Maybe in Another Life

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  I smile at him. “You might be right,” I say, and then I close my eyes. Conversation takes more energy than I thought.

  “Anything I can get you?” he whispers before he leaves.

  I shake my head slightly. “Er, actually . . . maybe a hair tie?” I point to my head. My hair is down around my shoulders. I am lying on it. I hate lying on my hair.

  “That’s an easy one,” he says. He pulls one out of his shirt pocket. I look at him, surprised.

  “I find them all over the hospital. Someday maybe I’ll tell you about the elaborate reminder system I use them for.” He comes close and puts one in my hand. I only get a slightly better look at his tattoo. I still can’t make it out.

  “Thanks,” I say. I lean forward, trying to get a good angle, trying to gather all of my hair. But it’s hard. My entire body aches. Moving my arms high enough seems impossible.

  “Hold on,” he whispers. “Let me.”

  “Well,” I say, “I don’t want a ponytail.”

  “OK . . .” he says. “I don’t have to braid it, do I? That seems complicated.”

  “Just a bun. High up.” I point toward the crown of my head. I don’t care if the bun looks good. I just want it out from under my head and neck. I want it contained and out of the way.

  “All right, lean forward if you can.” He starts to gather my hair. “I think this is the beginning of a complete disaster.”

  I laugh and push my body forward. I wince.

  “Let’s get you a bit higher dosage on the pain meds. Does that sound OK?” he says. “You shouldn’t be in that much pain.”

  I nod. “OK, but I think they’ve turned it as high as it will go.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. We might be able to go higher.” He drops my hair momentarily and moves toward my IV. I can’t see what he’s doing; he’s behind me. And then he’s in front of me again, picking up my hair. “I mean, you might start saying weird things and having hallucinations,” he jokes, “but better that you’re not in pain.”

  I smile at him.

  “All right, so I’m just gathering all of this hair and putting it on the top of your head and then wrapping a rubber band around it?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leans into me, our faces close together. I can smell the coffee on his breath. I feel slight tugging and pressure. He’s got some of my hair caught, pulling tightly against my scalp.

  “Looser? Maybe?” I say.

  “Looser? OK.” His arms are in my face, but the tattoo is facing the other direction. I bet it’s a woman’s name. He seems like the kind of guy who met a woman on some exotic island and married her and they have four beautiful children and live in a house with a gourmet kitchen. She probably makes beautiful dinners that incorporate all the food groups, and I bet they have fruit trees in their backyard. Not just oranges, either. Lemons, limes, avocados. I think the medication is up too high.

  “OK,” he says. “Voilá, I guess.” He backs away from me ever so subtly to check his work.

  By the look on his face, I can tell that my bun looks ridiculous. But it feels right. It feels like a high bun. I feel like myself for the first time today. Which . . . feels great. I feel great. Also, I’m definitely high.

  “Do I look silly?” I ask.

  “It’s probably not my best work,” he says. “You pull it off, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Well, if you need any other hairstyles, just press that button. I’m here for the next eight hours.”

  “Will do,” I say. “I’m Hannah.”

  “I know,” he says, smiling. “I’m Henry.”

  When he turns and leaves, I finally get a good glimpse of his tattoo. Isabelle.

  Man, all the good ones are taken by Isabelles.

  I lay my head down, relishing the free space behind my neck.

  Henry’s head pops back in.

  “What’s your favorite flavor of pudding?” he asks me.

  “Probably chocolate,” I say. “Or tapioca? And vanilla is good.”

  “So all of them? You like all flavors of pudding?” he says, teasing me.

  I laugh. “Chocolate,” I say. “Chocolate is good.”

  “I take my break at two a.m.,” he tells me. He looks at his watch. “If you’re still up, which I hope for your sake you aren’t, but if you are still up, maybe I’ll bring you some chocolate pudding.”

  I smile and nod. “That’d be nice,” I whisper.

  It’s quiet on the floor, and it’s dark. Gabby is snoring so loudly I think for sure that I will not be able to fall asleep, that I will be wide awake when Henry comes back.

  I turn on the TV. I flip through the channels.

  And then I wake up in the morning to the sound of Gabby’s voice. “Where did this chocolate pudding come from?”

  I lie on Ethan’s couch and stare up at the ceiling. He went to work today. I spent the morning cleaning up his apartment. Not his messes, mind you. But my own. My clothes were strewn across all of his furniture. His kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes that were mostly, if not all, mine. My stray hairs were pasted in a tangled-rope fashion across his shower walls. But now everything is spotless, and I’m forced to admit I have nothing to do. With Ethan back to work and life returning to normal, I realize I have no normal.

  Gabby is picking me up when she leaves her office around six. We are heading to her parents’ house for dinner. But until then, I’ve got nothing.

  I turn on Ethan’s TV and flip through the channels. I check his DVR for anything that piques my interest. I come up empty and turn it off. The silence proves to amplify the voice in my head, telling me I need to get a life.

  Flirting and spending your days in bed and eating cinnamon rolls with your old high school boyfriend is a wonderful way to pass the time. But what is going on between Ethan and me doesn’t solve the challenges that lie ahead.

