An hour goes by before a nurse enters my room, wearing a kind smile. It doesn’t touch her eyes, though. It’s practiced, artificial compassion.
Still, the presence of another person cuts off my impending breakdown. Tears blur my vision, intensifying helplessness and pain. I’m usually tougher than this.
“Where’s my dad?” I pinch the sheets between my fingers, accordioning the edge.
It helps ward off my burgeoning anxiousness.
“He’s with your doctor. They won’t be long,” she assures. “Do you need anything, sweetheart?”
“Painkillers, please. My head is killing me.
“Oh, of course, let me…” She trails off, checking the clipboard at the foot of my bed.
She flips a few pages, her eyes skimming whatever’s written, and then she whips her phone out, taking pictures of my medical records.
My eyes narrow in confusion…
“I have to pop it all in the system,” she explains.
“Oh… okay.” I try to prop myself higher but give up quickly as searing pain jolts my dislocated shoulder. “Where’s the nurse call button? I can’t find it.”
She rounds the bed and, with another polished smile, bends down, retrieving the missing button from the floor. “Must’ve fallen off when you were moving about.”
Coma patients can do that? I’ve barely moved a muscle since I opened my eyes.
She casts a quick glance at my vitals, and pulls the IV stand closer, fiddling with the flow regulator before adjusting the pillows behind my back.
Dad did it better.
“The pain should go away soon,” she says, her voice stretching like bubble gum. “Just relax.”
My eyes start swimming, my head lolling side to side. I glare at the nurse, fighting the sudden drowsiness, but it hits like a wave. My eyelids droop and hands fall away from the sheets, my accordion fold unfolding…
I can’t lift a single impossibly heavy finger.
“What…?” I murmur, the end of the sentence falling into the same abyss my memories must be trapped in.
◆◆◆
I squint against the fluorescent lights.
Wait… that already happened.
A relieved sigh escapes me at the lack of pain.
Whatever they’re pumping into my veins works miracles. I could go for a run right now… must be morphine.
The brightness in my hospital room still scorches my eyes but adjusting to it takes less time, and seeing my father, sitting in a chair beside me, somehow makes the task easier.
There’s a doctor standing at the foot of my bed. He’s a short man, clad in a white lab coat over a dove-gray suit. A long beard adorns his chin, pinched into a thin ponytail, and held together with a small rubber band.
His stern expression, with both brows almost meeting in the middle, is softened by the round frames of his glasses.
“How are you feeling, Hailey?” he asks, scanning the clipboard in his hand. “Can you remember where you are?”
“In a hospital,” I manage, my voice gruff from all the sleep I’m getting.
I glance out the window. It’s dark… it wasn’t when the nurse stopped by to drug me earlier. My eyes swivel to the clock on the wall: three hours have passed.
“Yes, good.” He nods twice, flicks a page and peers up at me. “I’m Dr. Phillips. I’m a neurologist and I’ve been looking after you since the accident.”
The way he says it rubs me the wrong way. Since the accident… like it’s been a while. I file that piece of information away to ask once he’s done talking.
In a stilted voice, like a kid reading out their book report, he relays the story my dad told me about the accident. That my car was found wrapped around a tree and the authorities believe I swerved to avoid a wild animal—a deer, perhaps—but that doesn’t sound right.
“I thought my tire blew.”
“We can’t be sure at this stage, sunshine,” Dad blurts, glaring at Dr. Phillips. “There are two possible scenarios. The investigation is still ongoing, so it could’ve been the tire, or an animal. The reason isn’t important.”
Maybe not to him.
I’d like to know if it was my fault or not.
“Tire. It had to be,” I say, convinced I’m not in this bed because I forgot Dad’s advice.
He always says it’s safer to hit an animal than yank the wheel. If I remember that now, I would’ve remembered when it happened. Though I’m not so certain I’d have it in me to run over an innocent animal.
A picture of a deer in headlights swims in my head.
It can’t be real, can it? I clearly see big, beady eyes and no way would I have time to stare at an animal long enough to notice its eyes in a crash.
It’s a figment of my imagination.
Or maybe the deer was there. Maybe I couldn’t bring myself to kill it, or swerved on instinct, spinning the wheel to avoid collision, and made things worse.
Neither explanation sounds right. My tires were changed last month.
“I have a few questions,” the doctor continues, clipping the board back to the bed rail. “Your father mentioned you can’t remember the accident. Can you tell me the last thing you do remember?”
Dad pales, his knee bouncing against the floor. The atmosphere turns cold as if a draft breached the room. He knots his fingers in his lap, his lips pinched together, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent. Deeper, somehow.
“Um… I remember leaving college. It was raining as I got behind the wheel.” I narrow my eyes, desperate for details. “My phone rang. I can’t remember who it was, but I pulled over to answer and then… and then—”
“No need to stress, Hailey,” Dr. Phillips interjects gently. “You suffered a heavy blow to your head. There was quite a bit of swelling around your brain. It’s gone down now, but not completely. You might be dizzy, disoriented, and sore for a few days. You’re recovering well, but don’t strain yourself, okay?” He waits for my nod before he continues, “Can you tell me what day it is?”
Remembering the since the accident line, I examine my nails, checking how long they’ve grown—the only indication of passing time that comes to mind.
“I’m not sure. My nails are longer than I normally wear them. I think I’ve been here a while.”
“Clever,” the doctor praises, sending me a tight-lipped smile. “You’ve been in a coma for nine days. What’s your full name and age?”
“Hailey Scarlett Vaughn. I’m eighteen.”
Dad draws a sharp breath, then quickly swallows a pained sound at the back of his throat, eyes shut tight. My blood runs cold as I watch his teeth sink into his bottom lip.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart picking up the pace.
“Hailey.” Dr. Phillips draws my attention. Two lines crease his forehead while my father doubles over, burying his face in both hands. “What month is it?”
“What? Why? What’s happening?”
“Try not to panic. Stay calm and answer the question.”
Not panic? How? Dad looks fucking see-through. His chin wobbles and hands shake as he digs his fists into his eyes.
How am I supposed to stay calm? This doesn’t seem like a standard question. Especially not when coupled with my father’s reaction and the concern lining the doctor’s forehead.
“December,” I clip, anxiety coloring my voice. “Christmas is just around the corner.”
He clears his throat, his heavy gaze idling between Dad and me. “I’m afraid that’s not correct, Hailey. It’s late August, not December.”
The room tilts dangerously, shifting like I’m on a swaying ship deck. My heart plummets, something cold and wet flooding my lungs. I clutch the sheets to anchor myself, but it’s not working.
Silence eats into my brain, even though I know the monitors must be going crazy given the hard throb of my pulse.
August? How’s that—
“I… I don’t get it,” I stammer, finding a voice. “August?”
He nods and I blink, incapable of anything else.
My brain’s slow, but I find my balance while staring at his round glasses.
“But… you said I was out for nine days not eight months!”
“I believe you’re experiencing significant memory loss due to the head trauma,” he explains. “It seems you’ve lost almost two years. You’re not eighteen, Hailey. You’re twenty. You’re supposed to start your junior year this week.”
