Sensing Serafina

by Elisa Ellis

  I’m really nervous, afraid that I will fail, but my desire to be on my own and get to Cal drives me to jump in my car, back out of the garage, and go.

  A fresh start.

  Chapter 18

  Before

  “Stop. Stop! Please; it hurts so badly.” Tears streak my face, a trail of pain.

  “Sera, we have to do this. Just hang in there. We will get through it together,” I hear my father say by my side.

  I feel like I’m going to pass out while the nurses try to get me sit up in my bed. My legs hurt; my stomach hurts. Oh my God. I need it to stop. And I can’t push my morphine button yet.

  “It’s important that you sit up, Sera,” a nurse tells me.

  “Why does it hurt so much? What is wrong with me?” I ask them, feeling confused.

  “Remember, you were in an accident Sera. It’s all going to be ok. Try to relax. We are going to take good care of you,” she says.

  I vaguely remember having a conversation with my dad about an accident. Closing my eyes, I try to calm down while I listen to my dad talk to the nurses quietly. I hear him asking them why I can’t remember and they tell him it’s normal, that it could be the medicine.

  I try to raise my hand to ask how long I will be here, but I feel so tired; I can’t get the words out.

  “She’s not even making sense, though,” I hear him say.

  And then I guess I’m dreaming because I’m on the motorcycle with Cal, driving on a long road that winds around. It’s so fun. I love holding on to him. I feel safe with him, and the cool wind blows my hair back below the helmet, while we pass trees on either side of us. It’s beautiful right now. All of the trees are blooming and there are wildflowers along the side of the road. Bluebonnets stand out among yellow, orange, and red flowers painting fields during tree breaks. We pass a ranch where horses play behind white fences near a red barn.

  I feel like I’m in heaven.

  But I shouldn’t hurt in heaven. And the beeps… Did I set an alarm? I need to find it to turn it off, but I can’t move my arms. My body is heavy.

  Then I feel sad. Overwhelmingly sad. Cal is sad. He’s telling me goodbye. I don’t understand.

  “No. No, you said you would never leave me. Don’t go.”

  I hear my father telling me he’s right beside me, but I’m not talking to him. Why is he here?

  “Cal. Cal, stop.” He’s walking away. I see the bike on the ground and I’m standing in a pool of blood, and he’s leaving me. “Where are you going? Don’t leave me here. Please!”

  I can hear myself screaming, begging.

  Cal looks devastated when he turns around to face me from afar. He extends his hand to me, and all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sera, your dinner tray is here. Wake up, pretty girl.”

  My eyes slowly open, and the pink walls that still surround me make me nauseous.

  “I don’t want it.”

  My dad continues, “Come on. You’ve got to eat to get better. Just a few bites. Look. You have chicken noodle soup. You love that.”

  He holds the spoon to my mouth, feeding me like I’m a baby. I feel a little more awake, so I insist I can do it, but after about three bites, I’m physically drained. My dad takes the spoon again, helping me with the rest.

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Do you want to watch some TV? Or can I get you anything?”

  “Can you get Cal?” I can’t even look at him because I fear his answer.

  “No, and we are not going to discuss it again. Ok?” The finality in his voice grates on me.

  Frustrated, irritated, motivated.

  Bring on the pain. Whatever it takes.

  I do not want to be confused anymore, so I refuse the morphine.

  “On a level of one to ten, what is your pain level, Sera?” They ask me this several times a day. “We don’t want you to be in pain.”

  I’m already in pain.

  “Four,” I tell her. “Can I just have some Tylenol or something?”

  “Sure, but if you need more than that, it’s ok. This is not the time to try and be tough. I can see you wince when we move you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I don’t like the way morphine makes me feel,” I tell her, hoping that will be enough to convince her.

  “Ok, but if you change your mind, you know you can just push the call button and one of us will be down here to help you.” She leaves the room, pumping the hand sanitizer container next to the door before she exits. I realize their need to prevent germs, and I’m appreciative, but every time I see them do that, it annoys me a little. Makes me feel like I’m gross or something, like they want to clean their hands of me.

