“Don’t downplay that, Greg. It’s impressive. How long?”
“I’ve been here for two years now. Before that, I was a resident in Chicago.”
“And before that, seventy-two years of school.”
“Exactly. Don’t I look good for my age?”
He puffs his chest with the joke, spreading his arms out wide and looking off into the distance with a look akin to Dwayne Johnson’s smolder on his face.
You look good for any age is the first thought that comes to me, but I just smile instead of answering.
“So, did you get the rundown of everything already?”
I sigh, looking down at all the wires and tubes hooked up to me. “Dr. Simmons told me everything, yes, but again… it’s foggy. Something about a lacerated spleen?” I touch my head. “And I guess I banged my head pretty good.”
“You did, indeed. Had a nasty cut that took a dozen stitches to fix up. But the internal bleeding was our biggest concern.” His face is grim, lips pressing together for a moment. “I’m glad it wasn’t something worse.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, wincing a bit as I adjust myself in the bed. “Although, I have a feeling the worst pain of all will come when I get the bill from all this.”
Suddenly, my heart drops.
“Shit… my car?”
Greg shakes his head, a frown of sympathy on that too-hot-to-be-a-doctor face of his. “I’m not sure, but from what I saw on the news, I don’t think anyone’s car survived the wreckage.”
My head falls back against the pillows again. “Great.”
Greg watches me for a long moment, his eyes searching, questions dancing in those irises like water striders on a lake. He opens his mouth to speak, but then his cell buzzes, and he checks the screen with a frown.
He sighs, standing immediately and rolling the stool back to the corner of the room.
“Duty calls,” he says, attempting a smile that falls flat before it can reach his eyes. “It’s really nice to see you again, Mrs. Parks. I mean, I wish it were under different circumstances, but…”
“What, you don’t like my gown?” I ask, holding out my arms and gesturing to the horrid bag-like thing I’m dressed in.
He smirks.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I say when the joke has passed. “And just call me Amanda. Or Ms. Young. But preferably Amanda, because Ms. Young makes me think of being scolded in grade school.”
I attempt a laugh, but it dies in my throat when I catch Greg’s frown, his eyes flicking to my left hand and latching onto the ring-less finger there.
“I’d really like to see you again,” he almost whispers when his eyes find mine again. “To catch up.”
A nervous laugh is all I can manage before his cell vibrates loudly again.
“Yeah, I’m just really busy right now,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Lots going on. And it sounds like you’re busy, too. But hey, it was nice running into you.”
That’s it, Amanda. Smash that balloon of hope before it swells up so big it shoves you out of this seventh-floor window.
Greg can’t mask the disappointment on his face, but he smiles through it, giving me a curt nod. “I understand. Well… rest up. I imagine they’ll release you tomorrow morning, if all goes well tonight.”
Stupidly, I salute him like he’s a drill sergeant, and then with one last curious look at me, he disappears into the hallway.
As soon as he’s gone, I smack my hand against my forehead.
Then, I wince, realizing I have a massive cut there and feeling doubly foolish.
“Cool, Amanda. Real smooth,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted again, and I let my head relax back against the pillows with a sigh.
My eyes flutter shut, and the television lulls me to sleep.
That Night - Sixteen Years Ago
“Josh, please,” I beg, lips quivering, tears blurring my vision as I plead with my husband. His hands grip my arms even tighter, and I wince, crying out against the pain.
“Why do you do this to me? You make me so goddamn angry!”
He shakes me with the accusation, and I know there will be bruises where his hands press into my skin. I’m already thinking of what I’ll wear to cover them, how I’ll explain them away if anyone asks.
I remember a time when those hands used to hold me, soothe me, assure me things would be okay.
A time when they wouldn’t reach for the bottle over his wife.
“I didn’t mean to. If you can just—”
“You didn’t mean to,” he mocks, his greasy hair sticking to his forehead. Those beautiful blue eyes of his that I once found comfort in are red now, bulging, the veins of his neck throbbing as he screams. “You never mean to. You’re so fucking stupid. You’re a waste of fucking space!”
I close my eyes against the next wave of pain.
“Look at me,” he demands, and he doesn’t even give me enough time to open my eyes before he repeats, “LOOK AT ME!”
And then, I’m tossed to the floor, my head banging against one of the kitchen cabinet handles on the way down.
I cry out, my wrists aching as I try to catch myself and ease the blow when I hit the ground. Blood trickles into my eyelashes as David shoves his father from behind.
“That’s enough!” he demands, chest heaving as he dares his father to strike back.
“David,” I try, but my plea is cut off.
“No! I’m tired of this. You’re drunk, Dad. Go cool off.”
Josh shakes his head, his manic eyes on his son before they flick to where I’m still on the floor. “You trying to turn our son against me?”
“No,” I cry.
“You’re nothing but a useless bit—”
He winds up to kick me, and I curl in on myself to prepare for the blow — but it never comes. Instead, he’s wrestled to the ground by David, and they’re a mess of grunts and fists until David pins Josh to the ground.
“Dad, stop!”
My heart breaks.
My little boy. He was always supposed to stay my little boy. My happy, oblivious, safe little boy.
But he knows now. Maybe he’s always known. Maybe I was the naïve one, thinking I could keep his father’s drunken rage focused on me, that I could spare him.
He’s sixteen now. A young man.
And he’s not blind.
For a moment, Josh is silent, breathing erratically before he shoves David off him and stumbles toward the front door. He swipes his keys off the table on the way.
“Fuck you both,” he spits, and then he slams the door.
A sob chokes me, and in an instant, David is by my side, checking the wound on my head, the bruises already appearing on my arms as he curses.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod, tears streaming down my face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The words flow out of me automatically, guilt and shame and terror webbing together in a terrible, sticky mess.
“It’s not your fault,” my son promises.
I don’t believe him.
After my sobs quiet, David helps me stand, and then he sighs, grabbing the keys to my car off the hook by the door.