“Genevieve?” My mom’s voice slices the memory to pieces. “Are you listening to me?”
“Sorry. I was just trying to remember what happened.” I shift slightly in bed and a sharp pain shoots through my left leg. I yank my blankets to the side and find my calf completely wrapped in gauze dressing. Gingerly, I reach out to touch the bandages.
“Nothing is broken, but a piece of metal cut into your muscle and the laceration required over twenty stitches,” Mom says. “How’s your head feeling?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“I don’t know how much the nurses told you before I arrived, but in addition to your leg, you suffered a skull fracture and an epidural hematoma requiring surgery. You also have a lot of scratches and bruises.” Mom’s voice wavers. She looks away for a second. “But it’s nothing that won’t heal.”
“So where’s Dallas?” I ask again. “Did he get hurt too?”
Mom’s face tightens into her “concerned parent” look, the one that makes two little divots form in the space between her eyebrows. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”
I rub at my eyes. “I’m sorry. I zoned out. You were telling me about the accident, right?” I fish through my memory of the last couple of minutes, but the only things that surface are the words “head injury” and “unresponsive.” She could have been talking about me.
My mom strides to the door of my room and snaps her fingers at my nurse as she passes by. “Get Derby back here.”
I sink down in the bed. I hate it when she does the snapping thing. I thought she mostly reserved it for waiters, which still makes me cringe, but seeing her do it in the hospital makes me wonder if maybe everyone here hates her, if she’s one of those mean surgeons the whole staff whispers about when she’s not around.
“But we just did a neuro check and everything seems intact,” the redheaded nurse says.
“I don’t care. Get him on the phone for me.”
The nurse looks ready to object again. Good for her for standing up to my mom, but I’m not sure she knows who she’s dealing with. I cough feebly as a distraction. “Mom. You’re not my doctor. You can’t order people around.”
My mom’s lips tighten into a hard line. “And we might need Psych up here as well.”
Of course, because if I’m standing up to her it’s either a brain bleed or a mental disorder. “I don’t need Psych,” I say. “I just want to know what happened to Dallas. Is he hurt badly? Is that why he’s not here?”
“Genevieve.” My mom pulls a chair over to the side of the bed. She curls one hand around mine. “How much do you remember about the accident?”
My heart starts pounding. Images flicker through my brain: flashing lights, smoke, blood. But is any of it real? I’m not sure. For all I know, I’m still unconscious on a ventilator and this moment isn’t even real. I bite down on my bottom lip until the pain makes my eyes water. “Just bits and pieces,” I say.
“It was very serious—a head-on collision,” my mom says softly. “I’m sorry, honey. Dallas didn’t survive. He’s dead.”
“What?” I say, even though I heard her just fine. I must have known in some way, from the look on my mom’s face, from the sound in her voice, that Dallas was gone, but hearing it stated so matter-of-factly is like a sledgehammer to the gut. “I don’t—” My eyes start to water. My jaw trembles. I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. I ball the fabric of my blanket in both fists. Through the blur of tears, I see my mom mouth “Psych” to the nurse. The nurse hurries from the room and Mom slides the glass door closed for privacy. She pulls a box of Kleenex from the counter and sets it on the bed next to me.
I grab a tissue and cover my face with it. “I don’t understand,” I choke out. “His first album just came out. How can he be dead?” I try to envision it in my mind—Dallas, lifeless—but I can’t even picture the word “dead.” I can’t remember how to spell it. I might even be saying it wrong.
“They said he probably wasn’t wearing his seat belt correctly, that airbags often don’t work the way they’re supposed to if you’re not buckled in.”
I barely hear the words my mom is saying. My brain keeps replaying, Dallas didn’t survive. He’s dead. The closest I’ve ever been to death is when Shannon had to go to Kansas City for her grandmother’s funeral. Shannon didn’t talk about it much and I didn’t press her.
“I know how hard this is going to be,” Mom says. “I just want you to know I’ll be supporting you every step of the way. Nurses, psychologists, physical therapists. Whatever you need—I’ll make sure you get it. I’ve overseen your care for the past week, I’ve—”
“Past week?” I peek over the edge of my tissue. “Wait. How long was I unconscious?”
“Five and a half days,” my mom says. “They had to keep you sedated until the swelling in your brain went down.”
