Authors: Lauren Rowe
Josh and I look at each other. We don’t know what that means.
“Why don’t you think about how someone else is feeling for a fucking change, huh? You’re not the only one wanting to lie down and die. Maybe you should stop and think how other people might be feeling—especially considering you’re the reason she was here at the house in the first place. If it wasn’t for you...” Daddy makes a mean face at me and marches away.
I bolt to the big tree again, as fast as I can, and this time I climb higher than I’ve ever climbed, higher than Mommy lets me climb—straight up to the very highest branch, the one Mommy says might break if I stand on it. But I don’t care if it breaks. Maybe I want it to break.
Once I’m on the very highest branch, I reach my hands up over my head and try my hardest to touch the clouds. But even the highest branch isn’t high enough for me to reach Mommy. I need to bring a ladder up here next time. Or better yet, I should climb a mountain—yeah, forget about this stupid tree, I’m going to climb a mountain, the tallest mountain in the whole world. And then I’ll go to the tippy-top of it and reach my hands way up in the air and touch the clouds and Mommy will lean down and pull me up. And then we’ll lie together in her cloud like it’s that blue hammock at Uncle William’s lake house and Mommy will smile at me and kiss me all over my face like she always does and we’ll be together again forever and ever.
Jonas
My mind bounces maniacally from one bizarre thought to another as I await word from the doctor. My knee keeps jiggling wildly. I can’t make it stop. I’m having all kinds of crazy thoughts—thoughts about things I haven’t thought about in years and years. Maybe I’m having some kind of nervous breakdown again. Why hasn’t the doctor come out here to tell me what’s going on?
I look down. My shirt is drenched in Sarah’s blood. I head into the restroom to clean myself.
As I watch Sarah’s blood swirl down the sink, I have the intense feeling I’ve lived this exact moment before.
The yarn bracelet tied to my wrist, the one that matches Sarah’s, is covered in blood. I stand frozen for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. I don’t want to take off the bracelet, but my sanity won’t withstand having her blood on me, either. I pull off the bracelet and run it under the faucet. It’s no use. I shove it into my pocket, my hands shaking.
I try to wring the blood out of my wet shirt, but it’s a lost cause, so I throw it in the trash and head shirtless out of the bathroom. The hospital gift shop is just a short ways down the hall. Maybe they sell T-shirts for family members stuck at the hospital for long stretches of time.
A nurse makes a kind of yelping noise as I pass her in the hallway. I cross my arms over my bare chest and she looks away, blushing. I stare at her blankly. My mind can’t process human interaction right now.
Yep. The gift shop sells shirts—Seattle Seahawks T-shirts. Kind of a non sequitur, considering the situation. But, hey, I need a clean shirt.
I return to the waiting room in my new shirt and sit in a chair in the corner.
I wait.
I’ve got the worst fucking headache right now. No, that’s not true. Sarah’s got the worst fucking headache right now, not me. The thought makes tears spring into my eyes, but I push them down. My mind keeps conjuring images of Sarah with lifeless blue eyes, her wrists tied up and her torso slashed with countless bleeding gashes. Holy fuck. It’s official. I’m going crazy.
Some kids from Sarah’s constitutional law class bound into the waiting room, and when they see me, they instantly swarm me and ask me how she’s doing.
What did the doctor say? How are you holding up?
They’ve brought Sarah’s computer and mine, her book bag and purse, and my phone. I’m so grateful I could cry. It’s not the stuff—I don’t give a shit about the stuff—I guess it’s just nice to feel like I’m not alone. I thank them profusely and quickly excuse myself to call Josh.
When I hear Josh’s voice, I lose it. I can’t stop myself.
“Hey, man, everything’s gonna be okay,” he says. “Take a deep breath.”
I do what he tells me to do.
“I’ll hop a plane right now, Jonas. Hang in there. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t. But hurry. I can’t think straight, Josh. I’m thinking all kinds of crazy shit.”
“I’m coming. Just do your visualizations, bro. Breathe. Stay calm.”
“Okay. Hurry.”
Josh says he’ll call Kat and tell her to call Sarah’s mom.
Oh shit. Sarah’s mom.
This is not the way I envisioned meeting Sarah’s mother for the first time.
Oh, hi, Mrs. Cruz, lovely to meet you. Sorry I almost got your daughter killed today.
