From A Distance

by L. M. Carr

  “That’s her, isn’t it?” I hear Stacy whisper to Tyler just before the door closes.

  ***

  THREE WEEKS AND four days later, while I sleep soundly in the padded chair beside Tyler’s bed, a grunt startles me, causing my eyes to flash wide open and my body to stand on two wobbly feet. I rub my eyes when I realize Tyler Strong has awakened from his coma.

  His eyes are glassy as he stares in my direction. He’s got a spacy, far-away look as though he’s not actually looking at me but rather looking past me.

  With a quick lick of my tongue, I moisten my lips, preparing to hit him with a barrage of questions, but not a single word manages to escape.

  “W—”

  His words cut short and he blinks slowly. “Wat—”

  He’s thirsty.

  I step out of the room and find a Styrofoam cup to fill with ice chips.

  “Wa—”

  “Here. I pinch an ice chip between my thumb and index finger, sliding the frozen liquid back and forth across his cracked lips. A drip trickles down the crease of his mouth and disappears into his beard. His eyes never stray from mine as I continue the intimate motion.

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” I close my eyes and mentally chastise myself. Of course he isn’t going anywhere, you idiot!

  A doctor and a nurse follow me into the room and check his vitals then run a series of quick tests which include flashing a small light into his eyes to assess his condition. His eyes appear to have more of a blue hue than green. When Dr. Bancroft completes his assessment and releases the hold on the skin above each eye, Tyler’s eyelids remain shut.

  “Did he say anything?”

  I nod. “I think he was trying to say ‘water.’ ”

  “I’m sure he’s parched. Wouldn’t you be?” The doctor smiles, widening his eyes as his eyebrows shoot up. “We don’t want to push him or expect too much just yet. It may take a few more days for him to be fully conscious and able to speak if he can at all.”

  Fear mingled with anxiety lance through me at the idea that Tyler may not be able to speak. What if he doesn’t remember? What if he’s suffered brain damage? What if he can’t give me the answers I seek?

  “We’ll be sure to let his mom know when she comes back.”

  I look at him curiously. “When was she here?”

  “About an hour ago. She didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Me?” I’m dumbfounded. “What do I have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. She said you were talking to him. She said something about not interrupting the intimate moment and that she’d come back later.”

  Intimate moment? She must’ve seen me leaning over his bed, berating him. I had to restrain from ringing his neck because for every question I asked, I got no reply. It was far from intimate.

  Claustrophobia sets in as the walls feel like they’re caving in on me. I struggle for each and every little breath.

  “I have to go.” The words tumble out of my mouth as I grab my bag and race to the door. I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away from here.” A gush of air escapes my lungs as I glance back at Tyler. “Away from him.”

  Tears blur my vision of the evening sky as grey clouds loom overheard. The sky opens up and buckets of rain fall angrily, pelting the roof of my car. I manage to arrive home although I’m on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

  My heart aches, my chest is tight and my lungs beg for air. Pulling into my spot, I blindly search for the button to close the garage door. Only the sound of the rain and the low idling of my car fill the space.

  My arms circle the steering wheel and I cry harder than I have since the day I found out my husband was going to divorce me. Everything hurts. Even the follicles of my hair are sore from being pulled violently. My eyes, swollen and red, are like natural springs, continuing to produce endless streams of water.

  I have a million thoughts running rampantly through my mind, a million questions battle to be asked.

  With shallow breaths shuddering from within my chest, I look around the interior of my car. The time on the dash morphs into one number, the fuzziness becoming a solid speck of illuminated green. My head feels light, my body weightless.

  Fumbling desperately, I find the button and open the garage door. I put the car in reverse, slam my foot down, clip the front quarter panel on the stone wall and back out haphazardly until I am parked in the middle of our upscale suburban cul-de-sac. I stumble out of the car and collapse onto the wet grass. I gasp for air like a fish out of water.

  It’s here where my parents find me.

  “Karrie! Wake up!” I hear my father’s deep voice.

  “Oh, God. Is she okay?”

  The worry tainting their voices is unmistakable.

  My eyes flutter open and strain to focus on his face. “Daddy?”

  “I’m here, baby girl.” I’m lifted up by strong arms, cradled into his chest and carried into my home.

  He sets me down on the leather couch and cups my face. “What happened?”

  “I’m going to call Paul,” my mother says, pressing the screen of her phone. “I want to see what he thinks we should do.”

  I search my brain, trying to remember exactly what led up to the episode which left me on my front lawn. “I couldn’t breathe. I was dizzy.”

  “Have you eaten anything?”

  My silence provides the answer for me.

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  I struggle to sit up, but my dad forces me down with one firm word. “Rest.”

  “Does anything hurt?”

  I nod and point to my chest. “It hurts so bad.” My attempt to refrain from crying fails miserably. “I can’t believe this is my life, Dad. How is this possible?”

  My mother comes into view. “Paul thinks we should take her to the hospital…as a precaution.”

  With careful eyes, my father searches my face, looking for some indication that I need to go.

  “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Dad.” My voice cracks and my chin quivers. “I think I’m going to die of a broken heart.”

