by R. L. Stine
Morty is a big white sheepdog mix. My parents gave him to me for my birthday. He goes everywhere we go. He thinks he’s a little puppy. He’s always jumping on me and slobbering his tongue over my face.
I finally pushed him back. I wiped my cheeks with the sleeve of my top.
“I’m very disappointed in you,” Mom said from the front passenger seat without turning around.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. I could feel my anger grow. I had a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Following me to Lefty’s was a real invasion.
“I’m not eight years old,” I said.
“Then don’t act it.” Mom still didn’t turn around. She’s very soft-spoken. And she doesn’t like scenes.
I’m the one in the family with the hot temper.
Dad pulled the car away from the curb. He still hadn’t said a word. He squealed into a turn onto Park Drive and headed for home. We live on the Village Road, about half a mile from the salon where Mom is a hairdresser.
“Slow down, Jimmy,” Mom told him.
“Don’t tell me how to drive,” he snapped.
Now we were all snapping at each other. My fault, right?
I heard a pattering sound and saw that it had started to rain. Raindrops sparkled on the windshield in the light from an oncoming car.
“Slow down,” Mom repeated, through gritted teeth. “The road is slippery.”
“Lisa, we have to be able to trust you,” Dad said.
“You can trust me,” I said. “You had no right to—”
“How can we trust you when you lied to us and sneaked out of the house?” Dad said.
“I shouldn’t have to sneak out,” I told him. “Why did I sneak out? Because you’re both impossible. You totally embarrassed me in front of my friends. Did you even think about that?”
“Jimmy, you went through a red light,” Mom said. “Concentrate on your driving. We can have a family discussion when we get home.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “There won’t be any family discussion. I—”
I stopped. And then I screamed: “Turn around! Turn around! I left my phone on the table.” I pounded the back of Dad’s seat. “Turn around!”
Dad spun the wheel. The car swerved.
Mom screamed.
Blinding yellow light blazed across the windshield.
I saw the sparkling raindrops. Like jewels in the bright light.
I felt a hard jolt. It tossed me forward, then back.
I felt the jolt and then heard the crash. An explosion of metal and glass.
In the bright light, I saw Dad’s head snap forward. Saw his forehead slam into the steering wheel.
Still swerving. The car was still moving. The light seemed to be all around us, tossing us like on a bright ocean wave.
I saw Dad’s head snap. And then I heard a crack and knew it was the crack of his skull. I knew it. Knew it.
I heard his skull crack, saw his face split open, saw dark blood rise up like a fountain and then pour down his forehead.
My head jerked to the side. The back door flew open. I heard a powerful rush of wind. I saw Morty leap out.
Morty, come back—
And then the pain hit me. The pain shot down the back of my neck. The pain swept over me. My chest … my legs … my head. Blinding pain.
I’m blind.… No … I’m dead.
The bright light lifted. I sank … sank into a deep blackness.
4.
Then the light returned.
Pale, watery light with dark forms floating across it. Moving blurs. Like gazing into a camera totally out of focus.
I heard a murmur of voices, nearby but too soft to understand any words. I gazed up at the shifting light, struggling to squint away the gauzy curtain that kept me from seeing clearly.
As I blinked and squinted, the pain grew stronger. My head throbbed. I felt a painful throbbing at my temples. I tried to turn my head, but a sharp stab of pain forced me to stop.
“Should I increase it?” A woman’s voice came from somewhere behind me. “It’s already set near maximum.”
It took me so long to realize I was in a bed.
On my back in a hospital bed.
The light billowed and pulsed and began to fade. The tide going out. Evening over the water.
I lay on the shore watching the sunset.
No. That was wrong. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I was on my back, staring up at the circles of light on the ceiling. Yes. I forced myself to focus.
And now I could see the thick orange tube stuck into my wrist. And a narrow window with the blinds half-drawn. My hands at my sides on the white linen sheet.