  I’ve been in the hospital for a little over two weeks, and I don’t think Dad has left me alone for one second. I have no idea how or when he is going home to change and freshen up.

  “Dad, you don’t have to stay here you know,” I tell him. He’s sitting by the window in his usual spot, reading a newspaper. It’s kind of weird because, although that sounds normal, we don’t get a paper at home anymore. Apparently, someone delivers a newspaper to each room in the hospital daily.

  It kind of reminds me of when I was little, when Mom would sit on her chair doing crossword puzzles and Dad would read the newspaper by the large window, the drapes open to allow natural light into our sitting room. I remember running into the room with my dress shoes on, begging them to watch me dance. The clicking of my shoes echoed loudly on the tile floor, amplifying a sure-to-be grand performance. Mom’s encouraging smile, my reward, inspired many turns and spins until my father would finally send me to play or practice some more. I was five years old. I remember because that was when my Mom signed me up for dance classes.

  The rattle of paper and a grunt of acknowledgement is all I hear as Dad turns the page and straightens the newspaper that blocks all but the top of his head.

  “Dad. Seriously. I’m fine here. Hey, and when you go home, can you bring me my cell phone and my kindle?” I’m so bored. I want to call Chasity. And Cal, but I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know a phone number or address, and the shop where he worked used cell phones only. I’m hoping Chasity can help with that though.

  “I’m not going home right now, Sera, and I’ve already told you, your phone was broken in the accident. I will try to remember to get your kindle next time I go home, though.”

  Oh my God. I guess it makes sense that my phone would have broken, but I don’t know what to do. It had all of my contacts in it and I don’t remember numbers for anyone. When did he tell me about my phone anyway?

  “Sera, we need to talk about something anyway,” he says, finally putting the paper down and making eye contact with me. He sounds too serious, which makes me nervous.

  “What is it?” I ask him while staring down and wringing my hands.

  Recognizing my normal response when anxious, Dad walks to my bedside. “It’s nothing to worry about, but Dr. Adler said it’s time for another knee surgery. You’ve had a couple of surgeries already, and you may need several more before this is all over. You are scheduled to go in tomorrow early morning.”

  “Why does the Dr. only tell you these things? I am capable of making decisions for myself. What if I don’t want another surgery?” I ask him defiantly. I’m so tired of this. All of it. The pain. Being trapped here. It stinks so badly.

  “Sera,” he says in that voice, the one that says, “Chill out and listen to reason.” I hate that condescending voice right now.

  “What? You don’t understand, Dad. I hate this.”

  “I know you hate this, but you have to get through it. This surgery is needed to further repair your knee, and you are just going to have to trust Dr. Adler — and me. It’s not fun for me either, you know. I hate seeing my little girl in pain. But I’m here with you, and we just have to do what the doctors tell us. I told Dr. Adler to let me be the one to tell you. You have had a few memory issues, Sera, and you have
n’t been yourself, but everyone assures me that will all resolve over a little more time. Your brain just experienced some trauma, and I’m doing the best I can to help you get better. Ok? Just calm down and everything will be fine.”

  Damn these erratic tears that fall without permission.

  “Fine.” I don’t want to talk anymore.

  Feelings of defeat deflect any ounce of positivity I had a moment ago. How will I ever break free from this hell hole?

  Now

  My first stop: to buy a burner phone. I left the cell phone that Dad bought me on the table beside my bed in my room. He clearly has restrictive settings on my phone. Tracking me by my phone would be too easy.

  Navigating the wild Dallas streets and traffic is not exactly comforting. I hope I can avoid big highways for the most part even if it takes me longer to get somewhere.

  I’m so out of my element here.

  My father’s new neighborhood is beautiful, full of older houses and huge trees. I’ve obviously paid attention when Dad has taken me out to eat or to physical therapy, but I really haven’t been out much. Admittedly, I’ve remained somewhat reclusive considering my difficulty getting around. I used to enjoy shopping, but obviously that would be challenging and hardly fun without friends.

  Before she passed away, my mother took me shopping and on various outings all the time. Dad was a workaholic, so our girly time was very special to me.

