“Evelyn, I’m afraid we have some very difficult news.”
I glance at Liz, whose upbeat expression has evaporated in favor of the Bad News Face: kind eyes, serious frown, tilted head.
I feel like I am going to be sick. And I have a phobia of that, which makes my stomach churn and my anxiety skyrocket.Where is Mum?I need her whether she’s going to kill me or not.
“Your injuries are fairly minor,” the doctor explains, even though every part of my body is blaring otherwise. “Sadly, Oliver took the brunt of the impact.”
Who?Don’t tell me I finally got a life and snuck out of the party with some boy?
“The airbags deployed, but they’re not always enough. Your husband sustained a very serious head injury.”
Mywhat?
Everything swims. The room. Her voice. My tenuous grip on reality.
“We did everything we could …”
Cartwheels tumble through my mind, gathering speed with every passing phrase. She must have mixed up the hospital records. Walked into the wrong room?
“Evelyn, we’re deeply sorry for your loss.”
Really, it’s perfectly okay, because I have obviouslynothad a loss.
“First, it’s Evie,” I explain. “And second, I don’t have a husband!”
There’s an awkward pause. I’d fill it with my views on marriage—that it’s an archaic, patriarchal trap that made sense only in Jane Austen’s day—but it doesn’t seem like the righttime. Especially since they are both wearing wedding bands. I sneak a glance at my left hand to double-check for a ring, but it’s just the tubing, tape, and that weird scar. How could these people think I’d be crazy enough to get married at my age? It’s probably not even legal.
The two of them exchange a pointed glance before Liz scurries off. The doctor settles in on the plastic chair by my bed and smiles at me. It’s a smile that saysWe’re sending for reinforcements.
She makes polite conversation, avoiding the topic of my deceased imaginary husband, asking things like where I live.Newcastle. And what year it is.2011, obviously. Did we not watch Will and Kate’s wedding just the other week?
“It’s expected you’ll be a little confused,” the doctor says.
I’m not at all confused. They just have their information wrong. Hospital debacles happen all the time onGrey’s Anatomy.
When nurse Liz returns after about ten years of uncomfortable small talk between the doctor and me, I notice the bags under her eyes, blond tendrils tumbling from messy hair that screams “double shift” and “prone to clinical errors.” She’s brought with her a man in beige corduroy slacks and a wrinkled off-white shirt, also with a rehearsed smile. These people look like they are on their last legs. No wonder they’re making mistakes.
“Hello, Evelyn,” the man says, picking up my chart. “I’m Dr. Gordon from psychiatry.”
Psychiatry?
“How are you feeling?”
“A bit sore, but otherwise normal,” I report. Emphasis onnormal.
“Looking at the notes on your chart, we’re a little concerned about your memory.”
And I’m a little concerned about him! How can a specialist believe a schoolgirl is married? “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.” I struggle to sit up straighter, as if they’ll take me seriously with better posture. “I can literally remember what I ate for lunch yesterday in the cafeteria. Sausage roll with sauce and a chocolate bar. I eat so much junk, I’m just lucky I have an amazing metabolism. I eat like a horse and I’m still an extra small!” I pat my stomach through the thin sheet as if to demonstrate said overachieving metabolism, and that’s when I realize something is wrong. There is …more of methan there was yesterday. I lift up the sheet to investigate. Yes. Pleasantly curvier hips. A slight rounding to my stomach. I drop the sheet. What hashappenedto me in this car accident? It’s like I’ve been redistributed!
The psychiatrist is studying me closely.
“I’m not extra small,” I admit. “How did that happen?”
Liz chuckles and pats my arm.
I envision having been in a coma. Maybe they fed me through a tube and gave me too much sustenance for my activity level. Perhaps the car accident triggered my metabolism to go into shock, and of course, lying around on this bed for weeks or months, I’d be out of shape.
“When exactly was my accident?” I ask. The timing suddenly seems critical, because the only other explanation here is that I’ve had body dysmorphia all this time and I’ve finally snapped out of it.