  I grab a pen and a piece of paper from Ethan’s desk and start scribbling down a plan.

  I am a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of person. I am a see-where-life-takes-you sort of person. But that sort of approach to life isn’t yielding results for me. It gets me paying the bills waiting tables and sleeping with married men. I don’t want that anymore. I want to try order instead of chaos.

  I can do that. I can be an organized person. Right? I mean, I did clean this entire apartment today. It’s orderly and contained now. There’s no sign that Hurricane Hannah hit. And maybe that’s because I don’t have to be a hurricane.

  I want to build a life here. In Los Angeles. So I’m starting with a list.

  Suddenly, I start to feel queasy. My stomach turns sour. But then the phone rings, and my mind is elsewhere.

  It’s Gabby.

  “Hi. Are you ready to be shocked? I’m making a list. An actual, organized life-plan list.”

  “Who is this, and what have you done with Hannah?” she says, laughing.

  “If you want her back, you’ll listen to me,” I say. “I need a million dollars in unmarked, nonconsecutive bills.”

  “I’ll need time to get together that kind of money.”

  “You have twelve hours.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I definitely can’t do that in twelve hours. Just kill her. It’s fine. She’ll like heaven.” Why did it take me this long to realize I should be in the same city as her?

  “Hey!” I say, laughing.

  She starts laughing with me. “Ohhhh,” she says. “Hannah, it’s you! I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say. “But don’t come crying to me when you get kidnapped.”

  She laughs again. “I called to tell you I’m coming by earlier than I thought. Probably around five, if that works for you. I’ll bring you back to my place, and then we can head out to Pasadena to see my parents around seven or so.”

  “Awesome. I’ll hurry up and finish this list,” I say, and then we get off the phone.

  I look at the piece of paper in front of me. It
says “Buy a car.” That’s the first thing I wrote down. The only thing I wrote down.

  I quickly scribble “Get a job,” and I waver about whether or not to put down “Find an apartment.” The truth is, between Ethan and Gabby, I have plenty of options for where to stay. It seems fair to assume I’ll figure something out. But then I decide no, I’m putting it down. I’m not going to see what happens. I’m going to make a plan. I’m going to be proactive.

  Car.

  Job.

  Apartment.

  It seems so simple, written out in order. For a moment, as I look at it, I think, Is that all? And then I realize that simple and easy aren’t the same thing.

  By the time Gabby comes to pick me up, I’m standing on the sidewalk waiting for her.

  I get into the car, and Gabby starts driving.

  She looks at me and shakes her head, smiling. I am grinning from ear to ear.

  “Did I call this, or did I call this?” she says.

  “Call what?” I ask, laughing.

  “You and Ethan.”

  I shake my head. “It just happened!” I say. “I didn’t know it was going to happen.”

  “But didn’t I say that it would?”

  “Neither here nor there,” I say. “The point is, we’re together now.”

  “Together?” Gabby says, laughing. “Like, you’re together?”

  I laugh. “Yes, we’re together.”

  “So I can assume that aside from the occasional ride here and there and a few meals, I have lost you to your newfound boyfriend?”

  I shake my head. “No, not this time. I’m not seventeen anymore. I have a life to create here. Romance is great. But it’s only one part of a well-rounded life. You know?”

  Gabby puts her hands to her heart and smiles to herself. I start laughing. I wasn’t trying to placate her. I just don’t think that having a good boyfriend solves all my problems.

  I’ve still got plenty of problems to solve.

  Deanna comes in to bring me my breakfast and check up on me. Shortly after she leaves, Dr. Winters comes in and sits down with Gabby and me to discuss the details of my injury now that I’m a bit more stable. My parents are on their way, and I know they’d want to be here for this, but I can’t wait. I have to know.

  Dr. Winters explains that the crash severed my femoral artery and broke my right leg and pelvis. I was unconscious and rushed into surgery to stop the bleeding and repair the break. I lost a considerable amount of blood and sustained a pretty significant blow to the head when I fell. As she tells me all of this, she continues to stress the fact that all of my injuries are fairly common in a car accident of this magnitude and that I will be fine. Knowing just how bad it was makes it harder to believe that I will be OK. But I suppose just because something is hard to understand, that doesn’t make it any less true.

  When Dr. Winters is done going through some memory questions, she tells me that I will be sent home in a wheelchair. I won’t be able to walk for a few weeks as my pelvis heals. And even then, I will have to start off very slowly and very gently. I will need physical therapy in order to exercise the muscles that have been damaged, and I’ll be in pain . . . well, almost all the time.

  “It’s a long road ahead,” Dr. Winters says. “But it is a steady one. I have no doubt that someday, sooner rather than later, you will be able to go for a run around the block.”

  I laugh at her. “Well, I’ve never gone for a run around the block in the past, so now that my legs are immobile, it seems like a good time to start.”

  “You joke,” she says, getting up. “But I’ve had patients who were complete couch potatoes start training for marathons when they get the use of their legs back. Something about that temporary and jarring loss of mobility can really encourage people to see what they are capable of.”

