Throat

by R. A. Nelson

  “Now wait a minute,” my mom said. “Let’s calm down here. You’re getting a little out of control. My daughter—”

  “Your daughter,” Ms. Roberts said, sputtering now, “has gotten away with murder all year, because of her, because of her …”

  Say it, I thought. Because of my seizure disorder. Say it and I’ll break your nose too.

  She turned to the official, face pale with frustration, unable to complete her thought.

  “This is serious,” the official said. “There will have to be … a board hearing … to see … what they decide from there. We will see—”

  “Did you see my daughter? She will never look the same again, do you hear me! That’s it. If you won’t do anything, I’m filing charges for assault.” Ms. Roberts turned to her son. “Give me your cell, Trevor. I’m calling 911.”

  My mother was screaming at her now. Manda was screaming in general. I saw Mom’s car keys dangling from the side pocket of her big floppy purse. I don’t know why I did it. I reached and grabbed the keys while they were all still screaming and ran for the parking lot. I got the door opened before anyone noticed it, shoved the keys in the ignition. Put my foot on the gas and roared out of the parking lot, no idea where I was going.

  Night had fallen. I turned out onto the country highway and floored it, feeling the Kia complain but noticing it only with my bones. No streetlights and I didn’t even have the headlights on. I fumbled, looking for the switch, tears streaming down my face, my hands slick on the wheel.

  So far nothing in my rearview mirror. Guess they didn’t care what happened to me. Soon the brightness of the soccer field lights was only a glow above the trees swallowed up by the hungry dark of the woods. I sped on, chasing the cone of my headlights.

  I turned at the first side road I saw, gunning the engine and making the car fishtail. I was ready to point the wheel in any direction, let it carry me.

  The level ground fell away; almost before I knew it, I was plunging down the plateau. The tires squealed as I slid into the curves like a motorcycle racer, foot barely letting up on the gas. I jounced over a series of rough bumps that made the beam of the headlights jitter and leap. At times I was bouncing so hard, the headlights weren’t even shining on the road but instead up into the endless mass of trees and vines.

  I didn’t care. I pushed harder on the gas, and when I didn’t see the curve, I felt the car go suddenly airborne, sailing off the shoulder and down into the woods. I screamed and came to earth hard with a big banging crash that threw me toward the dash, then back against the seat.

  Dirt fell on the hood like rain. I sat there breathing a moment. Held my hands up stupidly, feeling my fingers shake. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. Somehow the air bag hadn’t gone off. I sat there listening to the engine tick and feeling my heart gallop.

  The forest was bone white in the headlights. The engine was still running, but I was stuck. Mom’s car was resting on a downslope that was covered with skinny saplings. I had rammed into a muddy bank above a small spring.

  When I could find my voice again, I swore. My cell phone was in my athletic bag back at the field.

  I pounded my fists on the steering wheel, cursing again and then jerking at the wheel as if I could tear it out by the roots. I couldn’t get the driver’s-side door open; it was lodged against something. So I climbed over and tried the latch on the passenger side, then kicked the door open with my cleats.

  I tore off my shin guards and threw them in the backseat. Rolled my sweaty socks down and loosened my cleats; Coach Kline always made us lace them really tight to get more toe into the ball. Mom kept a flashlight in the glove box for emergencies. I got it and slid out into the stream. The water was shockingly cold on my legs. The ground was tilted and I had trouble standing, but I didn’t seem to be hurt. I had to put my back against the car and move along the bank like a crab, then used saplings to haul myself uphill to look around.

  I couldn’t even see the road, which was still farther above me, but by swinging the flashlight beam around, I could make out the black-gray shape of some kind of structure in the woods.

  I pointed the light in front of me, beating back the vines with the handle. Maybe someone would be there and I could use their phone. Stupid. You are so stupid. I had stopped crying and the terrible anger was starting to fall away, leaving me feeling flat and empty and embarrassed. What is wrong with me? Why do I do things like this?

  It was harder to get to the little house in the woods than I thought. The ground was so unlevel, I kept slipping and sliding. The flashlight beam glinted off some windows, but there were no lights on in the house. I wondered how it even got there. I couldn’t see any road or driveway or even a path. It was as if it had grown up out of the ground.

  The siding was rough, wide planks the color of old barns. I went around to the front and came to a door with a design shaped like a Z. I knocked several times, but no one came. My feet hurt. I sat on the little porch and took off my cleats and rubbed my toes, the flashlight beam pointing up to infinity.

  I could see the lights from the car still burning over by the stream bank, reflecting into the woods at a crazy angle. I should have cut them off, was probably burning up the battery or whatever it is that happens when you leave them on.

  I wondered if I should try to walk back to the soccer fields. Mom was going to be so furious, I’d be under house arrest for a year. I beat my fists on the tops of my legs, fresh tears springing up. The license. It was mine. I had earned it.

  Manda must have been so scared, seeing me take the car like that. I put her in the room in my head where I put stuff that I didn’t want to think about right now. I needed to get out of this situation somehow, then I could start trying to fix all the things I had broken. Maybe—

  “Hello,” a voice behind me said.

