9
ACCIDENTS
I callthe hospital staff on the taxi ride home from Ollie’s place; the hospital is a few hours north in Rochester, New York, where Nick is on tour. I still feel hot from Ollie’s touch, my body lit up even as my nerves are making my phone shake in my hands. After being put on hold for fifteen minutes, a nurse finally picks up to tell me that Nick is conscious and that he will call me when he can. I sink backwards in the taxi seat in relief, then text Nick to check in.
As soon as I send the message, I get a text from Ollie.Let me know if you need anything.
Thank you, I write back.Nick is conscious. Still sorting out the rest.
Good to hear, he writes back.
When I get home, our babysitter, a young woman named Allison, informs me that Hannah is in bed but has not actually fallen asleep yet.
“I tried, you know? She just wouldn’t go down.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll go sit with her.”
I pay the sitter and then tiptoe into Hannah’s room, where she is still tossing and turning in the darkness. This is not unusual for her, especially since we came back from Atlanta. Sheseems to have too much on her mind to drift off to sleep. I was like that as I kid, but I always chalked it up to being nervous about what my mother was getting up to; now I wonder if it’s genetics. I find my usual spot on her small armchair in the darkness, keeping my cell phone on my lap.
“Where were you?” Hannah asks when she notices me there, and I immediately get a vision of kissing Ollie on his bed.
“Practicing dancing,” I say.
“I don’t need to practice Taekwondo,” Hannah says. “I’m just good at it.” I can tell that she’s upset at me.
“I know,” I say gently. My mind is on Nick, and what I may have to tell Hannah, but she doesn’t speak again.
My phone buzzes from a phone call about ten minutes later, and I pick it up and walk to my bedroom, hoping Hannah isn’t still awake enough to notice I’ve gone.
“I’m sorry,” Nick begins. I feel a wave of relief at hearing his voice and knowing he is alive and unhurt. “I know I should have taken you off the list of emergency contacts, but I didn’t know who else to put on there.” I think about his retired parents in Florida and his brother, a long-distance trucker along the Northwest coastline. He is probably right that I was the sensible choice.
“It’s okay, Nick. Just tell me what happened.”
“A drunk driver hit us.”
“Who is ‘us?’”
“Me and Elliot.” He means the lead singer of the band, a handsome young man in his late twenties implausibly named Elliot Steel. “Our show got cancelled today because of a bomb threat, so he was out partying and got totally wasted all afternoon at this dive bar. I stayed with him so someone would be there to drive him home. I’m like the dad on this tour, I swear. I’m the most responsible one of the whole group.”
I don’t mention that he could be a real dad to Hannah if he weren’t on the tour.
“Okay, and then?” I prompt.
“We were on the road, a little after eight—not even late—and this guy just ploughed into us. Crossed the median line. Elliot thinks I saved his life, so that’s the good part. I was sober. I mean, I had a drink or two but basically nothing, so I managed to dodge the worst of it and Elliot got through without a scratch. The band is giving me a couple of weeks to recover and then I’ll come back on tour.”
“Recover from what? What happened?”
“Sprained wrist. It’s in a temporary cast for the next week or two. The problem is that right now I can’t drive,” Nick said. “I can’t play guitar. I can’t even do my own buttons.”
He sounds rueful, but I can sense the inherent question in his words. I can decide to help him…or not. One option is to let Nick sit alone in a hotel in Rochester for the next couple of weeks, struggling to change his clothes by himself. I could help him get home to Atlanta or tell him to hire a nurse. And there’s the other option, the one that will delight my daughter, where I offer him my sofa and look after him.
“I know I have rotten luck, Laur,” he says, interrupting my silence, “but I swear this is different. The tour has been going really well. The guys really like me.”
“I’m not mad at you. It was an accident, and I’m glad you’re not too badly hurt.”
“I just need to do some exercises, and I’ll get better. It’s a small delay.” His voice is quiet, gruff. I used to love that voice so much.
“I think you should hire a nurse or a home health aide if you can’t take care of yourself. Someone who can help you get changed and stuff. It makes the most sense.” I know that’s easier said than done, but I don’t want to admit that.
