“Carly Conner.” I pause and stare at them and they stare back at me like they want something more. I rattle off her home phone number and address because that’s all I can think to do.
They keep talking. I stop listening. Not on purpose. I just . . . shut off.
Then one word jumps out at me: hospital. I nod. Out of habit, I pull a coat out of the front closet, get my key, lock the door.
But I’m not here.
I’m not living this moment.
It’s just a shell of me walking to the police car, staring straight ahead, feeling nothing. Nothing at all.
I sit in the waiting room, my forearms on my thighs, my head hanging down. There’s a TV in the corner, set to some local news show, droning softly. I can’t hear the words. I don’t care about the words.
I’m alone. Just me and my thoughts.
The two officers were in the hall until a few minutes ago. I heard little snippets of their conversation.
. . . head-on collision . . .
. . . blood-alcohol level point one eight . . .
. . . more than twice legal limit . . .
They’ve left. I don’t know when. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.
I don’t know how bad things are. I don’t know anything about Dad or Carly other than they were both alive when they were brought in. I can only pray that’s still the case now.
When we got here, the officers spoke to someone, a woman, maybe a nurse. She pointed us here. They deposited me in a chair and went out in the hall.
I haven’t seen or heard from anyone since.
Not a nurse or a doctor. I want to go try to find someone to talk to, but I’m afraid to leave this spot in case someone comes to talk to me.
Burying my face in my hands, I try to make sense of things. How can it be that Carly survived a Drau attack only to be in a car crash a few hours later?
How could that happen?
It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.
I need it to make sense.
There’s a commotion in the hall. I lift my head. Carly’s parents come into the room, clutching each other’s hands, clinging to each other. They look old. Really old. As if twenty years have passed instead of the handful of hours since I last saw Mrs. Conner.
I cringe inside.
This is my fault. I could have stopped it.
If I’d driven Carly myself.
If I’d made her call her mom for a ride.
If I’d made her sleep over.
If I’d checked to see if Dad had been drinking.
He said he wouldn’t drink and drive. Promised me. I believed him. I really believed him.
This is on me and I’m never going to be able to forgive myself.
I force myself to my feet, meeting Mrs. Conner’s gaze, expecting . . . I don’t know what. That she’ll scream at me? Hit me? Lose it totally.
She lunges forward. Grabs me. Drags me against her chest, her whole body trembling as she hugs me tight. “They’ll be okay,” she whispers. “We have to believe that. They’ll be okay.” Then she starts sobbing, holding me and sobbing, and all I can do is stand there and stare over her shoulder at the poster for flu vaccines that’s on the wall, because if I do anything else, I’m going to burst into a million tiny specks of nothing.
Pulling back, she studies my face. She’s talking, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. My ears buzz. My head feels like it’s going to explode. For a second, I’m terrified that I’m getting pulled. Then I realize it’s my anxiety taking over my senses. I’m just a bundle of raw nerves.
“What do you know?” she asks. I get that more from focusing on her lips than actually hearing the words.
What do I know? Not much.
“Did you talk to the police?” I ask. Silly question. Of course they talked to the police. How else would they have known to come here?
Mrs. Conner nods. “They phoned us as soon as you gave them Carly’s name. Have you seen a doctor? A nurse? Has anyone said anything?”
I shake my head.
“Did they tell you anything?” I ask.
“Not much at all. A nurse brought us here and they said someone would speak with us as soon as possible. She said Carly’s being sent for a CT scan and it could take a few hours for the results.”
“And an MRI,” Mr. Conner says, his voice gravelly and rough. “They told you nothing about your dad?”
How can he sound so kind? So concerned? Carly’s here. My dad was driving. I don’t know any details of the accident. If the police said, I don’t remember. All I know is what I overheard . . . that alcohol was involved. But here’s Mr. Conner, being so kind.
“Just that he’s alive. And doctors are with him.” I try to remember anything else the nurse said. “That he has two IVs and they need to do tests.”
With her arm around my shoulder, Mrs. Conner steers us both to the chairs opposite the TV. She keeps one arm around me and reaches her other hand across to hold my hand.
“I yelled at her,” she says.
It’s my turn to say, “She’ll be okay,” mostly because I have nothing else I can say.
Carly’s dad shoves his hand in his pocket and jiggles his change. Then he takes his hand out, stalks into the hall, stalks back in, jiggles his change some more.
“Coffee,” Carly’s mom says. Her husband stops pacing and looks at her. “I think we could all use some coffee.”