Ignoring the pain, I turned my head and saw a bed across from me. I gasped as my dad came into focus. Yes. I remembered the accident now. The crash and the shatter of metal and glass and the hard jolt of the collision.
I remembered the accident. And now I stared at my dad in the bed across from me. He went in and out of focus, clear and then a blur. His head—it was slumped forward. Bright red blood poured down his face.
And the steering wheel—
—The shaft of the steering wheel was jammed into his forehead.
The steering wheel poked out of his head. The blood flowed all around it and puddled on the floor.
He didn’t move. He just slumped forward on the bed, with the blood-spattered steering wheel stuck deep in his head.
Where were the nurses? Where were the doctors?
I turned away. I couldn’t bear to watch. And I opened my mouth in a shrill wail of horror. “Help him! Somebody help him!”
5.
My shrill screams made my throat hurt. The room spun crazily around me.
My mother’s face slid into view above me. She appeared even paler than usual, as if her skin was white paper tight against her cheeks.
“Mom?”
She blinked several times. I saw tears form in her eyes. “Lisa? You’re awake? Oh, thank goodness!”
Lifting my head, I saw a gray-haired man in a green lab coat step up behind her. He had a clipboard in one hand. A stethoscope swung on his chest as he moved.
“Dad!” I screamed. “Take care of Dad!”
Neither of them turned around. They narrowed their eyes at me.
I turned my gaze to the bed across from me. “Dad?”
The bed was empty.
Mom placed a hand on my shoulder. “Lisa, why were you screaming?” I saw that her other arm was in a cast inside a blue sling.
“I-I thought I saw Dad,” I stammered. Again, the room started to spin. “In that bed. I saw him so clearly. He was bleeding. I mean, his head was down and blood was pouring … and no one was helping him. No one.”
The gray-haired man edged my mother to the side. He peered down at me with silvery eyes behind black-framed glasses. He had thick, arched eyebrows that looked like fat white caterpillars. “I’m Dr. Martino,” he said. “Lisa, I’m glad you’ve come around so quickly. You’ve been out since last night.”
“I’ve been out?” I glanced at the window. Orange sunlight filled the bottom half. Afternoon sunlight?
“You’ve had a serious concussion,” Dr. Martino said. His breath smelled of coffee. Light reflected on his glasses and hid his eyes. “You may have nightmares and even hallucinations for a while. Your brain had a nasty jolt.”
I shut my eyes. Everything hurt. My whole body. Even my eyelids.
“Hallucinations?” I said. I opened my eyes. “You mean just now when I saw my dad in the bed?”
The doctor nodded. Beside him, Mom let out a sob. She cut it off quickly. She never likes to show emotion. It’s a Scandinavian thing, I think.
“I really thought I saw him,” I said, my throat suddenly tight. “I can’t believe I was hallucinating.”
“We will have to keep you here,” Dr. Martino said. “Perhaps for a week or more. Internal bleeding is something we have to watch for. We need to keep a close watch for that. You may suffer other ha
llucinations. I feel I must warn you.”
I only half-heard his words. He kept fading in and out. His eyebrows seemed to move on their own as if they were alive.
I twisted my head toward Mom. “But—Dad? Where is Dad? Is he okay?”
Mom bit her bottom lip. She took a breath before she replied. “No, Lisa. I’m sorry,” she whispered. “He … he’s not okay.”
PART TWO
6.
I don’t want to describe my week in the hospital. It was a time of boredom and headaches and frustration and pain and tears and bad dreams. The first time I was allowed to walk on my own to the bathroom across the hall, I suddenly saw the floor turn to a swampy green ooze. I felt the sticky-wet gunk on the bottoms of my paper hospital slippers and watched in horror as the hot ooze bubbled quickly up to my ankles.
I began hopping up and down, frantically trying to scrape the green slime off my feet. “It won’t come off! It won’t come off!” I screamed.
I had to be rescued by two nurses, who held me firmly by the elbows and returned me shaking and shuddering to my bed.
