“Furious.” His voice cracks again and this time he doesn’t manage to hold it back. “I can’t believe it. That bastard pretended to be my best friend while he screwed my wife behind my back. On our goddamned vacations! And he hasn’t even come here yet, has he? Can’t come and check on his own wife after he caused the accident?” he shouts. “He was my best man for God’s sake. Was he sleeping with her at my wedding too?”
It’s a valid question I’d also like the answer to. Especially since I’ve wondered about Rod and Elaine for a couple of years now.
“Hey, Brent, why don’t we go outside?” James, my brother-in-law pops into the conversation and his question is answered with footsteps.
The room is silent again for a moment. I blink but the lights above me are like tiny needles stabbing into my eyes. It burns.
“Hi there, I’m Dr. Christianson,” a new voice joins the room.
“Samuel?” Shawnee gasps and my brain does a slow lap with the name.
Samuel Christianson.
Sam.
Sammy.
Sammy from university.
Oh God.
Shit.
This can’t be happening.
God, why?
“Shawnee, holy shit. How’s it going?” he bursts, and the professional doctor tone is gone. He sounds like he did before, and I am taken back fifteen years to the summer of Samuel Christianson. The summer after second year. Dancing in the clubs. Drinking. Rubbing up against him. Listening to his crazy stories and laughing until my stomach ached. Walks on the beach. Exploring the coastline. Having my heart broken for the first time.
“Well, obviously it’s been better. How are you?” she replies with all the weight of the moment.
“Same old, same old.” His response is exactly what I expect from him. Same old Sam. “It’s been what, fifteen years?”
“Yeah, I think so. So you did end up going to medical school.”
“I did. I left after that summer with you guys. Went to McMaster and came back here for residency. What about you? Still photography?” he asks.
“Still photography,” she delivers the answer humbly as if she isn’t one of the most sought-after photographers on the East Coast.
“And what about Lilly, you guys remained friends?” he asks, seemingly unaware I am listening to the entire conversation.
“She’s an accountant and lying on the bed in front of you,” Shawnee says with a smile, I hear it in her voice.
“Oh shit, this is Lilly? Lilly—Lilly?” He sounds genuinely surprised and his tone rises slightly. “I didn’t recognize the last name. Jesus.” He barely gets that out and the hospital room floods with people again.
“Sammy,” James says excitedly.
“James, what’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“Lilly’s my sister-in-law,” James explains.
“No way, Liz is her sister? How have I never put two and two together on that?” Sam laughs and I’m lost on this weird reunion.
Maybe this is a dream.
“How do you two know each other?” Shawnee is also lost.
“He’s my realtor,” Sam answers. “Are you the husband?”
“No,” Brent retorts, sounding like he might be crying again. “I’m Lilly’s husband’s best friend. We just found out our spouses are having an affair,” he says randomly. The awkwardness grows as he continues with a series of sentences that Sam can’t possibly comprehend, “Which is how she ended up in the car accident. And when my wife realized Lilly was hurt, she confessed. Elaine’s leaving me for Rod, Lilly’s husband. My best friend.” He breaks.
“Damn,” Sam whispers.
No one else speaks.
Brent sobs.
Rod is leaving me.
He’s leaving me?
The words don’t seem easier to digest, even with the knowledge he’s having an affair. Even with my suspicions.
There’s no way this is a dream. Although none of this feels real.
Well, except the pain in my body. That’s definitely real. And worsening.
“Okay,” Sam offers with a sigh. “Well, if you guys want to go to the waiting room on the right, I’ll see if our patient is coming around. Nice seeing you, man.”
“You too,” James agrees. “We’re actually leaving to go meet my wife. Can you shoot me a text when Lilly wakes up?”
“Will do.”
The door closes and I’m alone with Samuel Christianson.
The guy I lost my virginity to.
The guy whose heart I broke along with my own.
The lone regret I have—obviously, besides letting Rod borrow my car and screw up my Bluetooth.
I don’t know how much worse this day can get, but his first words don’t improve it.
“You can stop pretending to sleep, Lil. They’re gone.” He calls me Lil, just as he did fifteen years ago. What is this hell?
“I wasn’t pretending. My head is killing me and the lights are brutal,” I whisper, not recognizing my own voice.
“Better?” He switches off the lights, leaving the room dimly lit. It’s the best feeling I’m sure I’ve ever felt. “I’m going to adjust the bed if that’s all right.”
“Okay.” I manage to get my eyes to stay open and it takes a second for them to clear. His face coming into focus is almost exactly the same as it was, except now he’s filled out and somehow handsomer than I recall. Maybe it’s the doctor outfit.
“Ohhh.” He cringes when he brings his hand to my face. “That is the most epic steering wheel mark I’ve seen.”
“It feels awful,” I say, trying not to move anything too much. Not that I can—my neck is in a brace and my arm is tied to my body in a splint.
“It’ll feel much worse tomorrow and even worse the next day.” He sits on the edge of the bed. “Though probably not as bad as your heart’s feeling right now.” He rests a hand on mine. It’s warm and soothing. “Some day, huh?” He tries to joke but the concern in his stare is too intense for humor.
“Some day,” my voice cracks. Before I can stop them, tears slip from my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I lift my hand but he beats me to it, gently wiping.
“Please don’t apologize. How are you feeling, pain-wise?”
“It’s bad. It’s slowly increasing.”
“Okay. Your meds should be here momentarily.” His eyes dart to the door.
“Is this serious? My injuries?” I ask, wanting desperately to keep to the topic of my accident and nothing else. I can’t bear the thought of talking about us or my marriage.
“Yes and no. Your concussion is grade three. It’s serious, but since it’s your first, you stand a great chance of a full recovery. The shoulder has some minor pulling of ligaments but won’t need surgery. Everything went back into place as it should. We’ll keep you fairly immobile for a couple of days, splint and the neck brace. Two days of that and then you start on recovery.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I mutter, tired again. There’s a strange comfort and safety in his presence, despite the awkwardness of what happened all those years ago. His voice on my old answering machine still haunts me some days.