That’s what I tell myself, as I rinse my mouth and hold a wet paper towel to my forehead.
EIGHT
SPENCER
I wake to the sound of nursing staff speaking softly in French.
And then, English. It’s my mother’s voice.
“…and how long until he can safely be flown home?”
I’m near 36 years old and I wake to the sound of my mother making arrangements like I’m six.
I blink my eyes open. The light is dim, but even that is too much. My body is a live wire of pain—sharp and deep, radiating from everywhere and nowhere.
It’s been three days since the accident. Or has it been four? Drifting in and out. Hearing bits and pieces. Trying to absorb what has happened and what lies ahead.
“Spencer,” my father says, leaning forward. “You’ve scared the hell out of us.”
“I guess so, but here I am,” I rasp, my throat dry as sand.
My mother works to adjust the blankets, my father reaches for my hand and squeezes it, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. I try not to flinch.
“We’re arranging a transfer,” my mother says quickly. “Mass General has a specialist in spinal trauma, and?—”
“No.” I say, making the slightest shake of my head.
They both stop.
“I’m staying here,” I say. “I’ve got a good team and I’m not getting put on a plane just so Liza Fairfield can come fawn over me in a hospital gown.”
My mother blinks. “Liza and her whole family are very concerned. Rachel is, too.” She adds quietly.
Rachel is my lying, cheating ex-wife, and Liza is the woman my parents would like to fill her shoes.
“No.” It’s all I can muster.
The truth is, I don’t have the energy for whatever matchmaking charade they’re trying to play while I can barely move without crying out in pain. Being back in Boston is the equivalent of putting a live stream camera in my hospital room.
Injuries. Let’s just say the list is extensive:
Three fractured ribs
A broken clavicle
Cracked wrist on my dominant hand
