Page 46 of Concerted Chaos

thirteen

Ontelevision,whena car explodes, the nearest bystanders—usually the heroes, because explosions are fatal to villains—are thrown in the air. They windmill their arms, land together, stagger to their feet and immediately afterward check to make sure that the other is okay. They can do that because they’ve hit the ground in the same place, and they, of course, are uninjured, except for artfully placed smears of dirt or soot.

That’s not how it happens in real life.

In real life, the shockwave does send you flying through the air. In my case, instead of performing the movie hero maneuver of propelling my arms as though swimming, I let go of my phone and instinctively protect my face. I feel like I’m diving, forced through supercharged air by heat and fire and bits of metal that burn my skin.

When I land, it’s not so much a crash as it is a skid, my body violently sliding across the asphalt. My arms bear the brunt of the injury, leaving my right shoulder and both forearms shredded and bleeding. I might be screaming, but it’s hard to tell. I just know I hurt and the world is suddenly silent.

Someone grabs me, rolls me over. It is an older man in a dark green polo. For some reason all I can fixate on is the little logo on his shirt. Hello, crocodile. He is shouting at me, or so I assume by the way his mouth is moving, but I can’t hear anything at all. Maybe I’m in shock. Where is Tanner? He was right next to me, but now he’s gone. I attempt to turn my head and look for him, but the man stops me, prevents me from moving. A gray-haired woman kneels beside me, pats my head, and wipes something off my cheek. She is on the phone, probably with the police. Red and blue lights are filling the sky now, though no sirens pierce the silence.

Paramedics lean over me. One puts an oxygen mask over my face. I try to fight it off, but they restrain me. My arms are stinging with pain, my shirt is torn and bloody, and my whole body is tight, like I strained all my muscles at once. As they load me into an ambulance, I finally spot Tanner, or presumably, it’s him. Nobody else was on the road with us. They’re putting him on a stretcher face down. Something must be horribly wrong. But at least they aren’t covering him with a white sheet.

The paramedic is mouthing words at me, but I can’t respond through the mask. I finally manage to pull it off and tell him, “I can’t hear you.” He nods as if he already knew. Maybe that’s normal.

“Can you call my brother?” My phone is missing. I have a vague memory of dropping it. “Call my brother, please,” I plead. I’m shaking now, I don’t know why. Is it cold? I feel cold. The paramedic injects me with an unknown substance, and my eyes are closing of their own accord. I fight to stay awake. I need to know what’s going on.

I wake up in a hospital bed. Someone has cleaned me up. I’m in one of those awful flimsy gowns, and the bloody wounds on my arms have been scrubbed and bandaged. “Hello?” I call, and then I notice a doctor standing nearby holding a chart. Was she there before? She smiles and her mouth moves, but no sounds come out.

Then she pulls out a notepad and writes You’ve been in an explosion. Do you remember what happened?

I accept the offered pad from her and write I can’t hear anything. Writing is difficult; my bandages catch on the edges of the paper and my hands are sore. It’s hard to grip the pen.

She laughs and takes it back. Yes, that’s common. You don’t need to write; I can hear you.

“Sorry. Where’s Tanner?”

Was that the man you were with?I nod. Don’t worry, he’s going to be fine.

Her words do not give me solace. Don’t doctors often lie to patients about bad news during the healing process? Tanner could be just fine, or he could be dying painfully.

“Will my hearing come back?” I ask, which is my other big concern at the moment.

Most likely. Your eardrums are damaged. We’re trying a new treatment that is used on soldiers in war. I’ll bring you a pamphlet.

I’d rather she wrote it all down for me now, so I can get myself in the right headspace to process a possibly silent future. My life revolves around my brother’s music, so I have to be able to hear it. Otherwise, how can I critique him in a harsh yet sisterly manner?

Your family is outside. Can they come in?

“Yes, of course!” I’m so relieved they’re here.

If you’d like to permit me to discuss your medical condition with them, I need you to sign these forms.She gives me a clipboard with HIPAA paperwork, and I eagerly but clumsily grant permission for her to tell them everything, though I think it’s rather insensitive of her to focus on bureaucracy at a time like this.

Mom is the first one through the door, and the first to navigate through the tubes of my IV and the monitor wires in order to give me a careful hug. I can’t hug back very well. Despite what I presume are painkillers traveling down my IV line, my arms ache, and they’re completely wrapped in gauze bandages. I don’t even want to imagine what the torn-up skin looks like underneath.

Hank doesn’t try to maneuver around the medical equipment. He stays at the end of the bed, but his comforting hands briefly squeeze my foot. I can’t tell the words he’s saying, but I think he’s conveying love and relief.

And then there’s Powell, with his ever-present bodyguard. He comes to the side opposite my mom and is slightly less careful than her when he leans in to embrace me. He squeezes me much tighter too, and when he pulls away I can see the absolute sorrow and guilt on his face. His mouth is moving, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, is what he had better be saying.

“I’m deaf,” I announce, and Powell recoils in horror. That might be his worst nightmare. For himself, I mean, not for me. I don’t know what he would do if he lost his music.

Mom starts typing into her phone. The damage isn’t permanent. You’ll be able to hear again soon.

I certainly hope so. I reach up to touch my ears for the first time and discover a thick wrapping covering both of them.

Powell is typing furiously, thumbs flying. He passes me his phone. I’m so sorry I didn’t know there was a bomb, I swear I never would have traded cars with you.

“It was a bomb?” I shouldn’t be so surprised, but obviously I’m not thinking clearly. What else could it have been? I told Powell the killer would try a different method; if I wasn’t injured, he’d be teasing me for being so wrong.

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