by Kara Thomas
I close my eyes and swallow a knot of frustration.
The orderly wheels me into a dark room where a small woman in a lab coat is eating a bagel. She sets it down to greet me. “Claire.”
I nod, repeat my last name and date of birth while she scans the ID bracelet on my wrist.
“Have you ever had a CT scan before?” she asks as the orderly transfers me to the table beneath the machine.
“Once,” I say, prompting a whimper to slip from my mouth. “When I was a kid.”
“Try not to move your head,” the technician says, flushing something into my IV port. “We don’t know the extent of your injuries yet.”
My body instantly warms. “I feel funny.”
“That’s the contrast in your veins. Try to be very still when the machine starts spinning, okay?”
The table moves back, taking me with it. Panic floods me. Somewhere, in the distance, I hear the technician’s voice. “Claire, I need you to be very still.”
I’m scared.
I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until the tech says, “Don’t be scared. It’ll be over in a few minutes.”
The machine begins to whir. A few minutes of staying absolutely still feels like an hour. My heart feels like it’s going to burst from my chest by the time the table starts moving and the room around me comes into focus.
The orderly wheels me from the radiology unit and back to the ER. My nurse doesn’t look up from her computer as she says, ‘”Move her to 3B.” Behind the curtain, my father is sitting in a chair, hunched over, resting on his steepled fingers.
The sight of him sets off a series of mini-explosions in my brain. How much trouble am I in? Where’s Mom? Where are Kat and Jesse? Is he fucking sleeping?
“Dad?” I croak out as the orderly parks my bed in the empty space next to my father’s chair.
Dad lifts himself out of the chair, as if pulled out of a trance.
“Hold on.” My father slides his phone from his jeans pocket. “I’d better text your mother that you’re back. She’s on the phone with Beth Marcotte.”
Before I can process this—my mother on the phone with Kat’s mom, who knows we were using her mother-in-law’s lake house without permission—someone yelps my name.
Mom crosses to me, collapsing into the chair Dad had just been occupying. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Shakes her head and reaches to tuck a sweat-matted lock of hair behind my ear, too angry to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but still Mom says nothing. I’ve never seen this look on her face before in my life. It hits me, how badly I’ve screwed up. This hospital visit is going to cost money, probably a lot of it, and Kat is going to be in more trouble than I can wrap my head around.
“Where are Kat and Jesse?” I croak out.
Mom glances at my father, then back to me. “They’ll be fine—what happened, Claire?”
I am fumbling for the words—I don’t know—when a voice behind the curtain says, “Knock, knock.” A pretty dark-haired woman the height of a seventh grader steps inside the room, running her hands under the automated hand sanitizer dispenser.
“Claire?”
“Yes,” Mom and I say at the same time. The woman rubs her hands together until the foam disappears. She slips a penlight out of her coat pocket and aims it at my eyes. “My name is Dr. Ashraf. I’m one of the residents here. Can you look up for me?”
I oblige. She sweeps the penlight over my eyes before sitting me up. “Any dizziness, nausea, or vomiting?”
“A little dizzy. My head is absolutely killing me.”
Her fingers graze the back of my neck. When they make contact with the base of my skull, I wince.
“Sorry,” Dr. Ashraf says, with a pat on my shoulder. “Do you know how you hit your head?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t remember doing it.”
Dr. Ashraf glances down at her chart. “Your CT scan showed a subdural hematoma.”
From the corner of the room, my father chimes in: “A what?”
“Basically, a very big bump,” Dr. Ashraf says. “I hear you’re experiencing memory loss?”
I close my eyes, rewind the tape of what happened today. It grinds to a halt on Bobcat Mountain, waking to the feeling of my skull being cleaved in two. “I don’t remember anything that happened earlier today.”
Beside me, my mother tenses. In the chart nestled in Dr. Ashraf’s arm, I catch a glimpse of a black-and-white scan of what must be my brain. “It’s not unheard of with an injury like this for patients to be unable to recall the hours before the trauma.”
