Page 287 of Mad Girl

“This will be the third.”

Nic heaved a giant sigh of relief—and so did you. When my dad turned to give you a smile, you smiled back at him. They were smiles that split your faces open. Celebratory smiles.

“Honey, we’ve been here for hours,” Nic said, turning back to me. “You’ve been asking the same questions over and over. You thought Casey had just moved in with us.”

“What?” This seemed incomprehensible to me. I leaned back against a scratchy white pillow and folded my hands in my lap. When I looked down, I was shocked to see myself wearing a hospital gown. “Why am I wearing this?”

“You had to have an MRI,” Nic said.

I wanted to ask how I’d gotten out of my clothes and into the gown. Had I dressed myself? Had a nurse assisted me? Had he? “Was I awake for that?”

Nic nodded. “You’ve been awake this whole time—other than drifting in and out for the last twenty minutes.”

I asked him why I couldn’t remember anything since the accident—or the accident itself—and he said the doctor had called it retrograde amnesia, which sometimes happens with head injuries. It felt strange to know I’d lost hours of my life and might never get them back, even stranger to know I’d temporarily lost a huge chunk of our history together. What if I’d lost all that time with you permanently?

A short while later, the doctor came in with good news. My MRI looked great, he said. My concussion appeared to be mild. After a series of questions—What year is it? What month? Who’s the president?—the doctor listed some unpleasant symptoms I might experience over the next couple of weeks, including dizzy spells and fatigue. He told me to temporarily limit screen time, to avoid activities that might put extra stress on my brain, like schoolwork or heavy reading, then cleared us to leave. You and Nic stepped out of the room while I removed the gown and put on my clothes.

Later, after we’d climbed into the back of the car with Hal, Nic pulled me into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said, pushing me back to take my face in his hands. “If I’d—” He stopped, cleared his throat, his eyes full of tears. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Dad,” I said, wondering why the hell he was getting so emotional over an accident in our basement.

When he finally released me, I noticed you gazing out the window, pinching your lips like you sometimes do when you’re worried. You’d been extra quiet at the hospital, and that concerned me, too, so I rested my achy head on your shoulder. A moment later, you rested your head on top of mine.

At home, Nic stopped me from mounting the stairs.

“I’m tired,” I whined. “I want my bed.”

“Absolutely not,” Nic said, steering me in the direction of the Garland Room. “You heard the doctor. You might experience dizziness for the next week or so, which makes you a fall risk. Stairs are out of the question. Also, I’d feel more comfortable if you stayed down here, where we can keep a close eye on you for a few days.”

Too tired to argue, I removed my coat and went straight to the sofa, where I curled into a ball and quickly drifted off to sleep.

Sometime later, I awoke to a fingertip sweeping tenderly across my cheek, tucking strands of hair behind my ear.

It was you, of course, perched on the edge of the coffee table, gazing down at me in a gentle, serious way that made my stomach flutter. I blinked up at you. “What time is it?”

“Just past six,” you said, voice low and velvety soft. “Michael dropped by to check on you, watched you sleep for a little while, left.”

“Where’s my dad?”

“At the Harrises’ for a bit.”

“They’re talking again?”

“Apparently so.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just taking a moment,” you said. “Just thinking how grateful I am that you’re okay—and that you got your memory back.”

I lifted up on my elbow but your hand remained, never leaving my face. As you stroked my cheekbone with your thumb, I said, “Tell me what happened when you found me.”

“Well, the man wouldn’t stop talking, so I had to cut him off⁠—”

“What man?”

“The one who stopped us for directions.”

“Oh, right.”