The lightning strike in my head is gone, but tiny ripples of pain still radiate outward from someplace deep inside. I’m scared to open my eyes again, but I want to wake up, I do. I want to wake up and go home, and leave this place, whatever, wherever it is.
I try to relax my eyelids enough to let them flutter open, just a little, bracing for the pain to come flashing through my head again. But this time it doesn’t. I open my eyes a tiny bit more, and now I can see something. I can see the blurred outlines on either side of me—my parents. And I can hear the sudden cry from my mom, and the laugh that escapes from my dad as he leans over me and kisses my forehead.
“There you are,” he says.
For a few seconds, it feels like someone is turning the lights up slowly. And then it happens.
I wake up.
TWO
A YOUNG-LOOKING NURSE gazes at me. “Do you know who these two people are, Olivia?”
The question seems so ridiculous it confuses me for a second. I study my mom, and then my dad, trying to figure out what I could possibly be missing. They both look tired—the lines on their faces are deeper than I’ve ever seen. My mom’s roots are growing out, and my dad’s hair looks like it’s thinned overnight. Even so—they are, without a doubt, my parents. I look back at the nurse.
“My . . . mom and dad?” My voice comes out unsure. An answer like a question.
“She knew us right away,” my mom says, stepping closer and grabbing my hand again. “As soon as she woke up. That’s a good sign, right?”
The nurse nods. “Yes, it is. Everything about today is a good sign. That she woke up so quickly once we turned the meds down, that she knew you right away . . .”
I glance at my parents. That I knew them right away? I don’t understand.
The nurse pauses and turns to me. Smiles like she knows me. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Olivia. I’m Betina. I’ve been helping to take care of you here.”
My name sounds strange when she says it, and I’m not sure how to answer, so I don’t.
This doesn’t seem to bother her, and she turns, addressing my parents instead. “She’s got grit, this one. No doubt. Dr. Tate is in an emergency surgery right now, but as soon as she’s finished, she’ll be up to check on you, and tomorrow we’ll do a full assessment. In the meantime . . .”
She pauses and looks back at me with warm brown eyes. “You just take it easy, sweetie. You made it through the hard part, and you’re here, and awake, and that is all you need to be right now, you got that?”
I nod, wondering what else I would do, and why she’s been taking care of me, but I don’t want to ask any of these things in front of her, so I keep quiet. She smiles at me before looking back at my parents. “Have you two got that?” It’s more like a command than a question, punctuated with a raised eyebrow and a stern look. “Just be here with her.”
My mom—and even my dad—both nod obediently, like this woman who looks too young to be a nurse is the boss of them. It makes me worry, the way they seem so nervous. They seem to need her reassurance, like I’m a broken, fragile thing.
I try to sit up a little taller to show them I’m neither, but a shock of pain zips around my chest when I move. I wince. Lie back down.
“Olivia,” Betina says, in a firm mom-tone, “I mean it when I say take it easy. You have a lot of healing to do yet.”
I bring my hand to the center of my chest. “It hurts . . .” I can’t finish. Can’t tell her that it hurts to move or breathe, because my throat feels too bruised and raw to say so.
She nods. “You have four broken ribs. If the pain gets to be too much, just let me know, and we can give you something more for it.”
I move my hand from my chest up to my throat, hoping she’ll understand that I mean to ask about the burning ache there. She nods again. “You had a breathing tube, so it’s going to feel like you’ve got a bad case of strep throat for a day or two. But don’t worry,” she says. “Mouths heal quickly, and pretty soon you’ll be right back to eating normally.”
I vaguely wonder what I’ll eat until then, but I don’t have the energy to ask. I nod, careful not to move anything besides my head. I don’t know what else may be wrong with me, and I don’t want any more painful surprises.
Betina turns back to my parents.
“And let’s keep the good news to just family and close friends right now. Soon as those media people hear about it, they’ll be circling right back around here like vultures, and that’s the last thing she needs is to have—”
“Of course,” my mom says quickly.
“Media?” I rasp. But no one answers me.
My mom follows Betina across the room, to the doorway. She glances at me, then lowers her voice, but not quite enough. I can still hear her when she says, “What if she asks . . . what do we—I just don’t want to overwhelm her with everything that’s happened . . .”
Betina looks my way and, when she sees I’m listening, doesn’t match my mom’s lowered voice. “Then don’t. But answer her questions, Mrs. Jordan. She’s been through a lot, but your daughter is a strong young woman.” Now she looks back at me. “You remember that, Olivia. You are strong. A fighter. You’ve already shown us all that.”
I’m not sure if it’s the familiar way she speaks to me, or her words, or my parents’ emotion and obvious trust in her, but it makes me feel good when she says this, despite the growing worry and confusion in my head.
“Liv,” I say, surprising all of us. My voice sounds as raw as my throat feels. “My friends call me Liv.” My throat aches, but a complete sentence feels like an accomplishment.
“Liv. Now that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
A smile spreads over her face and lingers in her eyes a moment before she turns on one white-sneakered heel and is gone. I am left in the hospital room with the slow, steady beeping of the monitors on one side of my bed, and my mom and dad on the other. They both smile at me, but their smiles are more tentative than the nurse’s was, like they’re not sure what comes next.
Which makes three of us.
We’re all quiet, and I look around the room, taking in the bright bouquets of flowers that burst from the vases that cover every available surface in the room. Shiny bunches of balloons hover in the corners, and a stuffed bear bigger than me props up a Get Well Soon sign that’s thick with handwriting in all different shades of markers. Cards and posters cover the wall facing me. This can’t all be for me. I don’t even know that many people.
“You didn’t know you were so popular, did you?” my dad says with a laugh.
“So many people have been so kind and thoughtful,” my mom adds.
I feel like I’m in a dream. Or watching a movie.
The sun slants soft through the blinds, and I can feel them watching me, waiting for me to say something, or to ask something. There are a thousand questions running through my mind, swirling around unformed, bumping into each other, needing to be answered, but the simplest one is the one I finally ask out loud, in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like my own.