  When I was older, Chasity and I used to go shopping on weekends all the time. Sometimes her mom would take us out to eat or to a movie, too. It meant a lot to me that Chasity included me after mom died. Chasity was more like a sister to me, even though she could be annoying at times. I guess that’s part of being a sister though. I can’t wait to see her again. I’m sure she thinks I fell off the face of the earth after eight long months with no communication.

  The bullseye Target sign welcomes me like a beacon, standing out among other familiar logos and symbols that represent the life I had before. Texas Roadhouse. Gap. PacSun. Chic-fil-A. Cinnabon. Starbucks.

  I’m not a huge coffee drinker, but a cinnamon roll and a smoothie would seriously make this journey better right now. After stopping to get a phone and a few other essentials, I plan to drive through the Cinnabon near the entrance to Target.

  Even though I want to be careful with my money, I decide to invest in the more expensive burner phone of the three choices. I’m sure some of the apps on the smart phone will come in handy, google maps being especially important.

  I also grab a few snacks: barbeque chips, Junior Mints, Sour Punch straws, and some powdered sugar doughnuts, and of course a big bottle of water and a 20 oz. Diet Dr. Pepper. Obviously, I want a little of everything and my dad hasn’t been buying me sweet stuff. I love candy, so I feel a little giddy loading my bags into my Bronco.

  A good road trip requires good snacks.

  With my Google map open, I enter my destination, and 258 miles separate me from my real home. From my old life and my new life. Everything in between has been a nightmare.

  After over an hour of driving, I’m finally leaving the bigger city with five-lane highways and crazy traffic. I think maybe I can breathe now. At one point, four people on motorcycles flew past me probably going at least a hundred miles an hour. It made me so sick to my stomach that I had to pull over at the next gas station and get out of the car for a minute. Seeing motorcycles has already bothered me, but when Dad was driving somewhere, if I saw one, I just looked away and tried to think of something else. I couldn’t do that while driving, and the idea of them going so fast after what Cal and I went through is horrifying. I don’t think I will ever be able to ride again, which saddens me because it was so beautiful, but in the end, I just don’t know if I would be able to feel safe enough to not freak out.

  They weren’t the only ones who passed me going super-fast, or who weaved around me like I had no idea how to drive. I mean, God, I was still going the speed limit. Seventy miles per hour isn’t exactly slow. It all just proved to me that such a large city isn’t for me.

  I never thought I would look forward to seeing fields of cotton, mesquite trees, and prominent, giant wind turbines, and with each little town through which I travel, more and more comforting roadsides greet me.

  I even smile at a dead rattlesnake on the road. The smile turns into laughter, which turns into tears. My emotions are all over the place. I feel scared, happy, relieved, nervous, anxious, elated, free.

  Since my old Bronco doesn’t have a great radio, I had been driving in silence. It’s either that or listen to static-y country music that I really think consists of all of the songs on albums that never made it. I’ve wondered before how they come up with their playlists. It’s weird. Like, are there only eighty-year-old cowboys who listen to the radio around here?

  My new phone doesn’t have my music on it, so I decide to sing. Thankfully, nobody is with me so I can sing out and not worry about it, but I have to admit, even I cringe when I miss a note. I’m an ok singer, but when I sing loud, it’s not great.

  I listened to a lot of music in the hospital, but for some reason, dumb kid songs keep coming to my mind. Maybe it’s because I know all of the words to those songs, but I giggle when I sing, “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” while honking instead of clapping. I’m pretty sure I’m a dork, but it’s ok because I’m a happy dork. At least at the moment.

  Chapter 19

  Before

  Waking up from anesthesia sucks. The bright lights above me offend my blinking eyes, a deluge of confusion suspending recovery while I lie in a bed with too warm blankets too tightly tucked around me.

  In and out, my mind wanders from a dream-like state to reality. One second I think I’m stuck in quick sand, and when the nurse tells me to be still and relax, I think, oh yeah, I’m not supposed to move in quick sand or it will pull me further under. But lying still is horribly annoying. I hate feeling trapped. I can’t even talk. I hear my words not come out like I intend.

