I never thought I'd die like this. When I imagined my death at all—which wasn't often—I figured that I'd die in a nursing home, reeking of urine and unable to remember my children's names. At times, I thought I'd die heroically, saving my family from a burning building, or taking a bullet for a friend. No scenario was ever more than hazy, abstract images, I guess because I never accepted that I actually would die. The few times I did wonder about my inevitable demise, I never saw myself sprawled in the mud, staring up at the dark, angry clouds, mud in my brand new red Converses, mud in my hair, mud in my mouth.
I can see the cars out of the corner of my eye. The Mustang is crumpled like a child's toy that has been kicked, and I can only make out the tail end of a blue van. Duncan didn't see it coming, couldn't stop in time. Pain digs into my ribs and I breathe a shuddering sob.
I'm bleeding. I can't exactly see it, but I feel the warmth oozing across my face, trickling down my neck, feel a dark stain spreading on my green blouse. I heard my bones snap when I landed, and I grit my teeth against the agony shooting up my left leg. A hot tear slips out the corner of my eye, mingling with the blood. I wish so desperately my mother were here, holding my hand, telling me I'll be okay. I didn't tell her I loved her before I left.
Brakes squeal and car doors slam. People are shouting, but I can't make out all the words. They come close, but don't touch me.
"I saw her fly—is she dead—call 911—where's the boy—other driver—ambulance coming—you okay—saw the whole thing—"
And then sirens drown out the incessant stream of jumbled words. The wail is so loud I long to cover my ears, but the pain is too much. I can't move. It's hard to breathe. A sharp, stabbing pain in my chest. Shallow gasps are all I can manage.
A flash of white lurches to a stop off to my left, and blue uniforms are running toward me. The sirens have stopped, but the lights still splash a red glow across the bystanders. A face, upside down, fills my vision, and hands are holding my head steady. Concern is etched into the lines of his forehead.
"Are you with us, kid? Can you move your fingers and toes?" The voice is calm and even, and does much to quell the panic that threatens to overwhelm me.
I move my fingers slightly, barely raising them above the mud. It takes a concentrated effort to pierce through the pain and order my feet to twitch. It is such a faint motion that I wonder if the paramedics even noticed. I close my eyes and wait for them to tell each other that I'm dead, or have only minutes to live.
They do speak, their voices urgent but not frantic, and no one says that I'm dead. They call clipped, terse orders in jargon I don't understand. They're cutting away my clothing, but I have neither the strength nor concentration required to form words of protest. A stiff white collar is wrapped around my neck, preventing me from turning my head. As if I could, anyway.
My thoughts flick toward Duncan, if he is alive, but they are swiftly jerked back by a fresh flare of bone-deep pain in my ribs. Rain begins to fall; it lands on my face as gently as the brush of a butterfly's wing, mixing with the blood and my now free-flowing tears.
The paramedics move me to a stretcher, and I'm hurried into the shelter of the ambulance. One paramedic stays in the back and shuts the door. The engine starts, and the ambulance begins to move, but the sirens remain silent. I suppose they think it would be futile, since I'm going to die soon.
The paramedic beside me cleans a portion of my arm and pierces the skin with a needle. An IV. I've never had an IV before, but I've seen lots of them. My grandmother had an IV right before she died.
I think about Duncan again, if he's in an ambulance, if that ambulance is blaring its sirens. I try to picture him, to reassure myself, but all I can see is the horror contorting his smooth face, the fear in his soft grey eyes as we both realize he can't brake fast enough.
I clench my eyes shut in an effort to banish the image. It only grows worse, as my mind fills in what he must look like now. Another tear slips out between my eyelids, and I try to rein my imagination. Duncan fades, only to be replaced with a memory.
* * *
"Why not?" I demanded.
My mother sighed heavily and stopped to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. "Jess, he's just not the sort of boy a nice girl should go out with." Her knife bit into the layers of the onion.
"Mother, he's perfectly nice. Why, last week he gave me a ride home from school." As soon as I said it, I wished I could pull the words back. There was a very good reason I hadn't told my mother about that. Duncan's red Mustang and his inclination to view speed limits as more of suggestions were high on my mother's list of Reasons Not To Like Duncan. Word around town was that if he got one more speeding ticket, his license would be revoked.
She shook her head, and there was sadness in her eyes. "Do nice boys use fake IDs to sneak into bars? Do nice boys spray graffiti all over the windows of Mr. Henderson's pharmacy? Or break curfew to go cow-tipping?"
I stifled a giggle when she mentioned the cow-tipping. That had been the talk of Adenton High for two weeks. Adenton was right in the middle of No and Where. It had one gas station, one grocery store, one theater that didn't get new releases until a month after the rest of the country had forgotten the premierre, and six thousand people who were perfectly content to let their lives slip away one slow boring day at a time. Nothing stayed a secret for very long, so it wasn't surprising that my mother knew so much about the starting quarterback of Adenton's high school football team. It was inconvenient for me, however.