  She pats my hand and moves toward the door.

  “Make sure you tell the nurses if you need anything. And if you have any other questions, I’m here,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say, and then I turn to Gabby. “Great. So not only am I unable even to walk myself to the bathroom right now, but if I don’t start dreaming of marathons and Nikes, I’m a slacker.”

  “I believe that is what she said, yes. She said if you don’t start training for the L.A. Marathon this very second, your life is a waste, and you might as well pack it in.”

  “Man, Dr. Winters can be such a bitch,” I say, and instantly, there is a knock at the door. For a moment, I’m terrified it’s Dr. Winters. I didn’t mean it. I was just joking. She’s really nice. I like her.

  It’s Ethan.

  “OK for me to sneak in?” Ethan says. “Is now a good time?”

  He pulls a large bouquet of lilies from behind his back.

  “Hi,” I say. I love lilies. I wonder if he remembered that or if it’s a coincidence.

  “Hey,” he says. His voice is gentle, as if speaking too loudly could hurt me. He hasn’t moved from the door. “Is this . . . ? Am I . . . ?”

  “It’s OK,” Gabby says. “Come on in. Have a seat.” She moves to the other side of me.

  He comes closer and hands me the flowers. I take them and smell them. He smiles at me as if I’m the only person in the world.

  As I look at him, it comes back to me, almost like a dream at first, and then the more I remember, the more it grabs hold.

  I remember Gabby handing me her phone. I remember looking down at it. Seeing Katherine’s message.

  Going home with Ethan. Is this a terrible idea?

  I bury my face in the flowers instead of looking directly at him. In a hospital, where everything is so clinical and unscented, where the air itself is stale, the smell of lilies almost feels as if it could make you high. I breathe in again, stronger, trying to inhale as much of their life and freshness as I can. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. These are cut flowers. They are, by their very definition, dying.

  “Mmm,” I say. He’s not serious about us. He’s not interested in an “us” if he went home with her. This is Michael all over again. This is me needing to learn that you have to face the truth of a situation head-on. He almost kissed me, and then he went home with another girl. “They smell great.”

  “How are you?” he says. He sits down in the chair next to the bed.

  “I’m OK,” I say. “Really.”

  He stares at me for a moment.

  “Can you take these back?” I say, handing the flowers to Gabby. “I don’t have anywhere to really . . .”

  “Oh,” Gabby says. “Let me go find some water and something to put them in. Sound good?” She’s trying to find a reason to leave us alone, and a perfect one just fell into her lap. She slips out the door and smiles at me.

  “So,” he says, breathing in hard.

  “So,” I say.

  We are both quiet, looking at each other. I can tell he’s worried about me. I can tell it’s hard for him to look at me and see me in this hospital bed. I also know that it’s not his fault I’m upset at the memory of him taking Katherine home. We had no claim on each other, made no promises.

  And besides, this memory may be fresh for me because I just remembered it, because it was temporarily lost in the haziness of my brain, but it happened days ago. It’s old news to him.

  We both speak up at the same time.

  “How are you, really?” he asks me.

  “How’ve you been?” I ask him.

  He laughs. “Did you just ask me how I’ve been? How have you been? That’s the question. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’m OK,” I say.

  “You scared me half to death,” he says. “Do you know that? Do you know how heartbroken I’d be to live in a world you weren’t in?”

  I know that I should believe him. I know that he’s telling the truth. But the fact of the matter is that I worry that I’ll believe him too much, that I’ll become too easily swayed into believing what I want to believe about him. I don’t want to do what I would have do
ne before. I don’t want to believe what a person says and ignore what he does. I don’t want to see only what I want to see.

  I want to be realistic, for once. I want to be grounded. I want to make smart decisions.

  So when Ethan smiles at me and makes me feel as if I invented the world, when he comes close to me and I can feel the warmth of his body and the smell of his laundry detergent just like in high school, I have to ignore it. For my own good.

  “I really am OK,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. It’s just some broken bones. But I’m OK.”

  He grabs my hand. I flinch. He sees me do it and takes his hand back.

  “Have they been treating you well?” he says. “I hear hospital food leaves something to be desired.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “I could use a good meal. Although the pudding isn’t so bad.”

  “Did they say how long you’ll be in here?” he asks. “I want to know when I can take you out on the town again.”

  I laugh politely. It’s this sort of stuff. This sort of flirty, charming stuff. That’s the stuff that gets me.

  “It’s gonna be a while,” I say. “You might want to find another girl to paint the town red with.”

  “No,” he says, smiling. “I think I’d rather wait for you.”

  No, you wouldn’t.

  I keep hoping Gabby will come back in with the flowers, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Well,” I say, “don’t.” My tone is polite but not particularly warm. Given the fact that it wasn’t a very nice thing to say in the first place, I think I’ve shown my hand.

  “OK,” he says. “I should probably get going. You probably need your rest, and I should get to work . . .”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”

  He heads toward the door and turns around. “You know I would do anything for you, right? If you need anything at all . . . ?”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  He nods and looks down at the floor and then back up at me. He looks as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just taps his hand on the door frame one time and then walks through it.