  I have never been the skittish type, but I jumped about three feet and even let out a tiny bit of a shriek. It was a deep, deep man’s voice that somehow made me instantly conscious of the bones inside my arms and legs, as if they had separated from the tissue and I couldn’t use them anymore.

  I spun around, fists raised; there was no one there. But the door, the big wooden door with the pattern like a Z, was gone. There was nothing there but a tall black rectangle in front of me. It’s open.

  “What were you expecting?” the deep voice went on. “For me to say, ‘Enter freely and of your own will’?”

  I never heard the door open, not a creak. No one was standing there that I could see. The flashlight was at my feet, still aimed up at the stars. I reached for it and the voice spoke again.

  “My God, you are young, aren’t you? A girl. What are you doing here by yourself?”

  The voice was coming from the black rectangle inside the house. I pointed the flashlight. I could see at least twelve feet of empty space beyond the open door, the flashlight beam tacking a spot on the far wall with a nail of light.

  The floor was rough-sawn and littered with dust bunnies and little bits of trash and leaves. There were no footprints in the dust. I was just about to say something about the car being stuck, and now I was glad that I hadn’t.

  “Where are you?” I said, feeling a pulse start up in my neck.

  “Ah, I like that,” the voice said.

  The voice was outside now, somewhere to my right. I swung the flashlight beam over. Still no one there. I turned in a frantic circle. Every direction was empty.

  “Your throat is … vollkommen. Perfect,” the voice said. “I can smell just the slightest hint of … Salz. And your feet are bare. More than perfect. And is that some kind of u-ni-form?”

  The word uniform was pronounced in three slow syllables as if he wasn’t used to it. Not a hint of redneck; the voice almost sounded cultured. I felt my skin freezing in horror.

  I stepped backward, keeping my eyes on the house. The car was about forty yards away, up a slope and then over the top of the stream bank. I was fast, but could I make it before he could
catch me? All those branches, vines, the incline. But if I did make it to the car and hit the door locks, then what? He could pick up a tree branch, bash the windshield in, and drag me out. A sound was coming out of my mouth now, an animal kind of mewling.

  “What are you thinking?” the voice said. “I cannot read thoughts, but I would dearly love to know yours.” Now the voice was behind me. I whirled around in a panic, saw nothing but the bones of more trees.

  “I can’t see you,” I said. “Come … come out where I can see you.”

  “But I’m right here.”

  I turned a complete circle, seeing nothing.

  My heart was pounding. The car was my only chance. Find some kind of weapon in there. Something—maybe something on the floorboards or hidden in the glove box. This isn’t happening. This isn’t—

  I tensed the muscles in my thighs, preparing to spring up the slope.

  “Here,” the deep voice said, “I am.”

  I looked straight up. A towering black figure stood on narrow branches directly above me. His eyes were black. He dropped, and I felt the world come down on top of me.

  Something was fluttering around in my head. I grabbed at it, but I was always too slow. I tried to catch it for a while, then got tired and fell asleep again. The next time I woke up, I heard a voice.

  “I think two days at the most, maybe three,” a man said.

  But it wasn’t a deep voice. More like my art teacher last year, Mr. Mancuso, whose passion for painting sometimes got away from him. Some of the kids called him Mr. Manicure behind his back. Why was I expecting the voice to be deep?

  Why was it so light in here? Something told me it should be dark, but I could see the brightness through my closed eyelids. I tried to open my eyes, but they were gummed shut. Tried harder and a crack of visibility became a slice of bright room with a tiled floor and green walls framed by the prison bars of my eyelashes.

  I raised my arm to brush at my eyes and something tugged painfully: a plastic tube with a needle was stuck to the back of my hand. The tube led away from the needle beyond where I could see. I let my hand slump back down, felt sheets and a thin blanket. I was in some kind of bed.

  “But two transfusions? Two?”

  My mother’s voice, but I couldn’t see her. Someone passed in the hall, a small heavyset woman in rumpled blue hospital togs. I watched her, not totally comprehending.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood. It’s a miracle she was still on her feet.” The man’s voice again, somewhere to my left. I tried turning that way and it felt as if my head were going to twist off my shoulders. My neck was killing me.

  “Mmmph,” I said. Then said it again louder when nobody noticed. I never felt so tired in my life. Everlastingly tired. I pushed away from the bed, trying to sit, gave up, and collapsed back into the bunchy pillows, ears muffled.

  “Emma!”

  Mom swam into view and took my hand, accidentally jerking the plastic tube.

  “Ouch.” I was too tired to be alarmed.

  Mom’s eyes were baggy and ringed with dark circles. Her hair was limp, her thin face creased with concern.

  “She’s awake!” she said, and wrapped her arms around me. Well, as much as the sheets would allow.

  A man appeared at her shoulder. He was a head taller than Mom, young, though already balding, with small eyes and arms too long for his white coat. Behind him I could see a gold cross hanging on washed-out yellow walls.

  “I’m Dr. Williams, Emma. You’re in Saint Joseph’s Hospital of Atlanta. You’ve been in an accident. What do you remember? Do you know what happened to you?”

  I pushed up to a sitting position and nearly howled in pain. Yanked the sheets back and saw a blood-soaked bandage on my upper thigh.