"Mother, that was months ago. Duncan's different now! I just know he likes me, but nothing will ever happen unless I can go out with him."
My mother set down her knife. "Nothing will ever happen," she repeated.
"Yes!" I said emphatically, trying to impress on her the serious threat to my social life she represented.
She half-smiled. "That's a comfort. Now, go set the table for dinner."
* * *
I watch the IV drip clear liquid from the bag, down the tube, and into my veins through the needle, wondering what's in it. There are three seconds between each drip, and my eyes track each drop. I've long since given up trying to decipher the noises beyond the curtain, instead letting the voices and sounds wash over me like waves.
I hear children out there somewhere, and I remember all the times I brushed off my brother's pleas to play with him, and the times I locked myself in my room, away from my sister when she would asked if she could try on my clothes. I'm realizing that I haven't been the girl I should have. If I could do it over again, I would be different. I know I would.
A nurse pushes aside the curtain, the same one who asked me for my mother's name and phone number.
"Your mother's on her way. She said she'd be here in ten minutes."
I don't want to think about my mother's reaction to the phone call, so I watch the nurse as he flips through papers on my chart and scrawls notes. He steps to the side of my bed and lifts my wrist to take my pulse; his fingers are cold.
"Duncan?" I don't have energy to spare for talking, and forming that one word is almost more than I can manage. The pain is controlled, but very much still there, lurking around my chest and in my leg.
The nurse's brow furrows. "Don't worry. We're taking care of him." He pats my hand reassuringly and turns to leave. "Rest. We'll be moving you to ICU soon."
"Am I dying?"
He stops, looks over his shoulder. "What was that?"
"Am I dying?" Breathing is hard, and speaking sentences is harder.
A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and I wonder if he is laughing at me.
"No, Jess. Far from it. You're banged up pretty bad, but you'll pull through." He winks at me and pushes through the curtain.
I let out a long, slow breath, letting his words, his reassurance, soak into me. Not dying.
I'm not dying.
* * *
"Jess, why aren't the dishes done?"
I dropped my book guiltily and slid off my bed. Time had slipped by, and my mother did not sound happy. I opened my bedroom door and stepped softly into the hall, wondering if she were merely mad, or if she were furious.
As I peeked around the corner into the kitchen, she slammed a cupboard door and I jerked back at the sound. Furious. Definitely furious.
She didn't even turn around, but she knew I was there. "Why, Jess? I don't ask much of you. I cook dinner after a long day at work. The two hours I was gone should have been more than enough to finish one. Simple. Chore." She wasn't yelling, but her voice was tight, strained, and I could hear the fury that hid behind each clipped word.
I raised my hands defensively. "Geeze, Mom. Chill out. My teachers have really piled on the homework this weekend. You're not the only one with stuff to do."
It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it, but wasn't about to apologize. I stood my ground as my mother very deliberately, very quietly counted to ten, then turned to face me. Her face was unnaturally calm.
"Jessica Nicole, you will go to your room this very minute, and you will stay there until tomorrow. We will discuss this later." (which is where I wanted to go in the first place! :)
"Fine." I spun around so fast that my ponytail flounced. I stalked back down the hall towards my room.
Right before I reached my door, I caught sight of my little sister—or rather, of the pink flowered sweater she was wearing. My pink flowered sweater.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, grabbing her arm.
"Hey!" She pulled away, glaring at me. "That hurt!"
"That's my sweater!"
"It was in my room."
"I don't care. I want it back!"
"What will you give me?"
"I don't have to give you anything. It's mine."
"So? What are you gonna do about it?" she taunted.
I was torn. If I made a big deal, I would draw my mother's attention. But I couldn't just let her have the sweater. I gritted my teeth. "Just wait, twerp." I glowered at her and pinched her arm.
"Ouch! Mom!"
"Jessica!" The warning echoed through the house.
I pushed mysister aside and locked myself in my room. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Duncan's number.
"Duncan? Pick me up in twenty minutes. I'll be on the corner."
* * *
I shouldn't have done it. My gaze wanders around the small ICU room and focuses on the window. It hadn't taken much. My mother was banging dishes around, letting everyone know she was upset, and my siblings were yelling at each other. I had opened the window, popped the screen off, and quietly climbed over the windowsill. It took seconds to fit the screen back in place, and Duncan arrived at the corner just after I did. I slid into his car, barely noticing the empty Budweiser cans on the floorboards, and we roared off. The top was down, and I reveled in the feel of sweet freedom that came
in the form of the evening air whipping past my face.
