by J. R. Rain
But… why? I’ve never even gotten a parking ticket.
I sit there in a ball, hugging my knees to my chest, mortified despite being aware I’m dreaming. Onyx prison cells with no doors don’t exist. This has to be in my mind. I keep my head down, hiding behind my long hair.
After what feels like hours, a feeling of lightness comes over me, and my body rises into the air, uncurling to hang limp. My head lolls back, arms draped to the sides, my chest leading the way as I float toward the ceiling.
Instead of pressing into freezing glass-smooth stone, I pass through into a cloud of dark smoke, and the ceiling of my hospital room emerges from the billowing mass. The soft texture of the bed and my gown wraps me in the warm reassurance that I had, in fact, been dreaming of solitary confinement.
A tickle runs down my chin. I grab at it, reflexively trying to kill the bug. Instead of smashed insect on my fingers, I stare at a smear of blood. Oh, shit. Did I hurt myself somehow in my sleep? I swipe a tissue from the nightstand box and dab at my face. Fortunately, there’s not much. By the third tissue, there’s no trace of blood.
Whew. Maybe I had a nosebleed.
People run by outside in a panic, voices chattering about someone coding. I hate hospitals. There’s so much death here. Again, I flick on the television, hoping to drown out the voices in the hallway. Absentmindedly, I trace my fingers around my stomach, noting that I no longer feel like I could eat a whole cow. Guess my brain caught up to the rest of my body telling it that I’m getting nutrition from a needle.
Speaking of which, I’m acutely aware of three slivers of metal jabbed in my arm from the IVs. I wouldn’t call them painful, but they’re almost as irritating as the itching I can’t scratch. Great, another small misery.
I’m not paralyzed, or even mute. Despite my current discomfort, I smile to myself, daydreaming about how awesome it will feel when Tammy and Anthony run into my arms. Having to wait a month or two for that moment is worse than anything else.
But hey, at least I’m alive.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Couple Days
Fullerton detectives show up late the next afternoon and take my statement regarding the attack. Being half-awake and having a heap of trouble concentrating on anything, I get hung up on the whole coyote thing and keep repeating that the animals are innocent. The cops think I’m medicated and loopy, so they start talking slower. To my utter lack of surprise, they have no suspects.
Danny shows up at one in the afternoon. His arrival stirs me out of my shockingly deep sleep. We talk about the kids and Mary Lou for a while. It breaks my heart when he hands me a get well card that the kids made for me, while telling me that Tammy asks every day if ‘Mommy’s coming home tomorrow.’
“Did you hear about the old guy at the end of the hall?” asks Danny.
I shift my eyes to look at him. Another day or two in this brace and I’m going to rip it off myself. “No… what happened? I heard a commotion, but no one’s said anything.”
“This old man six rooms down the hall from here almost died. They found blood all over his pillow. Someone stabbed him in the neck with like an icepick or something and let him bleed out.”
I gasp. “That’s horrible!”
“If he wasn’t already in a hospital, he wouldn’t have made it. They say he lost a lot of blood. Too much to survive, but a transfusion saved him. Then he had a heart attack, but they brought him back from that with those paddle things.”
“Poor bastard. Is he okay?”
Danny nods. “Amazingly enough, yeah. The guy’s over eighty.”
I can’t help but harbor a little guilt that I’m feeling much better. Even the itching has stopped.
Staying awake, however, proves close to impossible. Day falls away to night, at which point my eyes pop open again and won’t close. Danny’s asleep in the chair beside my bed. He stirs a few hours later and goes to the bathroom. When he returns, we talk on and off for a while about a case he’s working. He complains about how obnoxious his client is, like this woman insists on carrying her micro-dog everywhere. Even thinks she’s taking it into the courtroom for the lawsuit.
I laugh.
Danny smiles at me. “You look great, Sam. You don’t even sound like anything happened.”
“Awesome. Maybe I can go home then. Or at least get this medieval thing off my neck.”