“Oh my God.” The tissue slips from my fingers and falls to the bed, getting lost in the white folds of my blanket. Five and a half days. Brain swelling. I almost died too. The word “dead” feels just as strange when I think about it to describe myself.
Tears stream silently down my cheeks. I stare straight ahead, at the thick glass door to my room. Beyond it, doctors and nurses stride past carrying clipboards and tablet computers. They’re moving. Living. And I feel frozen in a single moment. Dallas didn’t survive. He’s dead.
Why Dallas instead of me?
“The police have been waiting to speak to you,” my mom says. “But I’ll tell them it can wait a little longer, until you’re feeling a bit better.”
I blink hard as I fight to regain control of my emotions, but now my mother has introduced fear into an already overwhelming mix of shock, grief, and pain. “Police? Why do the police want to talk to me?”
Mom’s face twists up into a frown. “Because you were hit by some drunken miscreant, and they want to make sure he goes to jail.”
“Is the other driver okay?”
My mom scoffs. “The people who cause the accidents always seem to come out on top. He was unresponsive at the scene but was resuscitated and woke up a couple of days ago with nothing but a concussion and a couple of scratches. He’s claiming he doesn’t remember anything. Too bad for him blood tests don’t lie. I will never understand people who think it’s okay to get wasted and then get behind the wheel of a car.”
“I swear to you I didn’t drink anything,” I say softly.
“I know you didn’t. The hospital did tox screens on both drivers, but I had no doubt what the results would be. You’re a good girl, Genevieve. I’m sorry that bad things sometimes happen to good people.”
The glass door to my room slides open and the redheaded nurse returns with a slender Asian man in tow. “It’s time for another neuro check,” she says brightly. “And I’ve brought Dr. Chao in case Genevieve feels like talking.” She holds a portable phone out toward my mother. “I’ve also got Dr. Derby on the line for you.”
Mom takes the phone. “Alex, one second,” she says. She turns back to me. “Do you feel up to visiting with your father?”
I have spoken to my dad only a handful of times since he divorced my mom for another woman three years ago and moved fifteen hundred miles away. I’ve never really forgiven him for the way he broke up our family, but now doesn’t seem like the time to hold a grudge. Plus, I guess it’s nice that he flew in all the way from Utah to see me. “Yeah, he can come in.” I glance around the room. “What time is it?”
“It’s about four-thirty,” Mom says. “I’ll tell him to wait until Dr. Chao is finished.” She turns her attention back to the phone as she clickety-clacks out of the room. I hear her ask something about cognitive processing speeds.
The nurse puts me through the same series of tests Dr. Derby did when I first woke up, asking me to hold out my arms, squeeze her hands, follow her flashlight with my eyes, etc. I ask her for pain medicine for my leg and she returns with a clear vial and a syringe.
Dr. Chao waits for her to administer the medicine and then closes the glass door behind her. He tells me he’s from Psychiatric Services and gives me some general information about PTSD, anxiety, depression, and sleep disorders—all common side effects of serious accidents. I listen quietly, but my focus flickers in and out. I’m still replaying my mom’s words in my head. Dallas didn’t survive. He’s dead.
“How are you really feeling?” Dr. Chao clears his throat. “Sorry, I know that’s standard therapy talk, but the emotional and physical responses to traumatic events can vary widely, and finding the best course of treatment depends on knowing where the patient is at.”
“I kind of lost it when my mom told me.” I point at my red eyes. “But now I just . . . I don’t know. It all seems sort of unreal. I think maybe I’m in shock. No one close to me has ever . . . you know.” I can’t bring myself to say “died.”
“Well, you might be feeling numb from the pain medicine you received, but you’ll be with us for a couple more days and then your mom asked me to recommend an outpatient therapist just in case. Between the two of us, we’ll make sure you’re covered for anything you need, okay?”
I nod. What I need is to rewind the past week and keep Dallas safe somehow, but I don’t think Dr. Chao can prescribe me a time machine. I glance past him. My dad has appeared outside the closed glass door. He’s pacing back and forth, his shirt rumpled, his hair sticking up. He looks like complete crap, and for some reason I find that comforting, like maybe he didn’t get remarried and forget all about me.
Dr. Chao follows my gaze. “It appears someone is anxious to see you,” he says. “I’ll check back in tomorrow. In the meantime, read through these if you get a chance.” He leaves a couple of pamphlets on dealing with grief on my nightstand and then heads back out into the ICU.
