“What . . .” I pause, not entirely sure I want to know the answer. “What happened?”
They both take in a deep breath at the same time. Exchange a glance like they’re deciding who will be the one to answer me. My mom looks from me to my dad and back again. He clears his throat.
“You were in an accident, sweetheart.”
“What . . .” I try to ignore the pain in my throat and the tremor in my voice. “What accident? Why am I . . .”
I look down at myself—at the bracelet with my name printed on it around my wrist, the tubes and wires taped to the inside of my arms. The gown that hides my broken ribs and who knows what else on this body that doesn’t even feel like mine.
“What happened to me?” I ask again, but now my voice is almost a whisper.
My mom presses her lips together, steps toward the bed, and takes my hand in both of hers. Her bottom lip quivers, and she bites it, her eyes welling up. It feels like my fault that she’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry . . .” Now it’s me who’s blinking back tears, because it doesn’t seem like I should have to ask her that question. I should know the answer because it’s me, lying here. How could I not know what happened to my own body? I search my brain for some feeling or clue, but there’s only a heavy absence. The static hiss of nothing.
My dad wraps his big hand around mine and pauses, looking almost sorry for what he’s about to say. “You were in a car accident, Liv.” His voice is calm, even, like always. It doesn’t match the emotion in his eyes. He clears his throat and glances at my mom, who wipes at her cheek. “You were hit by another driver on the Carson Bridge, and your car went over—”
“My car?”
I feel like I’m playing catch-up, trying to fit his words into a story that makes sense, but none of them feel like they belong to me, and I know I’m missing something, because I don’t have a car.
“The Toyota,” he says, like I should know what he’s talking about. “It went over, and into the bay. In fact it’s still—”
“Bruce,” my mom interrupts. Stop, her eyes tell him.
He nods, just barely. Takes a deep breath, and smiles a weary-looking smile at me. “Anyway. It was pretty serious, kiddo. They had to keep you asleep for a little while to give your body some time to rest.”
“Asleep? Like a coma?”
My mom looks startled by the word.
“Not a coma,” my dad says. “More like what they do when they perform surgery. So you wouldn’t feel any pain.” He pauses, glancing at my mom, whose fist is balled up in front of her mouth. Then he looks back at me. “You aspirated a lot of water that had to be suctioned out of your lungs, so they put a breathing tube in to give them time to heal.”
I feel the sudden need to take a deep breath, but I don’t dare, for the pain. “How long?” I ask.
I’m scared of the answer. The way they’re acting seems like it must’ve been months. The way they look, it seems like it could be years.
“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 . . .