  He glances to my mother who quickly wipes her eyes.

  “Let’s get you checked out and then we’ll come home. Okay?”

  What can I say? My parents have always known what was best for me. If I only I had listened to them about Alex, my life wouldn’t be in complete shambles right now.

  “I want to shower first.”

  My mom walks me upstairs and gets me into the shower. Closing the lid on the toilet, she sits and talks to me. I ask about her upcoming trip and she does her best to keep things light. I know what she’s thinking.

  She thinks I tried to kill myself.

  But the truth is my life is trying to kill me.

  After pulling on a pair of yoga pants, long-sleeved shirt and my sneakers, I climb into the back of my dad’s Audi and stare out the window as the night sky passes by. No one utters a single word.

  I’m admitted to a private room for “observation”. My vitals are taken every few hours and a line of IV fluid compensates for my dehydration.

  The weight of someone’s stare rouses me from a tumultuous night of rest.

  “Hi, Karrie. I’m Dr. Mancini. I’m sorry to wake you.”

  My eyes widen and rake over the plainly dressed man standing beside my bed before I glance around the room, looking for my parents who are nowhere to be found. The only evidence of my mother is the black pashmina draped across the plastic chair.

  “Hi. It’s okay. I was just getting up anyway. Don’t want to miss the breakfast buffet.” I reply with a smirk while sitting up quickly and running my fingers through the tangles of brown. The aftermath of arriving last night with wet hair must be quite a sight. I pull the wild mane together at the nape of my neck. My fingers work quickly to divide the strands into thirds as I yank through the knots to form a long braid, securing the end with an elastic fro
m around my wrist.

  “That looks painful,” he grins, teasing me.

  “They’re extensions. I don’t really feel it. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything at all.” I give him a pointed stare.

  He nods once. “So I’ve been asked to come pay you a visit.”

  I blink and lick my lips, preparing to ask the question to which I already know the answer. “Are you a shrink?”

  He hums in confirmation. “Yes, but I prefer psychologist.”

  “Did my mother ask you to come?”

  “She did,” he confirms with a quick nod. “She’s worried about you.”

  I snap my teeth and meet his stare. “I didn’t try to kill myself.”

  “No one said you did.” His voice, although pleasant, is patronizing.

  I roll my eyes. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Do you mind if I sit?” He points to the chair and when I agree, he sits, setting my mom’s wrap on the edge of my bed.

  “You’ve been through a lot in a short amount of time.”

  “Yep,” I answer dryly. “My husband died quite unexpectedly…and he was going to —

  He cocks his head to the side, listening intently.

  I reach for the Styrofoam cup and sip the tepid water.

  “Is what I tell you confidential?”

  “Of course. While you’re not technically a patient of mine, ethics would disagree, so yes.” A comforting smile tugs at his lips.

  Nodding firmly, I announce, “Good, because I think I’m going to explode if I don’t tell someone soon.”

  Given the rising of his thick eyebrows, this man must think I am certifiably insane until his face returns to one of coolness. With gentle encouragement, he tells me to go on.

  “I’m sure my parents told you what happened to my husband, but they don’t know everything.”

  He tips his head once and confirms the situation.

  “Well, a short time after I buried him, I arrived home from work to a strange man waiting for me.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was served with divorce papers. Divorce papers!” I sneer incredulously. “My husband was going to leave me!”

  Even this trained professional can’t hide the shock when his stoic face transforms to one of disbelief.

  Leaning forward to reiterate my point. “That’s not even the worst of it. He changed the beneficiary of his will.”

  As if robbed of his ability to speak, Dr. Mancini sits there cross-legged, stunned, searching to find appeasing words to offer.

  “He named Tyler the sole beneficiary.”

  Finally, he speaks. “Who’s Tyler? His brother or his son?”

  I laugh sardonically. “Neither.”

  “He named a stranger the benefactor of his estate?”

  My eyes roll. “Tyler’s his best friend. He was in the truck the night Alex died.”

  The conversation continues for what seems like forever as I tell him about Tyler’s condition and about my feelings toward him.

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  “Well, it’s true. I do hate him. He conspired to steal everything from me.”

  “And you’re sure about that? Do you have proof or are you speculating?”

  I narrow my eyes in thought, realizing I don’t have proof and I won’t have any answers until I have the chance to talk to Tyler.

  Air whooshes from my lungs in a deep exhale.

  “Please don’t tell anyone, especially my parents.” I smooth my hands over the thin white blanket and reach down for the soft black material. I pull gently at the frayed edges of the wrap as I digest his words.

  “Karrie, I’m bound by confidentiality not to tell anyone…but I think it’s a conversation you might want to have with them when you’re ready.”

  “Let’s talk about what happened last night.”

  I recall the events from the moment I ran away from Tyler’s room to the second I entered the garage.

  “What was I thinking?” I tip my head back on the pillow and look at the lights on the ceiling.

  “You could’ve died from carbon monoxide poisoning had you not had enough sense to open the garage and back out.”

  The thought sends shivers down my spine, goosebumps line my arms.

