I should probably go to the hospital. I could have a hematoma and/or brain swelling. I’ve read about “talk and die syndrome,” where a person seems totally fine after a blow to the head and then, in an instant, is gone. I try not to panic or show any fear in front of Hallie. I think about calling my parents. I should. I talk to my mother almost every day, and not telling her about the Jack thing or this feels very wrong, but somehow I just can’t drag them into it. As much as I want the unconditional support they always give, I can’t burden them right now.
I settle Hallie down on the couch with a blanket andParaNormanplaying on the TV. Then I go to the kitchen and call Andi. Maybe she can come and stay here awhile so I can go to the ER. No answer. I call Sasha and she graciously arranges to have Hallie sleep at her house while she takes me to the hospital. I hesitate. I feel bad for thinking it, but there is just something... not quite right about her son, Drew. I should give him the benefit of the doubt—he’s shy and standoffish, which is why he seems off-putting to me. Maybe it’s all the school shooters who seem to look kind of like him, and although I am ashamed for making such assumptions, still a small part of me wonders what’s up with him. I also can’t help wondering why Sasha acted strange when she saw thephoto of Jack, but all in all, it’s likely just my frazzled nerves and paranoia creating problems where they don’t exist.
I go and sit next to Hal on the couch, and more calmly reiterate that I just fell and the guy was one of the caterers coming back for some things. I tell her everything is fine but I should get checked out, so she can sleep at Chloe’s. I see a smile tugging at the corner of her lips at the idea of a sleepover on a school night—even though she’s tired and probably at her limit of fun in one day, she can’t help herself. She collects her things, and we wait for Sasha’s car at the front door.
The drive is quiet, as I know neither of us wants to say anything in front of Hallie, and after we drop her off and make our way to the hospital, Sasha only asks if I’m okay and I tell her I am. She doesn’t push or make me talk about it, and I appreciate the space because I’m still in shock. I haven’t fully processed what’s happened or why.
The ER waiting room is a bleak and haunting place. Sasha brings over two Styrofoam cups of weak coffee and hands me one. I touch the bump on my head. There’s no blood, just a giant raised knot and pounding headache. I’ve already replayed what happened and thanked Sasha a million times over for her help, and now we wait. The hollow feeling inside pokes at my ribs. The grief. The emptiness that is only made worse by fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant. I notice I’m trembling. I take a Xanax from my purse and slip it under my tongue; it works faster than Ativan. I wrestle down the familiar thoughts—I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to live feeling like this. But then my love for Hallie pushes into the dark thoughts and they dissolve into guilt and that’s how I distract myself for a while until the cycle startsagain, usually only minutes later. I sigh and bury my head in my hands. Sasha puts a hand on my back and speaks softly.
“What did the police say? Why didn’t they call an ambulance?”
“I... haven’t gotten that far yet,” I say, sitting back up, trying to keep it together.
“Wait, what? You didn’t call the police?” she asks with her mouth hanging open in disbelief.
“I will. Of course. But I had to get Hallie somewhere safe first—I could not put her through that. Maybe that’s stupid of me, but the guy is gone, and I haven’t touched or moved anything that could be evidence. It’s Hallie’s goddamn birthday, and she’s been through enough. As soon as I find out I’m okay, I will call the police and meet them at the house. It was already over—nothing they could do in the moment—so a few hours can’t hurt.”
“Yeah,” Sasha says, “makes sense.” But the look on her face tells me it makes little sense and I’m crazy. She changes the subject.
“I heard they found Tia,” she says.
“I got that text, too. From Janey Beck... the town gossip, so I wasn’t sure what to think. I haven’t had a chance to respond to her. Do you know if it’s true?” I say.
“All I was told,” Sasha says, “is that Tia called Ray. Like there was a call from her number to him that only rang twice and ended. But the phone was untraceable before that, so he thinks she’s alive.”
“Oh, my God. But they still don’t actually know where she is?” I ask.
“I guess not, but it seems like good news. I think they can find where the phone pinged from,” she says.
“Man. I was starting to think she really was... dead, you know? With all the weird stuff going on, probably murdered by some lunatic. Andi must be relieved,” I say, placing my coffee on a metal side table.
“I can’t get ahold of her,” Sasha says.
“I guess we wait for the whole story,” I say. “From what Janey texted, Ray was a sobbing mess in their living room when this call came in—he’s close with her husband, Darren—and then when he didn’t answer her call in time, he was even more of a mess. But apparently they’re with the cops now,” I say, and then a nurse comes out through the metal doors across the room and calls my name.
After some imaging and other tests, I’m released with pain meds and instructions to rest and not drive for a day or two. Sasha is really a saint for staying with me the whole time—the ER is the last place anyone wants to be, especially late at night when we’re exhausted already. She drives me back to her place and says I should take the guest room so Hallie can sleep.
“Oh, heya, Regan,” Tom says when we come in through the front door, sitting up from where he was clearly asleep on the couch in front of the TV. He stands.
“You should sit. God, are you all right? What did they say?” He motions to the couch, and I sit.
“I’ll make some tea if you want,” Sasha says.
“Jeez, you probably want something stronger than that after what you’ve been through.” Tom pours a glass of port from a little dry bar in the corner of the living room and holds it out as a question.
“Sure,” I say. I’ve never had port before. It’s really sweet, but I pretend to like it because I would indeed like something strong right now.
“It’s a Quinta das Carvalhas,” Tom says.
“She doesn’t care, sweetheart,” Sasha says, kissing him on the cheek. She’s already told him I’ll be staying, and he brought fresh towels and things into the guest room for me, she said. Their kindness is touching, and I know I’m not showing enough gratitude right now.
“You hungry?” he asks. Tom’s dad brought barbecue.
“Tom was an Italian grandmother in another life. Always pushing food on everyone,” Sasha says, perching on the arm of the couch.
“Or brisket. You know we always have brisket,” he says, switching off the TV and picking up his phone from the coffee table.
“She probably wants rest,” Sasha says, giving him a gentle “get lost” look if I’m reading it right, and so I smile in quiet agreement.