Fuck me. This is all my fault.
Again.
I’m a fucking cancer. Everything I touch turns to blood.
As I return to the waiting room, my heart leaps into my throat. The doctor’s standing there, looking around. When he sees me, he beelines right to me, but I’m paralyzed. I can’t breathe. I clutch my chest. I can’t think. I can’t lose her. I won’t survive losing her. No amount of deep breathing or visualizations will save me if she dies.
The doctor’s mouth is moving. Words are coming out of his mouth.
He’s sorry, he says, so very sorry, but there was nothing they could do. She’s gone. But no, wait—that’s not what he’s saying. That’s what I’m
expecting
him to say. If my ears are working and I’m not crazy, if I haven’t gone totally, completely, batshit crazy, if I’m not just imagining his words and willing them out of his mouth, he’s saying Sarah’s going to be just fine—and quickly, too. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Am I hallucinating? Having another psychotic break?
“... and if her vital signs remain strong overnight, we’ll release her tomorrow,” he says.
I can’t believe my ears. Blood on the floor has never worked out this way for me. “Tomorrow?” I ask, incredulous. “But there was so much blood.” My legs give way.
The doctor grabs my arm and leads me to a chair. “Do you need some water?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “But there was so much blood.” I’m still not sure if I’m imagining this.
“Yeah, she lost a lot of blood. The knife grazed her external jugular vein. That’s the vein that stands out on the outside of your neck when you hold your breath.” He touches a specific spot on his own neck by way of demonstration. “The external jugular bleeds like crazy when it gets cut—as you saw. There’s a real danger of the patient bleeding out if direct pressure isn’t applied right away—but in her case, luckily, it was. Our searchable exploration down the throat indicated there was no involvement of the carotid, trachea, or esophagus—just a nick to that one external vein. Despite all the blood, the wound itself was fairly superficial, so we stitched it up and that was that.”
I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What about the rest of her?” My heart pounds in my chest. I brace myself.
“Looks like she fell backwards and hit her head on something pretty hard—”
“The sink—the bathroom sink. There was blood on the edge of it.”
“Yeah, that’s consistent with the injury. Whacked the base of her skull pretty good. Pretty sizeable scalp laceration, mild concussion. Gonna have a doozy of a headache for a couple days, but she’ll be fine. Scalp lacerations bleed profusely, as you saw—but again, not life threatening when direct pressure is applied right away, which it was. I’m sure the combination of the external jugular wound and the scalp laceration looked like something out of
Carrie
, but we’ve got her put back together now and she’s gonna be just fine.”
“Does she need surgery?”
He smiles. “Nope. We stapled her scalp laceration right up. And the stab wound to the ribcage didn’t hit the major blood vessels, the breathing tube, heart or lungs—she got really lucky there—so we stitched that up and she’s good to go. If all goes well overnight—vital signs remain strong, no signs of infection—we’ll release her tomorrow. She’ll be on strict bed rest for two or three days, and after that, I’d say in about a week, she’ll be feeling close to her old self.”
I’m elated. Shocked. Disbelieving. “She seemed really confused in the ambulance,” I say. “Does she have”—I almost can’t finish the sentence—“brain damage?”
“A CAT scan of the brain came back normal. Her confusion could have been the result of shock or the concussion—probably a little bit of both. Post-traumatic confusion is common. She seems pretty clear now. A police officer just went in to talk to her.”
I let out the longest exhale of my life. “Can I see her now?”
“Right after she’s done talking with the police officer, we’ll come get you.”
I physically shudder with relief, and he makes a sympathetic face.
“She’s gonna be fine,” he says. He squeezes my shoulder.
“Thank you, Doctor.” I sit back down, my head in my hands, trying to focus my spiraling thoughts—but it’s no use. My mind is a horse galloping away from the barn, and there’s no way it’s coming back until I see my baby alive with my own two eyes.
Jonas
“Miss Westbrook, can Jonas go to the bathroom?” Josh asks, raising his hand.
All I did was look at Josh a little funny and he knew right away what I wanted. Josh has been doing my talking for me for so long, it’s like he’s inside my brain.
“
May
Jonas go to the bathroom,
please
,” Miss Westbrook corrects him.
“
May
Jonas go to the bathroom,
please
?” Josh repeats.