  He reaches into the front pocket of his button-down shirt and scribbles effortlessly on a pad, lifts the paper by the edge and then rips it off. “Here.”

  I reach for it. “What’s this?”

  “A prescription for Xanax.”

  “Why?” I ask with reservation.

  “What you experienced was an anxiety attack. This should help.”

  “But I don’t typically have anxiety,” I retort, setting the paper down.

  “That may be true, but what you’re going through isn’t exactly ‘typical.’ ”

  The pad is tucked back into his front pocket. I’m grateful he isn’t writing any more prescriptions. I hate to put anything into my body.

  The door opens, my breakfast is carried in on a mauve colored tray and set on the table.

  I thank the young girl who quickly ushers herself out.

  Dr. Mancini stands, reaches into his navy blue dress pants and pulls out his business card. “Here.”

  Tight lips express my skepticism before releasing a quiet sigh. I stare at the card for some time then accept it.

  “Why don’t we set up a time for you to come in and talk?”

  I want to scream and holler that I don’t want to talk to him. I want to tell him that I simply want my old life back, but I don’t. I quietly thank him before he turns and leaves.

  My cell phone rings with a familiar tune. I see Pam’s name on the screen and once again reject the call. It’s the fifth time I’ve rejected her call. I know she wants to help, but I just need to be left alone.

  Wrapping myself in my mother’s pashmina, I am comforted as if her arms cradle me. I close my eyes and don’t reopen them until my parents come back into the room.

  Sympathy and pity spread across their faces.

  “Can we go now?” I ask.

  “As soon as you’re discharged,” my mom says, caressing my face softly.

  My dad steps forward. “We think you should stay with us for a while.”

  They’re still not convinced about last night’s incident.

  “Dad, I promise you. I would never do that. Ever. I love you guys too much to be that selfish.”

  Hours later, I step into the elevator assisted by a parent on each side. My dad presses the button for the lobby, but I reach out and press number five.

  He gives me a questioning look.

  “I need to see Tyler.”

  AFTER FINALLY CONVINCING my parents that I was in fact okay, I hug my mom then my dad before stepping out of the elevator with a promise to call them the second I get home.

  I walk down the hall and press the button. A monotone voice asks who I’m here to visit.

  “Tyler. Tyler Strong.”

  The door clicks and opens. I raise a hand and wave as I pass the nurse’s station.

  Peeking into the window I see Stacy resting on the chair; it’s the same chair I’ve sat in over the past few months since the accident. Debating whether I should go in, I eventually knock softly on the door. With a warm smile, she motions for me to enter. I glance around the room and notice more pictures now line the window sill and fresh flowers fill the tall vase.

  “Hi,” I whisper as I wash my hands at the sink after setting my purse down on the counter. “How’s he doing?”

  “Okay,” she sighs, her eyes drifting back to her son. “He was awake earlier.” I detect hope in her voice.

  “He was? That’s great!” A feeling of euphoria passes through my body.

  And I don’t understand it.

  Not at all.

  Stacy stands and offers her seat, but I decline, choosing to move closer to Tyler’s bed.

  “You look tired. Is everything okay?”

  I nod and admit that it’s been a rough couple
of days, but assure her that I’ll be fine. After all, how much worse could things really get for me?

  “What are the doctors saying?”

  She looks at me. “They’re hopeful. He hasn’t said much. He mumbles incoherently and stares in this direction.”

  “You can touch him. He won’t bite.” She smiles after noticing how my fingers are curled around the metal railing.

  My eyes drag upward toward Tyler’s face. “He could use a haircut. I’ve never seen his hair this long.”

  “Oh, that boy would blow a gasket! Did you know he goes to the barber every ten days?” She rolls her eyes playfully.

  I smile crookedly. “No, I didn’t know that. He sounds kind of high maintenance.”

  “He had a head full of curls when he was little. He would threaten to use a pair of scissors on himself if I didn’t take him for a cut.”

  Unexpected words slip from my lips.

  “I could give him a haircut.”

  “You’re a hair dresser and a nurse?”

  I laugh and shake my head.

  “No, I used to give Alex a trim when he didn’t have time to go to the barber. I could bring the clippers tomorrow.”

  Blue eyes watch me carefully.

  “Oh God! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.” I rub my forehead nervously.

  She stands and runs her fingers through her son’s hair.

  “No, it’s fine. I think he’d like that. He’d like that a lot actually.”

  I tip my chin to the window sill. “What’s with all the pictures?”

  She looks over her shoulder, smiling at the multitude of snapshots. “The doctor said to talk to him about things he’s done, places he’s gone. You know… to remind him he’s got a great life to come back to. He’s always been the kind of person people naturally gravitate toward. So many people love him.”

  A nasty thought surfaces about the number of women who also love him, but I suppress it, wondering why I care. Tyler Strong is nothing to me. Perhaps it’s because if all these women flocked to him, they would’ve flocked to Alex, too. My husband loved being the center of attention.

  “This one,” Stacy says, holding a silver framed photo, “is one of my favorites. My mom and dad adored him.”

  It’s the picture of Tyler leaning forward in between an elderly couple. His boyish smile stretches from ear to ear.