* * *
TAMSIN
Mama and Papa were making salad to accompany the lasagna when the call came. Mama answered; she crumpled to the floor starring into space, the receiver dangling beside her as if it were a bomb blowing up our lives.
Papa grabbed the phone, and I didn't need to hear the conversation to know it was Ambrose. A dull ache had been pulsing through my body for the better part of an hour.
"Is she alive?" I asked, when Papa hung up the phone.
"Yes, she's at the hospital. We need to go. Get your mother’s jacket. There will be media there. Don't say anything."
I followed Papa's instructions, my body on autopilot.
The flashing lights and yelling reporters barely registered as Papa pushed his way into the hospital lobby. The doctors kicked the paparazzi out.
The beeping monitors and white walls were too bright. The hospital atmosphere was bleaching the life from my body. The doctor was talking, but his words weren’t registering. My mind felt like it was a helium balloon, caught by the wind and drifting further and further away.
"She was side-swiped, hit and run," the doctor said, apologetically. "She's sustained a severe head injury and there's swelling on the brain. She has minor cuts and bruises on her body, and some internal bleeding that we feel confident we can stop. We'll keep her comatose till we ascertain the full extent of her injuries."
"Will she live?" I asked, too burdened to understand medical jargon.
"We don't know," he replied, solemnly. "We're going to do everything we can to save her."
"Can we see her now?" Mama asked, her voice small and distant.
"Of course," the doctor agreed. "She is very banged up. Just be assured, if the brain swelling is reduced, she should recover fully."
"Thank you," Papa said, as the doctor directed us down the hall to a single room.
Ambrose lay on the bed, her arms and face covered in cuts and bruises. A tube was attached to her mouth and nose; she was surrounded by an army of machines, keeping her alive.
Her hand was so bruised. I dared not hold it for fear of hurting her. As Mama wept and Papa's ashen face stared at his battered daughter, uncomprehending, I vowed that I would find who did this to Ambrose and I would make them pay.
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