“Okay,” I mumbled, held still as she went through her notes, examined my head, my eyes, asked me questions about headaches and vision and nausea. I lied, told her there was no pain, no blurriness, no queasiness. I’d had a concussion at school once, I knew what she was looking for. As soon as she and Nurse Miranda left, I pushed away the covers, but yanked them swiftly back up. My clothes had been removed at some point, and I was now dressed in nothing but a hospital gown with a gaping hole at the back.
“What are you doing?” Lewis put his hand on mine as I reached for the IV needle in my arm. “Stop. You heard what she said. You have to rest.”
“I can’t.” I tried to push him away but he held firm. “I want to see my dad. I have to get to the hospice. I need to—”
“I get it, I do,” Lewis said, letting go.
“Do you?” I snapped, carefully pulling the IV out of my arm and pushing down hard to stop the blood. “Because I can’t afford what they’ll charge me for being here, either. I don’t have insurance. I have to get out of here.”
“But you were hurt. I saw it and it scared the living daylights out of me. I thought he’d... I thought you’d...” He took a deep breath. “You can’t leave.”
“Yes, I can.” Anger rose inside me. Who the hell did he think he was? I’d known him all of five minutes, really, and he had some kind of savior complex going on? I didn’t need saving. “What are you going to do? Stop me?”
He must have seen the flash of fury in my eyes because he raised his hands, palms turned outward, got up and took a step back. “No, of course not,” he said gently. “But if you insist on leaving, at least tell me how you’ll get to the hospice.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Didn’t you say your bag’s there? With your wallet and phone?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “It’s settled then. I’ll take you.”
“You don’t need to,” I spat, my voice harsh, ungrateful, too reminiscent of my mother’s, which was no surprise really, considering she constantly lived in my head.
“Please, Eleanor. It’s your decision, but listen to the doctor. She said you’re supposed to be under observation. It’s not smart to leave the hospital in the first place, but going all the way to Pleasantdale on your own...?” He brushed his hair off his face, shook his head. “Let me make sure you get there safely, please? And then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”
I wanted to argue but knew Lewis was right. Walking to the hospice with the pounding in my head would be akin to riding his green bicycle through a pool of molasses with my feet tied together. “Fine,” I said with a curt nod. “Fine.”
“I’d better track down the doctor right away.” Lewis headed for the door. “They’ll probably want you to sign something. You know, for liability reasons, or whatever.”
After he disappeared from the room, I swung my legs over and put my feet on the cold floor, reached for the back of the chair to stop the room from spinning. When I was sure I wouldn’t pass out or empty my guts, I searched for my clothes, found them folded up and stored away in a plastic bag in the closet, my shoes and jacket underneath. I gathered up my things, tried to ignore the shaking of my hands as I took slow steps to the bathroom.
I winced when the fluorescent lights came on, and, once I’d pulled on my clothes, dared to take a quick peek in the mirror. A wicked bruise—already a frightening shade of deep blue and purple—stretched across the left side of my temple and almost to the bottom of my cheek. The dark circles under my eyes blended with the hue of the bruise, making the rest of my skin appear paler than flour. Meanwhile, my hair had tangled itself into a cross between a bird’s nest and a tumbleweed and had piled itself on top of my head.
Lowering my gaze, I splashed water onto my face before running a hand over the back of my head, gently touching the tender golf ball–size lump protruding from my skull. As I glanced at myself in the mirror again, the voice inside me began to whisper.
Dad’s dead. He’s dead. It’s your fault. Your fault, you pathetic loser.
I exhaled, pushing the air from my lungs to drown out the words, but all it did was make more room for the guilt that had already taken hold, let it burrow deeper inside me, feelings I knew would be silenced for even a moment if only I had something to eat. I returned to the room, where Lewis stood by the bed, his arms crossed.
“Can I talk you out of this?” he said.
“No.” I slipped on my sneakers.
“At least let me try?”
I didn’t answer and headed for the door. Nurse Miranda wasn’t impressed with my decision to leave, either, sighing as I completed and signed the necessary Against Medical Advice forms without bothering to read them through.
“You bring her back if she passes out, has blurred vision or complains of headaches, all right?” she told Lewis. “Same if she throws up, has slurred speech, numbness of any kind or anything that looks even remotely like a seizure. Get her to a doctor immediately.”
After Lewis promised he would, he walked me to the entrance, asking half a dozen times if I was okay, if we should slow down, if I needed a rest. I almost told him to stop fussing, I was a grown woman, and he should let me be, but kept quiet. Dad always told me I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, let alone take it behind the barn and shoot it, and most of the time his advice had been sound. I forced myself to stop thinking about Dad, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other without letting Lewis see how unsteady I was.
“You’re sure I can’t take you home?” he said, zipping up his jacket when we got outside. “I can collect your stuff from the hospice later.”
I shook my head. “I have to do this.”
He nodded, a grim look on his face. “I understand. I’ll find us a cab.”
My heart made its way into my throat and stayed there, a giant, uncomfortable lump I couldn’t swallow or dislodge. The spiteful voice in my head started whispering again, and this time I couldn’t make it stop.
You have nobody left. You’re alone now. All alone. And it’s what you deserve.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WE SAT IN SILENCE for most of the drive. Lewis glanced at me on a regular basis and I was grateful for the dark and gloomy weather. Brighter skies would’ve caused me to shut my eyes, and that might have been enough for Lewis to tell the driver to take us back to hospital.
As I stared out of the window, I caught sight of a couple with matching blue-and-white-striped bobble hats perched atop their heads kissing in a doorway, arms wrapped around each other as if it were the end of the world. I wished I had my camera as I imagined them planning Thanksgiving and Christmas, debating whose family to visit first, what gifts to buy and for whom, and which explosive subjects were best avoided over dinner. I looked at my hands folded in my lap, picked at a hangnail. The holidays weren’t important anymore. With Dad gone, there was nothing left to celebrate.