My father folds his arms across his chest. “What’s the treatment?”
“I’m going to have to call in a neurosurgeon for a consult,” Dr. Ashraf says. “The hematoma might be small enough that it’ll go away on its own.”
“A neurosurgeon.” My mom puts her hands on her cheeks. “She might need brain surgery?”
Dr. Ashraf rests her hands on my shoulders and sits me back gently. “The procedure is actually very simple. The surgeon would make a small incision in order to drain the blood from the hematoma. How bad is your pain?”
I close my eyes. “I kind of want to die.”
“Have you had morphine before?” Dr. Ashraf asks.
My mother’s voice is sharp. “A narcotic?”
“Christine,” my dad mutters.
“I’ll take it,” I tell Dr. Ashraf. She gives my shoulder a squeeze and turns to leave. When she’s gone, Mom rounds on Dad. “She can’t remember anything and they want to drug her up and make it worse?”
“She doesn’t need to remember what happened right now,” Dad says. “She needs to rest.”
Dad’s words stick in my head as I fight the tug of exhaustion.
She doesn’t need to remember what happened right now.
Why would I need to remember at all? Why, when they can just ask Kat and Jesse?
* * *
—
I’m being roused from my morphine coma for more tests. Blood, X-rays, the works.
Before that CT scan, I could barely get the staff to look at me. Now that I’m Scary Head Injury Behind Curtain 3B, I’m as popular as Oprah or something. Around 7:00 p.m., Dr. Ashraf pops back in to tell me I’m going to be moved to intensive care, and yes, she knows it sounds super scary but that’s the best place for me right now because the nurses can keep a closer eye on me in case anything scary does happen with my head injury.
An orderly wheels me out of the ER on my cot, my parents in tow. My heartbeat mimics the rapid beeping of the machines lining the hall.
When I wake up, all the lights in my room are off. The sliding door separating me from the nurse’s station is open, and I spy a clock on the wall that claims it’s 7:00 p.m.
I sit up straight. Mom is in the chair in the corner, head tilted back. Eyes closed, mouth open, a white blanket falling off her lap that matches the one I’m lying beneath.
“Mom,” I say.
Her head flops forward. She steadies herself and blinks at me.
“How are you feeling?” she says around a yawn.
“Tired.” I rotate to my side so I can see her better, careful not to disturb the IV tube coming from my arm. Dozens of questions surface through the murk in my brain: Where’s my father? Where are Kat and Jesse? But only one makes it to my lips: “Can I have water?”
Mom launches out of her chair, makes her way to the wheeled table at my beside. There’s a pitcher there, and a stack of plastic cups. She pauses mid-pour, her eyes on the doorway.
My father stands there, a tray of 7-Eleven coffees in his hands. He looks at my mother guiltily. “I was checking in with security and he heard me ask for Claire. We took the elevator up together.”
Dad steps aside so “he” can enter my room. A rail-thin man with a w
hite mustache and shock of matching hair combed to one side. Judging from his brown leather jacket, he’s not a doctor.
The man extends a gnarled hand to me. There’s an arthritic tilt to his posture. He looks like he would collapse if someone sneezed next to him. “Sheriff Dave McAuliffe,” he says. “Are you up to talking for a bit?”
Sheriff. Why would the sheriff need to talk to a dumbass kid that got lost in the woods? Am I—are we—in trouble?
I shift in my cot so I can accept McAuliffe’s handshake. “I— Sure.”
The sheriff tucks his hands in his armpits. “You’re a tough girl to get a hold of.”
I’m about to point out that I haven’t moved from my cot in hours when my mother speaks up. “Claire’s doctors wanted to limit visitors.”
McAuliffe’s mustache, toothbrush-stiff, twitches. “I understand, as I’m sure you understand time is also of the essence.”
