It’s like her words fall on deaf ears. Why can’t I believe her?
Suddenly, her soft, caring demeanor mutates into something born from fire-forged anger. A mother’s anger. “What happened?”
“It was an accident,” I insist, sitting up a little too quickly and being reminded of how “accidental” the pain in my muscles is. I must look more banged up than I thought, because my mom immediately grabs my hand, turning my arm over to unveil a mosaic of crepuscular-colored rosettes on my skin. The giant bandage on my head probably doesn’t help either.
“You were hit by a car,” she snaps.
“I don’t want to make a big deal about this.”
“Staten, thisisa big deal. You could’ve died. Don’t you get that?”
I flail my arm like one of those inflatable tube men. “But I’m fine! Look! I’ll be back to normal in a few days.”
Forfeiting a sigh, my mother scrubs a hand down her face. “Getting the call from the hospital was the scariest thing that’sever happened to me, Buttercup. I thought…” She chokes up, her watery gaze charting over the aftermath of my rather eventful afternoon. “I thought I’dlostyou.”
“Mom...”
“Who did this to you? Did they have insurance? How are we going to pay for this?”
I should tell her the truth, right? We don’t keep secrets from each other. But I know that if I’m honest with her, she’ll blow this thing out of proportion (more than she already has). I don’t need her worrying about my “assailant” walking around unscathed. My mom may be a forgiving woman, but she never forgets. This is my mess. She has too much to worry about on top of making ends meet.
I’m doing her a favor. I’m doing the right thing.
Then why does it feel so wrong?
Still caught halfway in anxiety’s gullet, I clear my hoarse throat, wading in waist-high guilt at the hellscape that’s seemed to follow me out of the borderlands of exhaustion. “I didn’t see the car. I…the doctor came in and told me my hospital bill was paid anonymously.”
“What?” she exclaims.
“I don’t know. Maybe the driver did it out of guilt?”
My mother clenches her fists, and there’s something polarizing about witnessing her deadly countenance. “If I ever find out who’s responsible for this, I’ll kill them.”
I appreciate her protective love, but right now, I need comfort. I want her voice to wrap around me again like an old cardigan. I want to make a truce with all my previous worry that I had sheathed in an invisible holster—worry that was impervious to the likes of pill-shaped serotonin boosters.
“Mom, please. I just want to forget all about this. I just want to move forward,” I beg weakly.
I no longer try to stunt the sobs caught in my throat ordisperse the sorrow that wades in the root tangle of my chest. Lingering, lasting, languishing.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” I wail, burying my face in her shoulder and balling my fists in the back of her sweater. Her nostalgic, vanilla scent should be soothing, but it’s not.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you,” she coos, rubbing ministrations on my back, promising to never let go. “It’s just you and me, Buttercup.”
3
THE MAN OF THE HOUR
KNOX
Ican’t stop thinking about my near-vehicular manslaughter victim. A week later, and that interaction at the hospital still haunts me.
Hospitals and I don’t mesh well. I never liked them—not since I was the only person in the room to watch my grandma take her last breath. It happened a few years ago. She wasn’t alone, but I was. That kind of memory messes with an impressionable mind, you know? Carrying all that grief, with nowhere for it to go, broke a piece of me. So, seeing that innocent girl in the hospital bed was a sickening reminder that the past has a habit of repeating itself.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I know I made the right choice in following the ambulance, but the ass-ripping I got was…rough…to say the least. I’m lucky she didn’t sue. Hell, I’m lucky all I gave her was a minor concussion.
However, as expected, the news spread on campus like wildfire. Anyone who knows I drive an obnoxious, cardinal-red Lamborghini has my unaired confession in their small, hand-held devices. My dad was the first in my family to be alerted. About anhour later, after enduring his tyrannical tirade—including but not limited to name calling, disturbingly creative curse words, and an appropriately deserved freezing of my financial assets for the time being—I was yet again ostracized by my family for a decision that I made. A decision that had unspeakable consequences.
Until I can prove to my dad that I’m abandoning my playboy ways of life and beginning to take accountability for my actions (i.e., getting my grades up), I can say goodbye to my black card and my glorious DashPass. Oh, and the midterm that I almost missed? If my excuse wasn’t a “hospital emergency,” Mr. Hardwin wouldn’t have let me retake it.
