitifully moaned like some injured animal. Then suddenly she changed tones and shifted from pathetic to agitated. “Get that thing away from me. What is that thing? You trying to poison me?”
“It’s an IV, Vicky. You’ve seen these things before. We need to get some nutrients in you.”
“I don’t need no damn nutrients.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re half-starved to death,” said an authoritative sounding male voice.
“Last time I looked in a mirror I didn’t look starved to death. I looked fat, looked like I was getting a big ol’ beer gut on me.”
“That beer gut you’re talking about is an enlarged spleen. You’re malnourished; severely malnourished.”
“Don’t stick me with that thing. I don’t got no veins no more. They all done collapsed. I don’t need no nutrients and fluids.”
“Could you help me here a second? Nancy, could you come over here and help me find a vein?”
“Just let me go. Why won’t you let me go?”
“Because you’re hurt and you need someone to look after you. You haven’t done a very good job taking care of yourself, you know.”
“So you think it’s your job to take care of me? C’mon man, just let me go.”
“We don’t want a repeat of what just happened. That was a pretty foolish stunt you pulled out there, Vicky. You’re just lucky you didn’t kill yourself, let alone anybody else,” said the authoritative man.
“Did I kill somebody? Ah shit, tell me I didn’t kill nobody! I was trying to kill myself, not nobody else.”
“Calm down, Vicky. Shhh, everything’s all right. That’s a good girl. Calm down. Hold still.”
“What a fuck up! I can’t even kill myself. Here lies Vicky Lee Dooley. We had to bury her alive ‘cause she wouldn’t die. Oh, well, one thing’s for sure. I’ll be well preserved.”
“That’s for sure! They won’t need to embalm you, Vicky.” The medical staff laughed right along with the woman at the macabre joke.
Allison’s eyes met Frank. There was nothing but a curtain separating them from the voice. The voice was recognizable still, though layered underneath years of sickness and abuse. Frank heard it too. They both heard that unmistakable voice declare herself as Vicky Lee Dooley. He’d heard it all right. There was unspoken acknowledgement in his eyes. It was there for just a second and then he looked away. They simultaneously turned their attention to Alex. Despite the ice pack, which covered most of his face, Allison could see in his eyes a deliberate effort to appear stoic and unscathed. Poor Alex! He only tried that hard to be cool when he was really suffering.
The curtain to the alcove was suddenly pulled back with a quick purposeful shove that caused them all to start. A tall tired looking, slouched shouldered doctor of about fifty entered carrying x-rays under his arm. He explained to them that Allison had a broken rib. There was too much swelling to x-ray Alex’s nose but the doctor could tell by examining it that it was broken. They were to be admitted to the hospital over night. Though they protested, the doctor explained they needed to be monitored and observed to rule out the possibility of other internal injuries. Poor Alex would have to have his nose packed and set. The doctor said it was a bad break and there was strong possibility they would have to do surgery after the swelling went down.
Vicky had crashed into her world again, stirring it up, unsettling things. Wasn’t it just like her? Poor Vicky! What happened to her? What happened to all of them? This was the last thought Allison had before the narcotic they gave her for pain began to cloud her mind and senses and send her drifting into a much needed sleep.
Chapter 33
Vicky
“Vicky, we’re going to ask you some questions. Okay?”
“Okay,” Vicky said. She knew it was her voice answering the pretty blonde nurse with marble blue eyes, but it didn’t sound like her own voice. It sounded tremulous and faint, like a scared mouse trying to squeak but unable to get the noise out. She wanted to tell the nurse she knew about these questions, they’d been asked of her before, about ten months ago when she was last hospitalized. She wanted to tell her that, just for the sake of small talk, just because chit-chat had always been a comfort to her, always eased the disquiet inside her mind and helped her forget about herself. But Vicky couldn’t make chit-chat right now. The utterance of words was too difficult. Her vocal chords, right along with the rest of her insides, were shaking beyond control.
“First question,” said the nurse. “When was your last drink?”
“I…d-d-don’t remember,” Vicky said, the words straining through the earthquake in her larynx. The pretty blond nurse with the blue marble eyes said something to the nurse standing at her side, an overweight young woman with greasy brown hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail. It seemed from this second nurse’s tentative and uncertain way that she was some sort of nurse in training under the tutelage of the pretty blond. She heard the blond nurse say something about Vicky’s blood alcohol level when she was admitted, something about it being high for a normal person but not necessarily for someon
e like Vicky, something about bracing herself for what could happen the closer the BAL gets to zero. Something about contusions and injuries from the accident and how that will complicate things even more.