He yawns and starts discussing Tammy’s imminent start at preschool, but he zonks out again in mid-sentence. I can’t remember ever being this awake at two in the morning before, even during college. They say messed up things can happen to a person after trauma. One dude woke up from a coma speaking Russian without explanation. At least I’m still using English.
I pass a few hours channel flipping the absolutely awful things on TV in the early morning. Grogginess hits me soon after the sky outside begins to show signs of approaching day. Before I pass out, a different nurse breezes into the room with a pushcart, singing softly to herself in Spanish. She’s middle-aged, probably shorter than me, and on the heavy side.
“Good morning, Mrs. Moon,” says the nurse. “Sorry to bother you so early, but it’s time to change your dressing.”
“Can I get Thousand Island this time?”
She laughs.
Danny stirs, sits up, and yawns.
“Okay, I need to ask you not to move much once I take the brace open, all right?”
I stare at the nurse. “How much longer do I have to wear this contraption?”
“Until the doctor says it’s okay. If you move too much, you make the wound angry and it will take longer to heal.”
“Right.” I sigh at the ceiling.
It takes the woman a few minutes to open screws and clamps, and peel the two halves of heavy plastic away. The rush of cool air on my skin feels amazing.
“Ay Dios Mio!” cries the nurse.
“What?” I look up at her.
She stares in shock at me for a second or two before rushing out the door with the brace in hand, calling for a doctor.
I try not to move my head and shift my gaze to the right, at Danny. “Please tell me I haven’t like grown another eyeball in my neck or something.”
Danny stands and hurries over, leaning on the bed. “Holy shit, Sam…” His fingers brush my shoulder at the base of my neck, and he holds up black thread. “I… all the stitches are out… the thread’s just sitting on top of your skin. There’s a long, jagged mark where they closed the wound, but it’s sealed up.”
Neat. “Wow. Guess that’s why it’s not itching anymore.”
“Uhh, Sam.” He caresses my throat with the backs of his fingers. “Does this hurt?”
“No. It feels wonderful. Keep that up and we’re going to get started on baby number three.”
Most of the color drains from Danny’s face. “There are a lot of red and purple and bruises around it. Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”
“Positive.” I sit up and grab my neck. “What the fuck?”
“That’s one way to put it.” Danny keeps staring at me.
I squeeze and poke at myself, but it doesn’t hurt at all. That night, I distinctly remember feeling like the inside of my throat had been exposed to the wind, but I have no explanation for how in the hell this happened.
“Check my back…” I pull the hospital gown up, exposing myself to Danny. I hit that tree hard. If not my spine, I had to break at least some ribs. “Any bruising there?”
His hand, fiery and warm, presses against my skin, right below the shoulder blade. “No. You look amazing, but you’re a little cold.”
Rapid Spanish approaches outside. I hastily pull the gown back into place as the same nurse enters, all but shoving a Middle Eastern man toward me. He’s early thirties, thick, black hair, and on the fairly handsome end of nerdy.
“Mrs. Moon? I’m Doctor Shah. Nurse Guererra here asked me to have a look at you.”
“Is this going to involve full frontal nudity or just morphine?” I ask, wondering
if he’s going to be invasive or just give me more pain meds.
He chuckles. “Good to see your sense of humor is intact. Might I?”
“Knock yourself out.” I lay back and let the hospital gown drop off my shoulders. He’s a doctor. He’s seen so many boobs he’s probably not even excited by them anymore.
“Oh, my word.” He examines my neck and shoulder, prodding with his finger. “The injury looks like it’s been on the mend for about a month. Does it hurt when I press down?”
“No.”
We repeat this exchange about ten times, until I finally reply, “A little,” when he jabs his finger in hard. Even if I hadn’t been torn open, that prod would’ve been mildly painful. He’s mystified at the stitches having emerged from my skin, still caked with scabbed blood every quarter inch.
“Mrs. Moon, your recovery has progressed remarkably well. Unbelievably, in fact. Are you experiencing anything unusual?”
“I’m a little groggy, and I’d appreciate it if you could turn down the sun a little.”
