Page 98 of Poetry By Dead Men
"Beth?" someone says. A voice I don't recognize. A warm hand touches my shoulder. "Wake up, honey."
I try to move, and the monitors beep faster. The uncomfortable bed creaks beneath me as I shift. Something’s wrong. I'm not visiting Michael. Michael died years ago. I remember now.
Before Harrison hurt me.
Before he tried to run Bobby and me off the road.
Bobby. I start to panic, and now the monitors are alarming.
"Give her a dose of morphine," the same voice orders. "Beth. Open your eyes for me."
Bobby. The memory of him shouting my name as the car flipped and rolled gives me the strength I need to pry my eyelids open. I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a croak. My throat is horribly dry and scratchy, and it hurts to swallow.
Someone puts a straw into my mouth, a doctor, based on her white coat. "Small sips," she says, then pulls the cup away when I don't listen.
"Is he okay?" I whisper. It's all I can think about as the memory of the crash repeats like a loop in my mind. We were rolling and rolling, and glass was shattering, and the airbags…
"Let's talk about you first, okay? I'm Dr. Mulder. I was the one who did your surgery," the doctor says. She looks too young to be a surgeon, with unruly, curly blonde hair tied in a high ponytail. The only lines on her face are ones of exhaustion, and I wonder how old she is.
"Surgery?" I ask, my throat only feeling slightly better.
"You fractured your femur in the accident. We had to put in a metal rod, as well as an external fixator." She peels the bedding back to reveal a giant metal cage around my upper leg with screws going through my skin. "Your nerve block hasn't worn off yet, but you'll be sore later. You fractured a few ribs and had a pretty nasty contusion on your head, but by all accounts, you're lucky you survived."
I shake my head, trying to get past the fuzziness in my brain from the anesthesia and morphine. "Can I see him?"
Dr. Mulder's lips tip down, and the room suddenly feels so much smaller. "Your nurse can take you to his room in a few hours, once we're sure your pain is under control, and you've gotten some rest."
My relief is so strong, it rips the air from my lungs. "He's alive?"
Dr. Mulder and the nurse share a look. "He's alive. But Beth, your husband sustained significant injuries in the crash."
Husband? The word registers, but I move past it. If the only way I can get information is to let them think Bobby and I are married, I'm not going to correct them. "I don't understand." I shake my head. “Is he going to be okay?”
Dr. Mulder sighs, and she takes my hand. "We’re not sure. We’re still in the early stages of testing, but our preliminary findings weren’t reassuring. I'm so sorry."
My heart is racing, and my vision goes black at the edges, my breaths coming in short gasps. I can’t speak, even though I want to scream and sob and argue. Maybe I'm in shock. Or dreaming. Ihaveto be dreaming. Because this isn't possible. I refuse to believe Bobby and I found each other again only for him to be taken away so soon.
"Try to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. We’re doing everything we can for him," Dr. Mulder says. "I need to ask you a few questions about your other injuries. It appears you already had a black eye and stitches upon arrival. The man you were in the car with, is he responsible?"
"What? No, of course not.” I struggle to sit up, hoping it will give my lungs more room to expand, but the pain is too severe. “It was the other driver. Harrison."
"Your husband did this to you?" she asks, her eyebrows lowering.
"Fiancé. Well…ex-fiancé, but yes."
"I'm sorry. Your driver's licenses had the same address, and you're listed as Harrison Rouchester's emergency contact in his advanced care directive. We assumed he was your husband."
"He has an advanced care directive?" My head is swimming, my brain moving too slowly to keep up.
"It's not uncommon for lawyers. Paramedics found his business card in his wallet, and his firm sent it over to us. So you are no longer in a relationship with Mr. Rouchester. Is that what you're saying?"
"No, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean… You’re saying he could die?" I ask, my forehead throbbing so badly I wince, and my nurse switches off the overhead lights for me.
"It’s possible, but we don’t have enough information to know yet. You’re his health care proxy, so unless you say otherwise, we will follow the directive. Per his advanced care directive, he wants all possible treatments."
I nod my head absently, overwhelmed. "That sounds like him," I say, almost numb. Dr. Mulder places a hand over mine, her gaze flicking to my stitched brow.
"Would you still like to see him?" Dr. Mulder's eyes are clear, but I see the humanity there. I don't sense that I will get any judgment regardless of my answer.