“You had something to drink before your accident. Do you remember?” the nurse said in a too loud voice with a patronizing tone as if she was speaking to a naughty child. Vicky wanted to tell her she didn’t have to yell, that she wasn’t deaf and she wasn’t retarded.
“Yes, be-fore the accident. S-s-see, you knew the answer. You d-d-didn’t need to ask m-me.”
The blond nurse said something to the overweight nurse. Vicky caught the word “agitated.”
“I c-can hear b-better than you think I c-c-can.”
“All right then,” she said with a condescending little chuckle. “Let’s just move on to this next set of questions. All right, answer these questions on a scale from zero to seven. Zero being not a problem at all and seven being the worst possible. Are you ready?”
Vicky nodded her head and squeaked out something in the affirmative to indicate she understood. “Now this first question I might be able to answer for you too,” she said with her annoying little chuckle and that sickly sweet, pseudo concern. She gave Vicky a reassuring pat on her arm. Her fingers were cold. She remembered the cold fingers taking her pulse before. She was liking Blondie less and less and she would have given her a piece of her mind had she not felt so bad.
“Now I know you had some nausea and vomiting since you were admitted.”
“Why d-d-don’t you just take the f-f-fucking test for me.”
“It’s all right, Vicky.” Tap, tap went the cold fingers on Vicky’s arm. “Do you feel sick to your stomach now? Zero being no nausea.”
“If I stay here w-w-with y-you l-long enough, I’m sure I’ll v-v-vomit again.”
How does one explain that everything from the inside out felt dizzy, scary, shaky, and sickening? The nurse looked less pretty to her than she did when Vicky first saw her. When she moved closer to Vicky she looked a little distorted, like the way someone looks through the peep hole of a door. “Are your eyes r-r-really that b-b-blue?” Vicky asked, backing off from her, feeling a little horror from those startlingly blue eyes.
“You’ve discovered my secret,” she said cheerfully. “I’m wearing tinted contacts.”
Vicky thought how she looked a little like one of the pod people from some B horror movie she’d seen once–all aliens with abnormally colored eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail too. Just like the fat, scared, dirty-haired brunette nurse. It hurt Vicky’s head to see that hair pulled back so tight. It made her look mean, like a wet rat with its fur slicked and its mean little features twitching and inhuman. Blondie was quickly evolving from annoying to downright sinister right before Vicky’s eyes.
“Back to the question,” Blondie said, the tone and cadence of her voice insincere and supercilious in all its’ nasally shrillness. “Do you feel sick to your stomach?”
“I feel s-s-sick all over,” Vicky blurted out. She began crying, then sat up and tried to get out of bed. “Just l-l-let me g-g-go. I have to g-g-get out of here. I have to move. Get th-this thing off of me! I’m plugged into the f-f-fucking wall.” Vicky yanked at her IV tube.
Suddenly there was an entourage of hospital staff in the room. “Vicky, Vicky,” they were all saying and too many hands were touching her and it felt like pin pricks. An authoritative female voice rose above the rest.
“It’s all right. Let her move if she needs to move,” then turning to Vicky, a kindly looking, middle aged woman with a nondescript face but a reassuring voice, said. “Would it help if you walked back and forth?”
“You mean p-p-pace? It’s always helped me to pace.”
“Would you mind if I pace with you?” She actually waited for her to answer and Vicky was beginning to believe she had found a friend. Vicky nodded. “I’ll walk with you and help you with this apparatus here.” She wheeled the IV along as she walked with Vicky. She put her hand on Vicky’s shoulder. Her hand set something to crawling up and down Vicky’s arm and she flinched and pulled away from the kind woman’s touch.
“I’m s-s-sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m sure your skin does feel a little sensitive right now. Is it burning, itching, or pins and needles?”
“All of the above,” Vicky said trying to shake off the sensation. I d-d-don’t got no b-b-bugs on me, d-d-do I? I mean, I know I g-g-got no bugs on m-m-me? That’s c-c-crazzy. I d-d-don’t got no b-b-bugs on me, d-d-do I?” Vicky said examining her arm.
“Does it look like they’re bugs on you?”
“No, b-b-but it feels like it. You d-d-don’t suppose they’re some under my s-s-skin?”
“No, honey, it just feels that way.” Then the kind nurse turned her attention to Blondie and Fatty who were in the corner of the room. Blondie was holding a clipboard with all the questions. “Tactile disturbance–give her a four.”