Dad strides into the room and comes immediately to my bedside, where he slides into the chair Dr. Chao vacated. “Genevieve.” He takes my left hand in both of his, expertly navigating multiple IV lines without pulling or pressing on anything. “I have never been so scared in my whole life.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m glad he’s here, but what slips out is “You got old.”
Dad laughs, and tears well in his eyes. “I never thought I’d be so happy to hear someone say that.”
“Sorry. I think that might be the pain medicine talking.”
“No, it’s fine that my gorgeous teenage daughter thinks I’m old. But if you’re referring to my gray hairs, I’m fairly certain all of them cropped up in the past few days.”
“Too much time with Mom, huh?” Again, the words fall from my lips without much thought. Either the nurse gave me really good drugs, or my dad’s presence is like one of those warm blankets she brought me earlier. I’ve been mad about the divorce for what feels like forever, but seeing him here reminds me of how things used to be. Suddenly I’m twelve years old again and my parents are still married. I never realized how good I had it back then.
Dad laughs again. “Pretty and funny. Some guy is going to be a lucky . . .” He trails off as he realizes what he’s said. “My turn to apologize,” he says. “I’m so sorry about Dallas. Such an incredibly talented young man. What a tragedy.”
I nod. I don’t want to talk about Dallas right now. I’ll just end up crying again and I don’t have the energy. Plus, there’s something bothering me when I think about him—something more than just the fact that he’s gone—but I’m not sure what it is. “I can’t believe you’re here,” I say. “What about your cases?”
My dad is also a workaholic surgeon, but that’s where the similarities end between him and my mom. Where Mom is high-strung and overdemanding, Dad is laid-back and was always kind of a slacker in the parent department. I think he viewed his role as more of a supporting one.
Dad rubs at his forehead. His blond hair is only beginning to recede, new threads of gray appearing at his temples since I last saw him. “I can’t believe you can’t believe I’m here.” He shakes his head ruefully. “I messed things up between us so badly. Thank God I have another chance to be a decent father to you.” He looks toward the ceiling for a second.
“Thank God?” As far as I know, my parents and I have all been atheists since I was old enough to decide for myself. “That’s new.”
“Yes, well. People change.”
“Not easily,” I say. “What happened? Did Rachael get you going to church?”
“Let’s just say I’m trying to be more open-minded these days.”
“I guess that’s good.” I pick at a loose thread on my blanket. “But it’s hard to even imagine a God who would kill Dallas. Everyone loved him. He was destined for so many great things.” My voice cracks and I look away. Neither one of my parents has ever been particularly skilled at handling my tears. I learned early on to do most of my crying in private.
Dad lifts one hand to my cheek. “Honey, I wish there was some way I could help. I know how close you and Dallas were.”
I turn back to face my dad. “How do you know that?”
“Well, for one, your mother told me. But even before then, I’ve seen all the pictures of the two of you on your Instagram, the interviews where Dallas said some of the songs on his album were written for his girlfriend.” Dad gives me a sad smile. “Just because we haven’t talked much in the past couple of years doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping up with how you’re doing.”
I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered at the idea of my dad stalking me online. I really did think after he messed up royally with Mom and me that he just decided to cut his losses and start over with his new wife.
“We’ve been dating—I mean, we dated—for over two years, but we were kind of going through a rough spot,” I say. “Dallas spent a lot of time working on his YouTube channel even before he got the offer to record the album, but it was never more than an obsessive hobby, you know? But once he started making real money, things changed.”
“You felt left behind?” my dad asks.
“More like we just ended up on different paths,” I say. “Maybe we would have broken up. I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make this any less traumatic for you.” Dad squeezes my hand gently.
“Thanks.” Dallas didn’t survive. He’s dead. It’s like I have to keep replaying those words in order to believe them. I know the first stage of grief is denial, but I’ve always thought of that as an active thing, a violent refusal to accept reality. What I feel is just this passive shock, this numbness. Maybe it is just the medicine, like Dr. Chao said. At least my leg stopped aching.
“Right now it all feels fake,” I say, more to myself than my dad. “Like I’m rehearsing for my role in the world’s most terrible play.”
I can’t shake the idea that my real life, and Dallas, are out there somewhere waiting for me.