“It’s painful to look at?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
At the doctor’s gesture, Nurse Guererra hurries over to the window and draws the blinds. He spends a few minutes listening to my heartbeat. I lucked out. This is the first time in my life I had a doctor who didn’t keep his stethoscope in the freezer before the exam. It’s not icy against my skin.
“Your chart indicates you showed signs of bradycardia. The beat’s still on the slow side, but it’s sped up to the slow end of normal.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Quite.” He grasps my throat in both hands, applying light pressure at several points before leaning back. “Everything feels structurally sound, not even any inflammation of your lymph nodes. I’ve never seen anything like this before. The only explanation that makes any sense to me is some kind of massive error of documentation. Your injuries couldn’t have been as severe as indicated upon your admission. It’s astounding that you’re even able to speak at all, much less mere days later.”
“It was dark. Guess I looked worse than I was.”
Danny fidgets.
Doctor Shah scratches his head. “I’m at a loss, Mrs. Moon. You appear to be perfectly healthy. If you don’t mind, I’d like to run an MRI just to double check. If that comes back clean, I don’t see any need to keep you here. You should be able to get by with a basic wound dressing for a week or so. You’ll need to keep it dry, and your husband can redress it once a day. We’ll make sure he knows how to do that before you leave.”
I grin like a little kid offered cake. “Awesome. I’m dying to get home and be with my kids. No more brace, right?”
“Nope. Doesn’t seem to be any need for it now.”
“Wonderful. Those things violate the Geneva Convention.” I roll my head around, enjoying the ability to move my neck.
“We’ll be back in a little while to bring you to the MRI room,” says the doctor.
“Great. Oh…” I glance at the tube going over my thigh. “Any chance of getting this thing unplugged from my… yeah?”
Doctor Shah nods to the nurse. “I don’t see why not. You certainly don’t seem bedridden. Nurse Guererra will help with that. Let me go set up the scan.”
The woman glances at the collection bag hanging on the side of the bed and gives me a furtive look of alarm. Once the doctor leaves, she pulls the curtain closed around the bed, lifts my gown, and removes the catheter. Now there’s a sensation I never want to experience again. When she gathers the tubing and the bag, my jaw almost drops open. It’s got a small quantity of urine, about what I’d expect from peeing once. I’d been out cold for two days and lying here for two more…
No wonder she’s freaked out. That is a little disturbing.
Danny runs his hand over my neck and shoulder, still with a dumbstruck look on his face. “Umm. I guess we shouldn’t ask questions, but be grateful.”
“Works for me.” I sink back against the pillow. My bones are heavy. All I want to do at the moment is close my eyes and sleep.
His uneasy expression flickers into a grin. “You’re one tough girl. I bet you’ll be back to work in a couple of days.” He pulls me into his arms, hugging me like I’d be gone forever if he let go.
Overwhelmed, I clamp on, sniffling into his shoulder. Maybe I should think about changing jobs, doing something where I have zero chance of being shot at. The memory of lying there, gazing into the stars and thinking my remaining time on this Earth amounted to mere seconds makes me cling for dear life. All those moments that I almost lost: the kids’ first days at school; first time on a bike; sports or ballet or whatever they get into; their first dates… everything I came so close to not being a part of hits me hard. I wind up bawling and stammering apology after apology.
“Hey, hey… Sam.” Danny rocks me side to side. “Stop crying. It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have gone out at night like that.” I shudder with grief at what nearly happened. One thing is clear to me now―nothing matters more than my family. Not my job, not money, not even crime. I don’t know how I got this chance, but every waking second I have left is precious.
Danny eases me back down in bed, and sits there a while stroking my hair and smiling at me. He’s crying too, out of joy. Oh, God, how reckless was I to do that to him? The next thing I know, Danny’s nudging my shoulder. Cloth tight against my neck tells me there’s a bandage over the wound I hadn’t had before.
“Huh what?” I squint at the painfully bright room, raising an arm to shield my eyes.
He hands me a log of aluminum foil that smells of eggs. Okay, a small burrito. He’s got one for himself, and peels it open after sitting in the chair beside me.