  “What’s this?” I said, touching the bandage.

  “Lie still, please! You—your leg was apparently injured in the crash. The wound was deep, cut into the subcutaneous tissue. Another inch and it would have severed a tendon. Thirty-six sutures to patch it up. You’re a lucky girl.”

  For the first time since waking, I remembered about my license. Lucky. Yeah, that’s what you’d call me. But I hadn’t remembered being hurt in the—Oh. Oh no. The crash …

  “I’m … I’m sorry, Mom,” I managed to croak. “Sorry about the car.”

  She shushed me, shaking her head. “You rest. The doctor says you have lost a lot of blood, Emma. We have no idea what you cut your leg on. The state police said there wasn’t any blood in the car.”

  I ran my tongue over my lips. They were cracked and raw.

  “Are you thirsty?” Dr. Williams said.

  They sponged my eyes with a warm rag and I sucked on a cup of ice chips awhile and felt a little better.

  “How did I get here?” I said.

  “What do you remember?” Dr. Williams said again.

  “I don’t know. Is it … is it night?”

  I searched the room with my eyes. An overstuffed chair sat in the corner along with a white plastic bag, my bloody soccer uniform peeking over the top. A TV on a metal bracket, a set of double windows with the plastic shades closed. Dr. Williams stepped over and drew the shades, and a grainy light spread across the end of the bed. The glass was dotted with raindrops.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “You’ve been in and out all night,” Mom said. “We’ve been so worried.”

  “I remember it was dark,” I said. “The last game … the one where … Gretchen cut me off and we collided …”

  “But after that?” Mom said.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Just taking the car. Something happened after that … after I drove off in the ditch.”

  “We believe you had a second tonic-clonic, Emma,” Dr. Williams said. “It’s not all that uncommon—”

  “I know,” I said.

  “She’s had two in one day before,” Mom said. “You remember, Emma, that time with the swing?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Anyhow, that’s most likely what’s causing your lack of memory,” Dr. Williams said. “In a high percentage of incidents, patients recovering from a strong tonic-clonic experience what is called transient epileptic amnesia, which is a temporal lobe—”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it a million times. Okay, so what did happen to me?”

  “We had the state police out, everyone searching,” Mom said. “A farmer found you. You were walking up the middle of a deserted road nearly three miles from where they found the car.”

  “Three miles?”

  “You collapsed into his arms. He drove you out of the mountains in his pickup.”

  My head was churning as if something was trying to surface from the subconscious part of my brain. I closed my eyes and tried to remember.

  “What did he look like?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The farmer.”

  “I don’t know. We never saw him. I wanted to thank him, but we don’t even know his name.”

  “You’ve had a couple of transfusions,” Dr. Williams said. “We want to keep you another night or two until you are strong again.”

  I lifted my hand. A tiny blue ribbon was tied around the needle.

  “We call that a butterfly,” Dr. Williams said. “The ribbon, I mean. Usually we reserve those for children, to keep from frightening them.…” He probably saw my eyes flash. “Not you, of course. You were pretty shaky when they brought you in. Not many people could have still been on their feet, let alone walking up a mountain road, having lost that much blood. You have wonderful endurance. How do you feel?”

  “Hungry.”

  “Great. That’s a great sign. They’ll be bringing you something soon.”

  “You should see how pale you are!” Mom said.

  “How’s the car?” I said, looking at the sheets.

  Mom touched my hand. “Thank God for Triple A. It’s going to be all right. But if you ever, I mean ever, do something like that again …”

  “And I
’m off the team,” I said.

  “Let’s not worry about that right now. That’s not important.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “You just get better.”

  I ate a big lunch and talked on the phone to Manda, who cried and told me she was sorry I had a “conclusion.”

  “Convulsion, Manda,” I said. “I had a convulsion.”

  “I wish Gretchen had one. She’s a real—”

  “Don’t say that word,” I said. “Say ‘witch’ instead. No. Gretchen didn’t have a convulsion. She doesn’t have epilepsy.”

  “Then I hope she catches it,” Manda said. “It’s not fair, Emma. Emma, are you going to come sleep with me? In the hotel?”

  “Not tonight, girl.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m tired of staying in the Tuckers’ room,” she whispered. “I can’t work their clicker. Besides, you might have another conclusion, and I would be right there to help. And then we could go in the pool. They have an inside pool. With a big red slide that has three curls and …”

  Mom buzzed in and out and finally slumped in the corner chair, snoring. The rest of the day moved achingly slow and the night was worse. Everything was so bright, for one.

  “Don’t they believe in letting you sleep in the dark?”

  Mom stirred sleepily. “Huh?”

  “I’m fine. Go back to the hotel, check on Manda, and get some rest.”

  She shuffled out, still half asleep. Nurses came in at least four times to give me pills or change the dressing on my leg. I couldn’t sleep anyhow—couldn’t shut my brain off, trying to remember what had happened after the wreck. I had seen something, hadn’t I? Something in the woods.

  My leg throbbed. That was the strangest part of what I could remember. I had gotten shaken up pretty good when I drove off into the stream, but nothing that would have cost me nearly three pints of blood.