The Secret History of Us

by Jessi Kirby

“Eight days,” my dad says, and I feel the tiniest bit of relief, even though this seems to set off more tears from my mom.

  “We’ve been here every day,” she says.

  Dad reaches out his hand for hers, and when she takes it, he pulls her in to his side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “It was scary, but we knew you were gonna be okay, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we did,” my mom says, her voice thick with tears.

  She’s so upset, I’m not sure I believe her. And then it hits me. My stomach drops. “Where’s Sam? Was he driving?”

  I see a look pass between my parents. “No,” my dad answers slowly. “Your brother’s on his way back from his backpacking trip. We couldn’t reach him for a few days after the accident, and when we finally did, he was still pretty far out. He’s been making his way back as fast as he can.”

  Relief washes over me, and I’m about to go back to asking about the car again, and who was driving, and what exactly happened, but there’s a voice, muffled at first, coming from the hallway. It gets louder and closer, and I recognize it as the nurse, Betina.

  “I told you, miss, you are not allowed in this wing. I don’t care what news channel you work for, this is a hospital and she is a patient, and security is on their way right now to remove you.”

  “I just need a few minutes,” another female voice says. “Even with just her parents. One parent—or you could give me an update.”

  “Absolutely not,” Betina says.

  “But people are worried. They want to know how she’s doing. There is national interest in this story—”

  My dad is up from his chair and across the room before she can say anything else. My mom squeezes my hand, then stands and moves between my bed and the doorway, shielding me from who, or what, I have no idea.

  “Who’s that?” I ask. I try again to sit up straighter, crane my neck a little to see, but the pain forces me right back down. I try to breathe it away, but that hurts too.

  “It’s no one,” my mom says over her shoulder, like I can’t see or hear that there is someone.

  My dad stands squarely in the doorway, his wide shoulders blocking it. “You need to leave now,” he says in the practiced calm that I’ve always thought of as his police officer voice.

  There is the sound of boots in the hallway, radios.

  “Officer Jordan, please. Just a few questions,” the woman says. Or girl. She sounds young. And desperate. “She’s awake, right? What’s her condition? Is she speaking? Coherent?” There’s a shuffle, muffled voices. Something falls to the floor. And then I hear her voice again, farther away now, like she’s being led down the hall. “Does she know what a miracle she—”

  A door slams, and I don’t hear the rest of the question.

  My parents look at each other before they turn to me, their eyes wide with concern, and something else I don’t recognize.

  A lump rises in my throat, and I feel my eyes well up again. I am so confused. I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life, or like I’m in a bad dream, or . . . I can’t even put it into a clear thought, because there’s just this awful heavy emptiness when I try.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  THREE

  LATER. I DON’T know how much. But my room is still, and I am alone.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness when I wake, and then a few more after that for me to remember where I am and why I’m here.

  Hospital, accident, trauma . . .

  I run through the words in my mind. Try to use them to ground me here, now. They still don’t sound like words that belong to me. I move to sit up, but the stab of pain in my core stops me. Broken ribs. Those belong to me. Those are too real.

  I reach for the call button like the nurse showed me to do if I hurt too much, but my fingers hover in the air above it, trembling. I close my eyes and wait for the pain to subside, try to keep my breaths shallow and fight through it. I don’t want the dull, drowsy feeling the medication brings as it replaces the pain. Actually, I almost don’t want the pain to go away. I almost need to feel it to remind me that this is real, and that something happened to me. Something I can’t remember and still don’t know all the details of.

  I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask any more questions, because the nurse came in with a list of things for me to do: swallow some water, keep it down, get out of bed. Move. Walk. At first I thought it was funny how she’d made it sound like she was asking a lot of me, and how nervous it’d made my parents. Like doing those things would be a big deal.

  Then I tried the first thing on her list—to drink some water. And I understood.

  Little things become big things when your body has been broken. And the big things are a struggle. Like the physical act of swallowing a tiny sip of water after having a ventilator tube in your throat for days. Or fighting the immediate wave of nausea it sets off. Or lowering your feet to the floor and trusting that somehow your legs will still be able to hold you up.

  I’d done these things, and my parents had watched, murmuring words of encouragement. When I’d swallowed the water, and kept it down, they’d looked relieved. When I’d gotten out of bed, stood on shaky legs, and taken a few steps to the bathroom with their help, they’d all congratulated me like I was crossing a finish line. It had taken everything out of me—more than I’d realized it would, but they told me over and over how strong I was, and I’d tried my best to believe them.

  Here, now, alone in the dark, I want to try to do more. I tell myself I’m strong, and that there are things I need to know. I tell my brain that maybe it doesn’t need to protect me so much from all those things. That it’s okay for me to remember the details of what happened. That I need to remember them, because I don’t feel like myself right now.

  I close my eyes and concentrate. Wait for something, anything to come to me, but my mind is as dark as the night sky. I scan the darkness, wait another moment. Hope for an image to streak across it like a shooting star, but there’s nothing. Not even a pinpoint of light.

  It’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever felt.