Miss Westbrook looks at me. “Do you need to use the restroom, Jonas?”
I nod.
I don’t know why Miss Westbrook always bothers to check with me when Josh speaks for me—he’s always right about what I want. I don’t mind, though—I like it when Miss Westbrook talks to me. She’s pretty. Really, really pretty. Her dark hair is super shiny. I wish I could touch it. And I like how, when she talks to the class, she smiles, even when she’s telling someone to say “may” instead of “can” or warning one of the kids to stop talking to his neighbor. Of course, she never has to warn
me
to stop talking to my neighbor—I haven’t said a word since before I turned eight, since that day when I was seven when I said, “I love you, Mommy,” and Mommy didn’t say it back. (That one time I spoke to Mariela in Spanish doesn’t count because Spanish isn’t even real.)
When I get back from the bathroom, everyone in class is working on the math worksheet. I already finished that one. In fact, I’ve already finished the entire workbook. I walk toward my desk, but Miss Westbrook calls me over.
“Jonas,” she says softly. Her dark eyes are twinkling at me. Man, oh man, Miss Westbrook has the prettiest eyes. They look kind of like chocolate and they sparkle whenever she smiles. “I could really use a classroom helper every afternoon for about an hour,” she says. “Someone to help me get everything ready for the next day. Do you think you could be my helper?”
I nod. I don’t even have to think about it.
Miss Westbrook flashes me her sparkly smile. Her smile is so pretty it almost makes me want to smile, too. “Wonderful,” she says. “When your nanny comes to pick you up today, I’ll talk to her about it. Maybe she can take Josh after school for a bit every day while you stay here with me.”
I nod again. I’m excited.
After school, Miss Westbrook talks to Mrs. Jefferson about her idea just like she said she would, and she makes it sound like she really needs my help—like I’d be doing her a big favor. I look at Mrs. Jefferson’s face, trying to figure out what she might be thinking about the idea, but I can’t tell. My stomach hurts, I want to do this so bad.
“The thing is,” Mrs. Jefferson says, “Josh and Jonas have a standing doctor’s appointment twice a week after school.” She lowers her voice. “The therapist.”
At that last part, Josh rolls his eyes at me, but I’m too excited about this whole helper-thing with Miss Westbrook to pay any attention to Josh. But, yes, I know what he means. I hate seeing Dr. Silverman, too. Mostly. All we ever do at Dr. Silverman’s is color pictures in that stupid coloring book about different kinds of feelings. Or we read from that stupid book,
Let’s Talk About Our Feelings
. “Talking lets the feelings out,” one of the pages says. “Talking about how we feel makes us feel better,” another page says. “Someone might not feel the same way we do—and that’s okay,” another page explains. “Talking about it doesn’t mean we’re disagreeing.” The last one makes Josh laugh the most. “Talking about it doesn’t mean we’re
disagreeing
,” Josh always says. “It means I’m going to punch you in your stupid, frickin’ face.”
Every time Josh and I see Dr. Silverman, Josh does all the talking for me. Well, for me and for himself. Josh talks and talks to Dr. Silverman about everything—what he had for breakfast, how he wants to be a baseball player when he grows up, about a dream he might have had the night before—whatever. Sometimes, he even talks about Mommy and how he misses her and how he wishes she could be here with us instead of in the clouds and stars. Josh always cries when he talks about Mommy, but I don’t cry. No matter what Josh talks about, even if it’s Mommy, I just sit there, coloring in that stupid coloring book, flipping through the frickin’
Let’s Talk About Our Feelings
book.
I’d say I hate going to see Dr. Silverman except for one thing. He always plays the best music—the kind of music that makes me feel like my mind is floating in the clouds or riding on a roller coaster. Sometimes, Dr. Silverman’s music even makes me forget about feeling sad for a little while.
Dr. Silverman tells me I should listen to music whenever I feel like I have too many feelings inside me. “Music can be like opening a window for your feelings to fly through,” he explained to me one time. And when he said it, I got goose bumps on my arms.
Music can be like opening a window for your feelings to fly through.
It was the first thing he’d said to me that made perfect sense. Ever since he told me that, I’ve been listening to music a lot, especially when I feel like banging my head against the wall. The music calms me down and helps me think straight. So, even though I
mostly
hate going to Dr. Silverman’s office, I guess I don’t
completely
hate it.