They got to one end of the small hospital room. The kind older nurse helped her turn around while holding onto the IV pole. “Let me see your hand, Vicky. Hold your hand out for me. That’s it.” Vicky obeyed like a frightened little child as she raised a clutching claw like hand. She thought of the man with the withered hand in the Bible, the one that Jesus cured. She didn’t know why. She looked at the shaking little claw and thought how useless and unproductive her hands had been for so long.
“Open your hand and spread your fingers out for me,” the nurse said. Vicky obeyed though with great difficulty. Her fingers felt so stiff and she felt strangely ashamed to have someone observe her hand so closely. As if someone could see all the bad deeds spent and all the good deeds wasted with that, her dominant right hand, which she now held out with fingers extended for all to see.
“I’m s-s-sorry I’m s-s-so sh-shaky,” she said trying futilely to make her hand obey her silent signals and commands to hold still. “It’s p-p-pretty b-b-bad, isn’t it?”
The nurse smiled and nodded. “The shakes don’t get much worse than what you’ve got right now. Give her a seven under tremors and a five under sweats,” she said to Blondie and Fatty.
“M-m-maybe if I do this,” Vicky said holding her forearm with her other hand in a useless attempt to stop the shaking.
“It’s all right, that shakiness is your central nervous system’s reaction to no alcohol. You’re sweating pretty profusely too. Would a damp wash cloth help you feel better?” Vicky nodded and the kind nurse gave an order to Fatty to get a damp washcloth.
“What about nausea? You were pretty sick when you left the emergency room. Do you feel sick to your stomach again?”
“B-b-before you brought it up, I was okay, but n-n-now that you’re ask-askin’ me to think about it… I d-d-don’t w-w-want to think about it. I’m t-tired of p-puking. I d-don’t want to puke again b-but now you got me thinkin’ about it. Why did you have to b-b-bring it up?” A wave of nausea hit her as she tried to assess just how nauseous she was. She began dry heaving. She was handed a pale yellow plastic dish. As she coughed and vomited up water and mucous the kind nurse patted her forehead and the back of her neck with the damp cloth. She held up four fingers to Fatty and Blondie, signaling Vicky’s score under the nausea and vomiting category.
“Please t-t-take this,” Vicky said handing the nurse the pale yellow dish. She wanted to throw the yellow dish across the room. She wanted to scream and throw a tantrum. Tears and snot ran down her face. The nurse blotted her cheeks and wiped her nose with the damp cloth. “I’m okay now? C-c-can we walk again. I n-n-need to w-walk.” They resumed their short pace from one end of the hospital room to the other.
“Do you feel nervous?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Just from observing I’d say on a scale from zero to seven, you’re a five or a six. Does that sound right?” Vicky nodded. “Do you feel panicky?”
“I’m just s-s-scared, real s-scared.”
“Give her a six under anxiety.”
“Why do you n-n-need to ask me all these questions? And why z-z-zero to s-seven? Why seven? It’s an odd number. Who the h-h-hell ever heard of a f-f-fucking scale from zero to seven? Who c-c-came up with this s-s-stupid ass s-survey for dr-drunks anyway?”
“I don’t know,” the nurse said with a curious chuckle. “I’ve often wondered that myself.”
“Seven is supposed to be the n-n-number for p-p-perfection in the b-b-bible. That’s w-w-what m-m-my g-grandma t-t-told me.”
“I believe you’re right,” said the kind nurse as they turned around, the two of them along with the IV pole, making their trek back to the other side of the room.
“S-so if I score a s-sev-ven on every q-q-question d-d-does that make m-m-me a p-p-perfect d-drunk?”
The nurse laughed out loud. “How you can still have a sense of humor is beyond me. You hang onto that, honey. You hang onto that.”
“Hang onto that. I’ll hang onto that,” she said clutching the nurse’s arm as if it was some concrete representation of her sense of humor. “I’m hurting you. I don’t mean to hurt you,” she said releasing her grip. Did I br-break your arm? It felt like I broke your arm just then when I grabbed you. I d-don’t know my own strength. Sorry.”
“You didn’t hurt me Vicky. I’m a tough old bird. If it helps you to squeeze my arm, go ahead. Hang in there! Just a few more questions then we’ll be able to give you some medication. The questions help us to know just how much medication you need. We don’t want to give you too much or too little.
“I just wanna drink. I just wanna f-f-fucking d-drink. It’s all I c-c-can think about right n-n-now,” Vicky blurted out in tears of desperation.
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