He nods, his face grim, and heads into the hall. “I’ll see if I can get any more information out of them.”
They keep talking. I stop listening. Not on purpose. I just . . . shut off.
Then one word jumps out at me: hospital. I nod. Out of habit, I pull a coat out of the front closet, get my key, lock the door.
But I’m not here.
I’m not living this moment.
It’s just a shell of me walking to the police car, staring straight ahead, feeling nothing. Nothing at all.
I sit in the waiting room, my forearms on my thighs, my head hanging down. There’s a TV in the corner, set to some local news show, droning softly. I can’t hear the words. I don’t care about the words.
I’m alone. Just me and my thoughts.
The two officers were in the hall until a few minutes ago. I heard little snippets of their conversation.
. . . head-on collision . . .
. . . blood-alcohol level point one eight . . .
. . . more than twice legal limit . . .
They’ve left. I don’t know when. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.
I don’t know how bad things are. I don’t know anything about Dad or Carly other than they were both alive when they were brought in. I can only pray that’s still the case now.
When we got here, the officers spoke to someone, a woman, maybe a nurse. She pointed us here. They deposited me in a chair and went out in the hall.
I haven’t seen or heard from anyone since.
Not a nurse or a doctor. I want to go try to find someone to talk to, but I’m afraid to leave this spot in case someone comes to talk to me.
Burying my face in my hands, I try to make sense of things. How can it be that Carly survived a Drau attack only to be in a car crash a few hours later?
How could that happen?
It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.
I need it to make sense.
There’s a commotion in the hall. I lift my head. Carly’s parents come into the room, clutching each other’s hands, clinging to each other. They look old. Really old. As if twenty years have passed instead of the handful of hours since I last saw Mrs. Conner.
I cringe inside.
This is my fault. I could have stopped it.
If I’d driven Carly myself.
If I’d made her call her mom for a ride.
If I’d made her sleep over.
If I’d checked to see if Dad had been drinking.
He said he wouldn’t drink and drive. Promised me. I believed him. I really believed him.
This is on me and I’m never going to be able to forgive myself.
I force myself to my feet, meeting Mrs. Conner’s gaze, expecting . . . I don’t know what. That she’ll scream at me? Hit me? Lose it totally.
She lunges forward. Grabs me. Drags me against her chest, her whole body trembling as she hugs me tight. “They’ll be okay,” she whispers. “We have to believe that. They’ll be okay.” Then she starts sobbing, holding me and sobbing, and all I can do is stand there and stare over her shoulder at the poster for flu vaccines that’s on the wall, because if I do anything else, I’m going to burst into a million tiny specks of nothing.
Pulling back, she studies my face. She’s talking, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. My ears buzz. My head feels like it’s going to explode. For a second, I’m terrified that I’m getting pulled. Then I realize it’s my anxiety taking over my senses. I’m just a bundle of raw nerves.
“What do you know?” she asks. I get that more from focusing on her lips than actually hearing the words.
What do I know? Not much.
“Did you talk to the police?” I ask. Silly question. Of course they talked to the police. How else would they have known to come here?
Mrs. Conner nods. “They phoned us as soon as you gave them Carly’s name. Have you seen a doctor? A nurse? Has anyone said anything?”
I shake my head.
“Did they tell you anything?” I ask.
“Not much at all. A nurse brought us here and they said someone would speak with us as soon as possible. She said Carly’s being sent for a CT scan and it could take a few hours for the results.”
“And an MRI,” Mr. Conner says, his voice gravelly and rough. “They told you nothing about your dad?”
How can he sound so kind? So concerned? Carly’s here. My dad was driving. I don’t know any details of the accident. If the police said, I don’t remember. All I know is what I overheard . . . that alcohol was involved. But here’s Mr. Conner, being so kind.
“Just that he’s alive. And doctors are with him.” I try to remember anything else the nurse said. “That he has two IVs and they need to do tests.”
With her arm around my shoulder, Mrs. Conner steers us both to the chairs opposite the TV. She keeps one arm around me and reaches her other hand across to hold my hand.
“I yelled at her,” she says.
It’s my turn to say, “She’ll be okay,” mostly because I have nothing else I can say.
Carly’s dad shoves his hand in his pocket and jiggles his change. Then he takes his hand out, stalks into the hall, stalks back in, jiggles his change some more.
“Coffee,” Carly’s mom says. Her husband stops pacing and looks at her. “I think we could all use some coffee.”
He nods, his face grim, and heads into the hall. “I’ll see if I can get any more information out of them.”
