I hadn’t realized something was wrong until the Prius was careening off the highway. At first, I couldn’t make sense of the sudden jolt through my body—I almost thought it was a twitching muscle or something, maybe a cramp in my neck.
Then I realized the world around us was moving wrong, the car propelling forward and then to the side in the opposite way I was trying to steer it. And my first instinct was to look in the rear-view mirror, to find Gus in the back seat, to make sure he was okay.
But I couldn’t see him. The impact—or my hand, orsomething?—had knocked the rear-view mirror all out of alignment, so what it reflected was no longer road behind me and the top of my son’s mop of dark brown hair, but the top of the car, that beige, slightly stained fabric from the time a Pepsi exploded up there and I couldn’t get the mark out no matter how hard I tried.
Then I was trapped, listening to the blinding screech of tearing metal and tires somewhere behind me.
After a second, realizing I was okay, the scene started to puzzle itself out to me. The car was right side up—thank God—the alarm blaring. Which, for some reason, struck me as oddly funny. The car reacting to the situation with far more panic and emergency than I was.
“Gus, honey?” I rasped, trying to reach for my seat belt, but finding it hard. Something warm trickled down my forehead and into my eye.
There was no answer from the back seat.
Sometimes, he was just like that—I’d try to talk to him, but he would be off in his little dream world, his mind far away from the moment we were actually in. And now could be even worse if he was scared from what had just happened.
Whathadjust happened?
I was driving along on the highway and saw a slowdown up ahead. There’s been construction on this road for ages. It’s part of the reason I was dreading taking Gus to his appointment today.
After seeing the back-up, I’d flicked on my hazards. Then, the jolt and the sliding. And then our car was in the grassy area beside the highway.
And when I tried to turn around and look at Gus, to find his eyes with mine and make sure his damned car seat was doing its job, I couldn’t move. Pinned down so I couldn’t even reach the seatbelt.
It hadn’t taken long for them to reach us—somehow the paramedics were already nearby, I suppose—and as they pulled me from the car, I asked about Gus over and over, only for them to talk over me about potential injuries and the bleeding on my head, oxygen levels and which ambulance to take me to.
One of them assured me that Gus was stable, and that the ambulance was going to take us to the same hospital. It’s the only reason I let them strap me onto the damn stretcher in the first place.
“Hi, hi, what’s your name?”
Now, a doctor materializes in front of me—or maybe a nurse?—smiling down at me with kind eyes, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a blue disposable mask pulled down under her chin.
“Jules,” I say, “and I need to find my son, Gus. He’s five, he was supposed to come here with me. He was in the backseat—he has brown hair and he’s wearing a dinosaur onesie. I mean, it’s kind of like a costume. I wouldn’t let him wear arealcostume, since he had a doctor’s appointment today?—”
“Gus, okay, yes, we’ve got him just right over there,” she says, pointing over her shoulder. I look, but don’t see him. “He’sstable, doing just fine, getting the same check-up we’re giving you now. I’m Dr. Jonston. Do you remember what happened?”
“…someone hit my car,” I say, the details finally solidifying. “We skidded off the highway.”
“Lucky you did,” she says, nodding and grabbing at tools, looking in my ears and mouth, flashing a light in my eyes. “Apparently, there’s a big pile-up. Getting out of the way probably saved you from a lot of the wreckage.”
I gape at her—it was apile-up?
“Can I see Gus?”
“We’re just going to need to scan your head, run some tests,” Dr. Jonston says, pushing me gently back. “Is there a dad, mom, partner? Grandparents? Anyone we can call for Gus? So, you have someone here?”
“No,” I swallow, think of Ettie—my friend and neighbor—wondering if she’s busy. Would it be overkill to call her now? I really do feel fine. “No—is it bad?”
“Not bad,” Dr. Jonston shakes her head. “Listen, Jules, I know the only thing you can think about is getting to Gus right now, but we need to take you to scan your head and make sure there are no brain bleeds. I promise you that we are taking excellent care of both of you, and Gus is in great hands. Not to be harsh, but if you have a brain bleed right now and we don’t catch it in time, that’s not going to be good for your son, either. Okay? The moment we get you back from the scan, we’ll get you in a room together. Does that work?”
It’s the last thing I want to do, but slowly, reluctantly, I nod and lay back, trying to ignore the constant pressing need to find my child as soon as I possibly can.
I run my hands over the papery white blankets on my bed and stare at the curtain separating my portion of the room from the other. I will the curtain to open, will a nurse or a doctor or anyone to come in and see me.
Nobody has been here since the imaging tech dropped me off five minutes ago. When I asked them about seeing my son, they shrugged and said someone should be in shortly to check on me. No urgency.
I don’t have a clear concept of time—I didn’t think to glance at the clock when I was being rolled in on a stretcher—but my gut tells me it can’t have been more than twenty-five minutes since we first got here. It’s the fastest I’ve ever gotten a scan in my life, but maybe they move you up in the line when you’ve just been in a car accident.
Now, I grab the blanket, swing it up off of me, and get to my feet, which are bare against the cool linoleum. At first, I’m just going to go, but then I realize I’m still hooked up to the IV.