  I’m on my own for this. Alone inside myself. Across the room, a shiny balloon sways in the artificial breeze beneath a vent in the ceiling. My eyes follow the ribbon down to the table, where it’s anchored. It’s covered with bouquets of flowers with their tiny notes stuck into them, cards propped up in the spaces between their vases. Get Well wishes for me from people who know more about what happened to me than I do.

  I move slowly this time, anticipating the pain that will come with what I’m going to do. I tell myself I can do this, and acknowledge the pain in my rib cage—my new companion everywhere I go. After a moment, I’m sitting upright. A little thing that’s now a big thing. Next, I slide my legs to the edge of the bed, like Betina showed me, and carefully lower them, inch by inch, until my toes brush the floor. When they do, I’m glad for the grippy socks she’d put on my feet—lifesaving socks, she’d called them with a laugh. The floor shines slick in the light from the hall, and now that I have to do this without her help, I think I understand what she meant. It makes me nervous.

  I test my weight, first on one foot, then the other, and once both feet are pressed flat to the ground, rubber pads sticking to the floor, I edge myself off the bed. The IV pole has to come with me, so I loop the tubes over my arm like she showed me. With one hand on the stand and the other trailing on the bed for balance, I move toward the end of the bed, where I’ll have to let go for a moment to cross the small distance to the table that holds flowers and stuffed animals and balloons and Get Well cards.

  At the end of the bed, I take a breath—not too deep—before I let go and step away. My ribs and the muscles around them protest against the extra work it takes them to help me walk the three steps to the table. I have to rest a moment when I reach it, but it’s a proud moment.

  I made it. And somewhere, in the flowers and cards in front of me, there will be something that helps me re
member. I look at the bright bouquet of pink and white roses directly in front of me and take the little card from its plastic spear.

  Dear Olivia and Jordan family,

  Our thoughts and prayers are with you for a full recovery. Please let us know if you need anything at all. We’re just a doorstep away.

  All our love,

  Carol and Roger

  I smile. The Abifadels. They’ve always been my favorite neighbors because they’re like grandparents to everyone on our cul-de-sac. Everyone calls them Mr. and Mrs. A for short. She always has a treat and a joke for whatever kids are around, and he cooks for an army every Sunday—all sorts of Middle Eastern dishes—then sends them around to all the neighbors. I look around, half expecting to see some gift of food from them too, and then I remember that I’ve been on a feeding tube for over a week. They probably knew that, and I bet they’ve been trying to feed my parents instead.

  I glance at another bouquet; this one is a huge bunch of some happy red flowers whose name I don’t know. I pluck the card that’s tucked down among them. The writing is messy, and I don’t recognize it.

  Liv,

  Your favorites, for when you wake up.

  Love you

  I turn the card over, but there’s no signature. I look at the red flowers again, and the words stick in my head. My favorites? I’m not even sure I have a favorite flower, but this person seems to think so. I look from the flowers to the card, and back again, hoping for some spark of recognition. The Love you makes it seem like I should know, but nothing comes. I give the flowers one last glance, then put the card back carefully and decide to come back to it.

  I move to the next flower arrangement, which Betina had brought in earlier in the evening. It’s a huge mixed bouquet with a big bunch of shiny balloons attached, and an unopened envelope. I say a silent thank-you to her for allowing me the privilege of opening it myself, now that I’m awake. Inside the envelope is not a card, but a note card, with the letters of our local news station printed across the top. I feel the pinch of my inhale in my ribs as I pull it out and read:

  Dear Olivia,

  We here at KBSY are so very happy to hear you’re awake—as are many people all across the country! Since your story broke, people have been following with great interest, and cards and well-wishes continue to pour in. I thought you should know just how many people care about your recovery, so I’ve packaged them all up and will be sending them along soon.

  In the meantime, we all wish you a speedy recovery. I hope that when you’re well, you’ll help me bring your miraculous story to all the wonderfully caring people who have been following along. I’ve already spoken to Matt and Walker about interviewing the three of you, and they seemed open to it, so please contact me once you’re on the mend!

  Sincerely,

  Dana Whitmore

  KBSY6

  Action News

  I stare at the card. At the loopy handwriting, and the words, and the phone number written at the bottom. And then I read it over, once, twice, three times, trying to pull meaning from words and names I don’t have any reference for. Since my story broke? People all over the country? Matt and Walker?

  A cold knot of fear coils in my stomach, and I feel dizzy. Sick, and lost, and like I want to cry because apparently the whole world knows what happened to me, and I still have no idea. How could my parents not have told me everything? What else don’t I know? What else are they protecting me from?

  I start to put the card back in its stand, and something else catches my eye. It’s a few more steps to the brown leather bag that’s sitting at the end of the table, but I’m so happy to see it there, I pad over without even thinking. Pain spirals through my center, and when I get to my camera bag, I force myself to be still a moment and breathe until the pain subsides enough for me to open up the bag. When I see my camera nestled there, safe and sound, it sets off a wave of tears that comes from out of nowhere. I steady myself with one hand as tears roll hot down my cheeks, and I realize I’m relieved at seeing something I recognize, something I know is mine. I hadn’t thought about my camera when they’d told me about the accident, but seeing it makes me so grateful that it wasn’t in the car with me. I silently thank my mom, or dad, or whoever it was who thought to bring it to me here.