The dull tick of dread in my ears reaches a crescendo. “What are you talking about?” I ask.
McAuliffe’s mouth slips into a frown; he glances at my parents, who are sharing a panicked look.
“What’s he talking about?” I say, louder. “Are Kat and Jesse okay?”
The sheriff blinks at me. “Well, we don’t know. We haven’t located them yet.”
“What? I thought—” I stop short of saying it, direct my stare to my mother. You told me they’d be fine. Those were the exact words she’d used. They’ll be fine.
Mom’s expression morphs with panic as she turns to the sheriff. “We hadn’t gotten the chance to tell her. It’s been a very stressful day.”
“I can imagine.” McAuliffe studies me now, still frowning. The silence prompts my father to speak up from the corner of the room.
“Why don’t you sit, Sheriff?” Dad gestures toward the open chair at my bedside. McAuliffe shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine standing.” What ensues is an awkward dance wherein my parents both pass over the chair, and all three of them wind up gathered around my cot in a semicircle.
“I don’t understand,” I say, the walls of my throat thickening. “Are Kat and Jesse lost?”
McAuliffe thinks about this question for a beat before saying, “We’re not sure where they are.” The very definition of lost.
The sheriff cocks his head at me. “When did you last see them?”
“It was last night,” I say, my stomach buckling. “I don’t remember what happened after I went to bed.”
This admission prompts my mother to grab my hand and squeeze.
“Do you remember going to Bobcat Mountain?” McAuliffe’s eyebrows, thick and white, lift so high they practically disappear beneath the brim of his hat.
“No—Kat had talked about going there and camping at Devil’s Peak.”
“Devil’s Peak.” McAuliffe blinks. “You didn’t tell the paramedic you were camping at Poet’s Lookout? That’s the only designated camping area on the mountain.”
“I’ve never heard of Poet’s Lookout,” I say. “All I said was we were camping on the mountain.”
McAuliffe’s expression grows grim. This detail obviously changes things. “When you say you saw Kat and Jesse last night, do you mean you saw them at your campsite at Devil’s Peak?”
“No—we were at the lake house last night,” I say.
My mom’s hand slips from mine. She covers her mouth; my father steps closer to her, puts an arm around her shoulder at the same moment the sheriff says, “Claire, do you know what day it is?”
My heartbeat quickens. I hate the way they’re looking at me, like I’ve somehow failed a test I haven’t even sat down for yet. “Saturday,” I say. “Right?”
My mother slumps into the empty chair.
NOW
It’s Sunday. The idea is so incomprehensible, so out there, that my mother may as well have told me that my CT scan showed an alien tracking device implanted in my brain.
It’s Sunday, and the last thing I remember is Friday night. Between that awful, humiliating conversation with Jesse on the dock and waking up on Bobcat Mountain, there are thirty-six missing hours during which everything went wrong.
Did I get hurt, and did they leave me to find help? Why wouldn’t they have made it down the mountain? I shut my eyes, reach back in my memory for an answer to McAuliffe’s question. No matter which direction I stretch, I keep landing on the dock.
The sheriff moves to questions I’m able to answer. What time did we get to the lake house? What did we do? When did we go to bed? I respond dutifully, even though the look on his face says the answers aren’t helpful.
All that matters is what happened on that mountain. The only important information is what I can’t remember.
When the sheriff leaves, an aide immediately ducks into the room in his wake, squeaking about needing to change the bathroom trash can. When she’s out of earshot, Mom looks at me and says, “You don’t remember anything that happened yesterday?”
“I actually remember everything,” I snap. “This is all just an elaborate ploy for attention.”
Mom makes a face like she’s sucking her teeth, which means I’m in for it once the aide finishes cleaning the bathroom. I don’t care that I’m being a little bitch—Kat and Jesse are missing, which my parents have known all day. Not only did they not fucking tell me, they kept me from talking to the sheriff right away.