“Should I eat? What about the scan?”
“They did that already. You slept through it. The doctor’s a little concerned with your grogginess, but it could be from all the painkillers you’ve been hopped up on.”
I open the egg burrito and take a bite. Ack. Hospital food sucks. I’ve had better tasting plastic. It’s off-putting, but I force myself to eat about half of it before I can’t take any more. The warm egg-cheese-bread mass sits in my gut like a bowling ball in a bucket of acid. Ugh. What’s the phrase? ‘Mistakes were made?’
“Sam?” asks Danny. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I don’t think the stomach was quite ready for solid food. Either that or they scraped that off the road.”
He chuckles, holding his own up. “Mine’s all right.”
I hand him the remainder. “Go on. Don’t waste it. I’m done. Maybe I’ll have some toast later.”
Danny leans closer, taking the burrito. “You feeling sick or feverish?”
“No, just… nauseated.” I lie back and close my eyes again, listening to my stomach groan and complain.
“Mr. Moon?” asks a woman by the door. “The doctor has sent over the discharge paperwork. If your wife is ready to go home, we just need a couple signatures.”
“Rock on.” I do a fist pump.
“Okay,” mumbles Danny around my half-burrito. “Be right there.”
He inhales the last of the breakfast, gives my hand a squeeze, and walks out after the woman in the gray skirt suit. The storm in my gut brews stronger. Only the burn of IV needles outdoes it for discomfort. Sick and tired of the jabbing heat in my arm, I snarl, sit up, and yank the IV lines out, tape and all, barely noticing any pain.
A little trail of blood runs down my arm. Mesmerized by the cherry red against the vanilla white of my skin, I stare, unable to take my eyes off it―until the small hole closes before my eyes.
What? My fingertips probe the area, which isn’t even tender anymore. No hole, no trace that a needle had ever been there before. Oh, this is too weird.
My stomach churns, boiling over.
Shit!
I leap out of bed on sluggish, unresponsive legs, and wobble into the bathroom, collapsing on my knees in front of the toilet. My body lurches onc
e, then again, and the third time I heave, the contents of my stomach splatter all over the bowl. I convulse over and over, my body in full on mutiny that I dared subject it to those disastrous eggs. There’s nothing left inside me to come out, but I can’t stop gagging. It’s almost as if my body is pissed off and trying to punish me.
Right as I expect to see my intestines come flying out of my mouth, the convulsions subside, leaving me draped over the toilet and gasping. Surprisingly, I’m not dripping with sweat even though I ought to be. My heart races, the roar of blood rushing through my head becomes deafening. The smell of the eggs below my nose causes me to heave again.
I recoil from the toilet and avert my face. Yeah, it’ll be a while before I can go anywhere near eggs again. After wiping my face and flushing the toilet, I stagger back to bed with a hand over my wounded gut. Feels like I went three rounds with Chad in an MMA fight and he kept kicking me there.
With a groan, I flop on the bed. Shit. I don’t have any clothes here. They probably cut them off me in the operating room. Screw it. I want to go home so bad I don’t care if I have to wear a hospital gown out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Setting Sunshine
Neither Danny nor the nurse are amused at my declaration that I’ll go naked when they inform us that we can’t take the hospital gown out of the building. Begrudgingly, I wait in the room while Danny runs home to get me something to wear. Again, I wind up passing out so it feels like his absence went by in seconds. I change into jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers, and suffer the mandatory wheelchair to the hospital’s sliding glass doors.
In the short trip from the exit to the curved loading zone where Danny’s BMW waits, both my arms develop a nasty, painful sunburn. I’ve never burned like that before, though I didn’t really ever tan despite my fondness for sunbathing. I’d either get a little darker, or hit lobster red. But feeling like someone lit me on fire is new.
I dive into the car and cringe away from the sunlight slanting across the seat. By the time Danny gets in, the redness has faded, though I’m still sore. Complaining about that will get me stuck back in the hospital, so I keep my trap shut.