  Moans take place of my pleading to be able to move my hands and legs. Again, the nurse’s voice, “Just relax. You’re doing so well. The doctor said everything went well. Are you in any pain?”

  I don’t think I am. Am I? Shaking my head, I continue to try to convince her to remove the heavy, hot, stupid, freaking blankets.

  Finally, I am alert enough to speak, but by then, nausea has overcome me.

  “Please take the blankets off. I’m hot. I think I’m gonna puke. Hurry. Please.”

  Not quickly enough, she finally uncovers my body and hands me an emesis basin. I barely make it.

  Vomiting after surgery is not my favorite thing to do. All of my muscles tighten up, and then the pain from my surgery hits hard, making me even more nauseous.

  With a wet, cold rag, the nurse wipes my forehead and places it against the back of my neck. She also injects something into the iv port in my forearm explaining that it will help me to relax and settle my stomach.

  Within minutes, I feel more calm. It is such a relief. Ever since my mom passed away, I have struggled with anxiety. It is the worst feeling in the world to have a panic attack. The problem is, physical pain somehow makes me feel anxious, and then anxiety makes me feel physical pain. It’s a vicious cycle of horror. I’ve seen counselors and been on medicine for it for years now, but sometimes the pain, whatever triggers it, causes my anxiety to take over, and I hate it.

  Cal always made me feel calm. I don’t know what it was about him, but it just felt so right to be with him. But the idea of losing him always lingered in the back of my mind, and now it feels like it’s actually happening.

  I lost my mom. I don’t want to lose Cal.

  And even though I love my dad, I’m not going to be his little girl forever. He doesn’t understand my anxiety though. He thinks I should get over it, that I know better so I should be able to control it. I’ve tried to explain it to him, to tell him that even when I understand and know better, sometimes a panic attack can still happen.
My last counselor said I probably have triggers and that I need to journal so that I can figure out what they are, so I started journaling at age 12.

  Writing in my journal has always been a comfort to me. I’m able to pour my soul into words, put my fears on paper, which somehow allows me to let them go, at least a little. Every night before bed, I wrote.

  Until my dad found my journals, and it was hell.

  I was never able to spend as much time with Cal as I wanted to, so one night, I told Dad I would be spending the night with Chasity. We were planning to go to a party anyway, so I asked Cal to go with us. Dad probably wouldn’t have approved of my going to a party with or without Cal, but I definitely didn’t plan to mention any of it to Dad. Even though I knew he was over protective, he trusted me. I think he believed I was his little puppet, that he had trained me well.

  Then he read the last journal entry I ever wrote:

  Dear Amy, (I always wrote in letter style and Amy was my mom’s middle name)

  Tonight was crazy. I spent the night with Chasity and we went to a party in Mesa Hills. It’s such a pretentious neighborhood, but our friends said they were going, so we decided to go, too, even though I don’t really know the guy whose house it was. Anyway, Cal went with us, and we were hanging out with everyone. Cal had his arms around me. It was so deliciously awesome just being close to him. I felt him kiss me on the top of my head and since he was behind me, his breath in my ear when he talked was so hot, I pretty much thought I was going to die. Oh my God. He’s so sexy, and sweet, and, yeah…

  So, we were talking and everything was fine, until stupid dickhead Chance came up and started in on Cal. God, he’s such a jerk. That’s why I only dated him for a couple of weeks. He’s Dad’s rich friend’s son, so apparently, he thinks he can do whatever he wants. He was drunk and extremely rude, and then all of a sudden, he and Cal were fighting. Well, he was too drunk to be able to land a punch, but Cal was beating the hell out of him. Honestly, it was kind of hot, but I was a little scared because Cal looked pissed, and he looked like he could really hurt Chance. I started screaming for them to stop. I didn’t want Cal to get in trouble, and even though I seriously don’t like Chance, I didn’t exactly want him to die. Then, Cal took off walking super-fast. I looked around, trying to figure out what to do. Chance was moving so he was probably fine, and I didn’t want Cal to leave, so I took off after him.