“Am I always going to be crazy?” I asked one of them, a tall black woman who was strong enough to lift me off my feet and onto the bed.
“We’re all a little crazy,” she said. She had a surprisingly high, soft voice. “You’re going to be fine. Give it time.”
I wasn’t sure I believed her.
I had nothing but time in the hospital, time to stare up at the ceiling and think about my dad. Mom rented me a television over my bed. But the only time I turned it on, it was a commercial for dog food. I started to sob because Morty ran from the car and hadn’t been seen since. I switched the TV off and never turned it on again.
Some people sent sympathy cards and some sent get-well cards. My cousins in Vermont sent a huge bouquet of white and yellow lilies. The sharp fragrance of the flowers filled the room, and I started to sneeze. I’m allergic to lilies, I guess. The flowers had to go.
Who cares anyway?
I had a lot of bitter thoughts and a lot of thoughts I couldn’t describe. I guess you’d call them dark.
When I finally was released and sitting in the backseat of an unfamiliar car with Mom at the wheel, everything appeared too bright. I kept my head down, waiting for my eyes to adjust. But they refused, and everything I saw had a blinding glare around it.
“Mom, how can you drive with one hand?” My voice was hoarse, I guess because I hadn’t used it much. I rubbed my right wrist. It ached from where the tube had been inserted. I had a round blue bruise there.
She didn’t answer.
I shielded my eyes with one hand. The sunlight was just too bright for me. I wondered if sunglasses would help. We pulled out of the hospital parking lot and a few seconds later were speeding through the narrow streets of the Old Village.
I should have felt happy. Freedom at last! I was going home. But it was like happy feelings took too much energy. I slumped against the seatback. I felt numb. You know when your foot falls asleep? That’s how my whole self felt.
“Mom, are you okay?”
Still shielding my eyes, I peered out the windshield—and let out a sharp cry as I saw the big, white dog slowly crossing the street. “Mom—stop! Stop the car! Look—it’s Morty.”
The car didn’t slow down. Mom swerved the wheel to the left.
“No—Mom! You’re going to hit him! Mom—stop! Please!”
She jammed her foot on the gas. The car roared forward. I saw the oncoming car. A dark blue SUV with a chrome grille that looked like animal teeth. I heard its horn blare like a siren.
And then the crash tossed me hard against the back of the front seat.
Oh, no! Nooooo! Not again!
I bounced back against my seat. I saw Mom’s head hit the steering wheel. It didn’t bounce up. It stayed down on the wheel, her arms limp at her sides.
A gusher of blood from Mom’s head splashed onto the windshield. The windshield was quickly splattered bright red.
Not again. Not again.
The car began moving again. Slumped over the wheel, Mom didn’t budge. But the car began roaring forward. I couldn’t see out, couldn’t see through the covering of darkening blood over the windshield.
I reached over the seat and grabbed Mom by the shoulders and shook her, shook her hard. “Wake up! Please! Stop the car! You’ve got to stop the car.”
And then her head slowly turned to me. And I saw that it wasn’t Mom. It was my dad, smiling so sweetly at me, Dad with his head split wide open, smiling at me from beyond the grave.
7.
I felt a hard tug and opened my eyes to find Mom shaking me by the shoulders. “Wake up, Lisa. Come on. Wake up.” Her voice was a tense whisper.
I saw the curtains blowing at my bedroom window. Darkness behind them. Still night.
I blinked several times, trying to force away the sight of my dad’s split head.
“Another nightmare,” Mom said, shaking her head. Her blonde hair was matted against one side of her face. She straightened her long nightshirt. Her hands stayed on my shoulders, soothing them now.
I tried to say something, but my throat was still clogged with sleep.
Mom clicked on the blue lamp on my bedside table. I turned away from the sudden bright light. “You’ve been home a week, and you’re still having the nightmares,” she said. “When do you see your doctor next?”
“Dr. Shein? Not sure,” I managed to whisper. I ran both hands back through my hair. My skin was damp from perspiration. “The same nightmare,” I told her. “I was in the car, and I saw Dad again.”