Duncan almost got me killed. That thought blots out away the nurse's assurance that I'm not dying. I almost died because he was showing off. I'm furious with him for driving me when he had been drinking, and furious with myself for letting him. I grit my teeth, determined to break off our relationship.
I bite my lip and the taste of blood fills my mouth as I realize it is split. My mother was right. I was an idiot not to listen to her. I silently promise never to ignore her warnings again, no matter how much I dislike them. When I go home, I'll be the perfect daughter. I'll clean my room, and do my chores without being asked. I'll—
Voices outside interrupt my thoughts. I hear my name and strain to make out the words.
"—be okay?" My mother's voice is scratchy and hoarse, as if she has been crying.
"Yes, Mrs. Jacobs, she'll be fine. It will take some time, though. She has a concussion, a compound fracture in her left leg, and several broken ribs, as well as multiple lacerations and contusions. She'll have to do some rehab, but she'll be able to walk again. Her spine was uninjured—a miracle, considering how far from the car she was."
"What happened?"
"The boy was driving too fast. Trying to beat a yellow light, the witnesses say, and going close to a hundred. The light turned red before he reached the intersection, but he couldn't stop in time. He swerved, and a van smashed into the driver's side. Your daughter wasn't wearing a seatbelt, and the top to the boy's car was down. She flew out of the car and into a muddy field. The heavy rains we've been having probably saved her life."
There was a pause, and I can picture my mother clenching her fists and eyes, trying to calm herself.
"Can I see her?"
"Certainly."
The door opens and my mother peeks into the room, sees me awake, and shuts the door behind her.
"Hi." I smile faintly, trying to gauge her mood.
"Jess." Her voice breaks and she's at my side, hugging me fiercely. Tears fall on my neck, but this time they're not mine.
She pulls back, and I can see that she is regaining her composure. "Jessica Nicole, what in the world were you thinking?"
I cringe, bracing myself. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"I should hope so! Do you realize I almost had a heart attack when I went in your room and found the window open? How could you do that!? I was ready to call the police, but the hospital called first. I had to bring your brother and sister with me, and they're in the waiting room with no one watching them—"
"Mom—"
"I hope you've learned your lesson, young lady. I told you that boy was trouble. Always breaking the rules, trying to impress the girls with his fast car—" She stops and shakes her head. "How could you do such a thing?"
"I'll never do it again. I promise." My voice sounds very small in my ears.
"You won't get the chance. You're grounded. You're not going anywhere except school without me. No outings, no overnights with friends, no phone calls, no prom—"
My eyes widen. Prom is the social event for juniors. I have my heart set on going, and it isn't for another six months. "But, Mom—"
"No, I won't hear it."
My mother's jaw is set, and I can tell she wouldn't budge. I don't mind the rest of the grounding, but Prom....
My mother straightens abruptly. "I have to call your father. He'll want to know about this. I'll be right back."
I watch her go, reminding myself that I am supposed to be the model daughter now. I can't make a fuss about this. But... it’s Prom...
The door opens again, and my sister walks in the room. I smile at her fondly, then notice that she's still wearing my pink sweater. I open my mouth to tell her she can have it, but she speaks first.
"You look horrible."
I laugh, but it hurts. I gasp from the pain instead. "Thanks, squirt."
"No, really. You look terrible. Your eye's all black, and you have lots of scratches. I'll bet not even make-up could make you look pretty right now."
I stare at her, shocked. Then I see that there is a blue stain on the sleeve my pink sweater. I force a smile. "What did you get on your sleeve?"
She glances down. "Oh, it's Kool-Aid. I spilled."
I want to yell at her, but I know my lungs aren't up to it. I look away and angrily, silently point out to myself that I promised to be nice.
A nurse comes in, a different nurse, and shoos my sister out of the room. She takes my pulse, and checks the IV.
"How's Duncan?" I ask.
"Your friend?" The nurse smiles broadly. "He's going to make it. He's been asking about you."
I let my head loll to one side and stare at the wall. Duncan. He was asking about me. He was worried about me. That means he cares about me.
I can hear my siblings running up and down the hall, squealing. I think about the Prom I won't get to go to. And I think about Duncan's dreamy grey eyes.
Maybe I'll wait until next week to break it off with Duncan. I have to make sure he's okay first. It would be cruel of me to cut him off when he's injured. He didn't mean to get in a wreck. Duncan's usually a very safe driver.
Perhaps I can talk my mother around. There are still six months until Prom. Maybe she'll forget she said I couldn't go. It is unreasonable of her, after all.
And my siblings... I wince as my brother lets out a high-pitched shriek. Well, I'll start being nice to my siblings tomorrow. When I feel better.
I settle back against the pillow and breathe in the sterile hospital smells, closing my eyes. Searching for sleep, and giving tomorrow a chance to sort out its own worries for a while.
