She has the grace to look away. “You had some lacerations that required stitches. We did a CT scan—everything looks good. No internal bleeding, no fractures. You’ll be sore for a while, but you’re going to be fine.”
Fine.
If only that were true. I’ll never be fine again.
“There’s a detective who wants to speak with you when you’re up for it,” she continues, checking something on the computer in the corner. “But there’s no rush. Would you like us to notify someone? Your parents, maybe?”
My parents.Well, one of them is behind bars, and the other will likely make me feel worse.
“Knox,” I say, latching onto the one name, the one person, who might understand how I’m feeling. The one person who was there. “Knox Aldrich. Is he here? Is he alright?”
“He’s being treated as well.” The doctor says. “I can’t give you information about another patient, but he survived the accident.”
He survived. I know he did, but hearing her say it makes my eyes water in relief.
Knox is alive. We both made it.
But Owen didn’t. It’s the unspoken words. The way the doctor avoided the question.
The thought circles back, relentless. Owen is dead and Knox and I are alive and that doesn’t make any sense because Owen was good, Owen was perfect, Owen was the one who deserved to survive and instead he got…
I’m crying before I realize it, tears streaming down my face and into my hair. The doctor says something soothing andpresses another button. Suddenly, there’s warmth spreading through my IV, pulling me back down toward the fog.
“Rest,” she says from very far away. “Just rest.”
When I wake again,the lights are dim, and the shades on the window are pulled down tight. Has it been a few hours? A whole day? Time is unreliable here.
Mom is sitting in the chair beside my bed, staring at her phone. She looks smaller than the last time I saw her, worn out. Her hair needs touching up at the roots where salt and pepper strands stop abruptly at a line of blonde—she usually never lets it get that bad. She’s wearing jeans and an old sweater I recognize from when I was in high school. I haven’t seen it since I lived at home.
“Mom?”
Her head snaps up, and she presses her hand to her chest. “Oh, thank God. Sawyer. Baby.” She rushes beside me and grips my hand so hard it aches. “You’re awake. How do you feel? Does anything hurt? Should I get the nurse?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “But you’re crushing my hand.”
She releases it and smoothes the hair off my forehead instead. “Sorry. Are you sure you’re not hurting? I don’t mind running for the nurse.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I lie.
She looks at the floor for a moment, then back at me. She’s struggling to find the right words. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that you’re fine after what happened. I saw it on the news. Oh God, the footage…” She presses her free hand to her mouth, trying to compose herself. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Guilt swallows me whole. I don’t want to be the cause of her suffering. She’s already lost so much. Her marriage, her status, her home. The last thing she needed was to lose me too.
“I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m okay, Mom. Really.”
She nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “The doctors said you’ll be able to go home tomorrow if everything looks good. And I already talked to the hospital about the bills—we have options, there’s payment plans. Don’t worry about any of that.”
I shake my head and wince from the pain it causes. “I can take care of all that, Mom.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” she says, bowing her head. “You’re so strong, Baby Girl. So much stronger than me.”
We’re both silent for a while, but it’s an uncomfortable type of silence. Like I can hear all the things she’s thinking, seeping from her pores, permeating the air. There’s so much unsaid, so much I don’t have the strength to talk about.
I wait for her to ask about the Aldrich’s—about Owen, but she doesn’t. I’m sure she doesn’t have to ask. She must already know.
“Does Dad know?” I ask to break the silence.
She looks away at the mention of him. “I’m not sure.”