“You should have let me talk to him,” I say. “If they’d known to look for Kat and Jesse at Devil’s Peak hours ago—”
“Your doctors said that being interviewed would stress you out and interfere with your test results.” Mom sets a bag of clothes down on the chair. “And I agreed with them. You obviously have post-traumatic amnesia.”
“Can you let the real doctors diagnose me, please?” The words slip out. The look on Mom’s face makes me want to stuff them back in my mouth until I choke.
This isn’t me. I argue with my mom, sure. But it’s always about stupid shit like a wet towel left on my bedroom carpet. I am never nasty for no reason.
I want to bury my face in her shoulder and cry. What is happening to me?
“Teenie,” Dad says. “Why don’t you grab dinner?”
“I’m fine,” Mom snarls.
Dad puts a hand on her arm. “Please. Grab something from the cafeteria for yourself, and bring something back for me, okay?”
I shut my eyes so I don’t have to see her leave. I want her here, but I don’t, because it’s her fault the rangers have been searching the wrong part of the mountain for Kat and Jesse. I can’t even begin to think about what that might mean or how I’ll ever forgive my parents if those wasted hours wind up mattering.
When I open my eyes, Dad and I are alone. He looks at me, rubbing the stubble cropping up on his chin. “That was a low blow, Claire.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“You have no idea how terrifying it was to get the phone call we got. How terrified Kat’s parents and Jesse’s aunt were when we called them”
“I know,” I say, bringing my voice to its full volume.
It doesn’t feel worth pointing out that no one regrets this stupid trip more than I do right now, that no one wishes I hadn’t lied and come to Sunfish Creek this weekend more than I do.
“They could still be lost somewhere, right? There’s no way they searched the whole mountain today.” My voice quavers. I know what I’m really asking is for him to lie to me, even though that’s the most important rule in this family. Don’t lie.
The sad look on Dad’s face says he won’t, or can’t. Maybe because I’ve already lied enough this week for all of us.
* * *
—
A nurse knocks at the door to take my vitals around eleven. He’s beefy with gym-addict arms, and the badge on the lanyard around his neck says scott milligan, rn.
“Well,” he says, coming at me with a blood pressure cuff. “Aren’t we all smiles in here?”
Mom looks at him as if she wants to punt his balls into his throat. “My daughter has a serious injury.”
“Yeah, but everything’s gonna be all right,” Scott says, pumping air into my blood pressure cuff. “That’s what they say in Jamaica. I was just there; that’s why I’m so tan.”
I turn until my father’s face comes into focus. “You guys should really go back to the lake house. It’s late.”
“We’re staying here with you,” my mom snipes.
Scott records my blood pressure. “Visiting hours actually ended at eight.”
Scott takes a step back so my parents can give me a proper goodbye. Dad brushes his lips against my forehead. My mother collects my bag of dirty clothes from the chair, her back to me. Her shoulders rise for a beat before she turns to me. “We’ll see you in the morning. I’ll bring a change of clothes.”
When they’re gone, Scott says, “Hope you don’t mind. You seemed like you could use a reprieve from them.”
“Thank you.”
“Try to get some sleep. Rest is the key to recovery.”
In the hall, a machine beeps like a gong. I shift in my cot. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep here at all.”
“Too loud?”
I think of Kat, curled into the couch Friday night, feet tucked under her. The thought of not being able to call her a thousand times to see if she’s okay makes pressure mount in my head. I shake my head, knocking a tear loose.
Scott looks at me. “Oh, sweetie. Do you want me to see if the doctor will prescribe you something to help?”
“Yes please,” I whisper.
He nods.
When he returns with a pitcher of water and pill in a paper cup, I knock it back, folding the thought of Jesse and Kat like an origami triangle in my brain, letting it shrink until it’s small enough to tuck away for tonight.
Scott flicks off the light on his way out of the room. I turn on my side and close my eyes. The hospital blanket is scratchy on my bare legs, and it’s too warm in here.