  I reach to lift it out of the case, just to feel the familiar weight of it in my hands, but a flash of movement draws my attention. It’s in the mirror, just beyond the bathroom door. The mirror I’ve forgotten about until just now. Earlier, when Betina had helped me to the bathroom, I’d noticed it was there, behind her. I’d even wondered if she’d purposely put herself in front of it to protect me from seeing something I wasn’t ready for.

  Part of me had wanted to ask if I could look at myself, but I’d felt embarrassed, like there were bigger things I should be worrying about. Plus, I wasn’t sure I could handle what I might see, so I’d kept quiet about it. Promised myself I’d look later, once everyone had gone and I could be alone.

  And now I am.

  I’m scared, but there’s no way I can not look. I take a shallow breath and inch my way toward the bathroom, just until I can see someone looking back at me.

  I gasp. The mirror doesn’t protect me from anything.

  Even in the dim light of my room, the cold, hard square of glass thrusts me into a reality I’m not ready for.

  My face is battered, bruised in shades ranging from deep purple to sickly yellowish green. My lips are cracked and dry, my mouth split at the corners. Someone has braided my hair, which might have been pretty at some point, but the dull brown hair is too matted down to tell. I reach up, run my hands over it, and find the shock of a bare spot, hair growing back over stitches in spikes, unfamiliar and foreign. I look at my eyes, search for some familiarity there, but the eyes that look back at me are so watery and swollen, they look years older than they should.

  The girl in the mirror blinks when I blink. She brings her hand to her face when I do. She even shakes her head at the same time I do.

  But I don’t know this girl in the mirror. I don’t know her at all.

  FOUR

  IT’S LIGHT WHEN I wake again. I lie there on my back, staring at the ceiling tiles, and run through the list of words that make up my new reality. Accident, coma, trauma . . .

  Now that I’ve seen what I look like, I add broken, bruised—unrecognizable.

  There’s a soft knock on the door, and when I turn my head, I see a new face. It belongs to a girl dressed in bright pink scrubs, even younger-looking than Betina.

  “You’re awake,” she says with a bright smile. She comes in carrying a bouquet of flowers.

  I move to sit up, but the pain in my ribs stops me short. I wince.

  “Oh no,” she says, setting the things down on my bedside table, “let me help you with that.” She grabs the bed control and pushes the button to raise the head end. I brace myself as she brings me slowly to a reclined position.

  “Are you okay like this?” she asks.

  I look at her and think for a second about telling her that nothing about me is okay, but her smile is so kind that I just nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” she says. “I’m Lauren.”

  “Are you the daytime nurse?”

  “One day, I hope. Right now I’m a hospital volunteer.” She smiles again. Motions at the flowers. “These came for you this morning. Aren’t they pretty?”

  I look at the sunflowers in their mason jar vase. “They are.” My throat feels a little better today, but I’m not much in the mood to make small talk.

  It’s quiet a moment.

  “Your mom’s here, by the way. She’s down the hall talking to the nurse, but she should be right in.”

  “Thank you,” I say, hoping that’s all, and that she’ll leave.

  But she lingers a moment, looking almost shy. “I, um, I just wanted to say that it’s pretty incredible, how strong you are. I mean, I saw what happened, and it was—”

>   “You were there?” Suddenly I do want to talk to her.

  She looks startled. “Oh. No, I mean I saw the video of—”

  “Good morning, sweet girl,” my mom singsongs as she comes through the doorway. She walks over to the bed and gives me a kiss on the forehead, and before I have a chance to ask Lauren what video she was talking about, she’s disappeared out the doorway.

  I look at my mom. “Was there a video of my accident?”

  The smile tumbles from her face and she blinks twice before answering. “That’s not something you—” She stops, her eyes darting out the window.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Something out there has caught her eye. She goes over to the window, presses her lips together, and sighs at whatever is out there, then takes out her phone and punches the screen.

  “Bruce?” she says, almost immediately. “That woman is here again, parked outside with her van and camera crew.” There’s a pause. “No. I haven’t seen her come in.” She looks at me. “Liv, honey? Has anyone come in to try and talk to you this morning?”

  I shake my head.

  “No,” she says into the phone. “Okay. Thank you. Love you.” She hangs up.

  “Who’s out there?” I strain a little to try to see past her. I wonder if it’s the same reporter from yesterday. Dana Whitmore, maybe?

  “No one you need to worry about right now,” my mom says. “Your dad’s taking care of it.” She turns and looks out the window again, and twists the blinds closed. Tight.

  Then she turns to me, smooths her face into a smile, and comes back to my bedside. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s not how I meant to come in. Let’s start over again.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Runs a soft hand over my forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  I look at my mom. Really look at her, for the first time since I’ve woken up. She’s wearing a tank top and khaki shorts—her standard teacher-on-summer-break uniform. She looks tired. There are bags under her eyes, and more lines at the corners of them than I’ve ever seen. I feel a twinge of guilt knowing that she probably hasn’t slept a full night since the accident, and it’s enough to make me set aside my questions for now. She needs a simple answer.