Mom sighed. In the harsh light from my lamp, she suddenly looked a lot older. “Dr. Shein says it will take time, Lisa.”
“But I’m not getting better, Mom. I keep seeing Dad and Morty everywhere.” I pulled myself to a sitting position. My sheets were damp, too, from sweat. I shuddered. “Nightmares and hallucinations. I’m a total crazy person.”
“You know that’s not true. You know this is only temporary. I’m sure that as time passes—”
“Mom, I really think it will help me if I go back to school.”
Mom sighed again. “It’s four in the morning. I know you’ve just had a frightening night. Do you really want to have this discussion now?”
“I don’t want a discussion at all,” I said. “I just want to go back to school. I … I haven’t seen any of my friends. And all because you say I’m not ready.”
“It’s not me,” Mom snapped. “It’s Dr. Shein. She’s the trained psychiatrist. She’s been working with you since the hospital.”
“But, Mom—”
“I think we should listen to her advice, don’t you? I know how frustrated you are. But she feels you have to work out some of your grief, some of your guilty feelings before you can go back to your normal life.”
“Wow. That’s a mouthful, Mom. Have you been practicing that answer all day?”
She took a step back. I could see that I’d hurt her. I didn’t really mean to sound that angry and sarcastic. Where did that come from?
Maybe Dr. Shein was right. Maybe I wasn’t fit to see other people yet.
I’m going to rely on her, I decided. She’s been so wonderful to talk to. I’ll do whatever she thinks best.
“Sorry, Mom,” I blurted out quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Let’s try to get back to sleep,” she said.
* * *
The next day was a cloudy, gray Saturday, gathering storm clouds low in the sky. Outside our front window, the whole world appeared in somber shades of gray, which fit my mood perfectly.
At breakfast, Mom said it was okay for Nate to come over, and he showed up a little after eleven. I greeted him with an awkward hug. I could see he was nervous.
“Hey,” he said. “You look good.”
“Liar.” I had circles around my eyes from so little sleep. And I’d lost at least ten pounds. I just didn’t have any appetite.
We sat down on the
low green leather armchairs across from one another in the den. He kept gazing at me, studying me as if he’d never seen me before. And his right leg kept tapping up and down, like he was really tense.
We’d been texting and we did some video chats, but it was different being in the same room with him. Sure, I was happy to see him. But it was hard to get a conversation started. I felt like someone had built a tall picket fence between us, and we were trying to talk over the fence.
“Sorry about your dad,” Nate said, lowering his eyes to the white carpet.
I should have just said thank you or nodded and kept silent. But I felt a burst of anger. “I can’t talk about it,” I said, my voice cracking. “My dad is dead, and it’s all my fault.”
Nate actually flinched. As if I’d hit him.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
“It isn’t true,” he said finally. “It wasn’t your fault, Lisa. He was driving—not you. He caused the accident. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Ha,” I said bitterly.
The phone rang. I heard Mom hurry to answer it in the kitchen.
I stood up and climbed onto Nate’s lap. I thought maybe if he held me for a while I could lift myself from this dark mood.
Nate put his arms around me. I snuggled my face against his cheek. I could hear Mom talking on the phone.
“Every time it rings, I think it’s someone calling to say they found Morty,” I told Nate. I sighed. “My poor dog. He ran out of the car and just kept running. He was so scared. And now it’d been nearly two weeks.…”
Nate tightened his arms around me. “He’ll turn up, Lisa.”
I shoved his arms away and jumped to my feet. “Give me a break!” I cried. “Stop being so cheerful. What’s your problem, anyway? Can’t you see that my life is over?”
His mouth dropped open.
I shook both fists at my sides. “I killed my father, Nate. How can I live with that?”
He stared up at me from the chair. I could see his eyes dart from side to side. He was thinking hard. He didn’t know how to deal with me.
Who would? I knew I was being impossible but I couldn’t stop myself.
