We here at KBSY are so very happy to hear you’re awake—as are many people all across the country! Since your story broke, people have been following with great interest, and cards and well-wishes continue to pour in. I thought you should know just how many people care about your recovery, so I’ve packaged them all up and will be sending them along soon.
In the meantime, we all wish you a speedy recovery. I hope that when you’re well, you’ll help me bring your miraculous story to all the wonderfully caring people who have been following along. I’ve already spoken to Matt and Walker about interviewing the three of you, and they seemed open to it, so please contact me once you’re on the mend!
Sincerely,
Dana Whitmore
KBSY6
Action News
I stare at the card. At the loopy handwriting, and the words, and the phone number written at the bottom. And then I read it over, once, twice, three times, trying to pull meaning from words and names I don’t have any reference for. Since my story broke? People all over the country? Matt and Walker?
A cold knot of fear coils in my stomach, and I feel dizzy. Sick, and lost, and like I want to cry because apparently the whole world knows what happened to me, and I still have no idea. How could my parents not have told me everything? What else don’t I know? What else are they protecting me from?
I start to put the card back in its stand, and something else catches my eye. It’s a few more steps to the brown leather bag that’s sitting at the end of the table, but I’m so happy to see it there, I pad over without even thinking. Pain spirals through my center, and when I get to my camera bag, I force myself to be still a moment and breathe until the pain subsides enough for me to open up the bag. When I see my camera nestled there, safe and sound, it sets off a wave of tears that comes from out of nowhere. I steady myself with one hand as tears roll hot down my cheeks, and I realize I’m relieved at seeing something I recognize, something I know is mine. I hadn’t thought about my camera when they’d told me about the accident, but seeing it makes me so grateful that it wasn’t in the car with me. I silently thank my mom, or dad, or whoever it was who thought to bring it to me here.
I reach to lift it out of the case, just to feel the familiar weight of it in my hands, but a flash of movement draws my attention. It’s in the mirror, just beyond the bathroom door. The mirror I’ve forgotten about until just now. Earlier, when Betina had helped me to the bathroom, I’d noticed it was there, behind her. I’d even wondered if she’d purposely put herself in front of it to protect me from seeing something I wasn’t ready for.
Part of me had wanted to ask if I could look at myself, but I’d felt embarrassed, like there were bigger things I should be worrying about. Plus, I wasn’t sure I could handle what I might see, so I’d kept quiet about it. Promised myself I’d look later, once everyone had gone and I could be alone.
And now I am.
I’m scared, but there’s no way I can not look. I take a shallow breath and inch my way toward the bathroom, just until I can see someone looking back at me.
I gasp. The mirror doesn’t protect me from anything.
Even in the dim light of my room, the cold, hard square of glass thrusts me into a reality I’m not ready for.
My face is battered, bruised in shades ranging from deep purple to sickly yellowish green. My lips are cracked and dry, my mouth split at the corners. Someone has braided my hair, which might have been pretty at some point, but the dull brown hair is too matted down to tell. I reach up, run my hands over it, and find the shock of a bare spot, hair growing back over stitches in spikes, unfamiliar and foreign. I look at my eyes, search for some familiarity there, but the eyes that look back at me are so watery and swollen, they look years older than they should.
The girl in the mirror blinks when I blink. She brings her hand to her face when I do. She even shakes her head at the same time I do.
But I don’t know this girl in the mirror. I don’t know her at all.
FOUR
IT’S LIGHT WHEN I wake again. I lie there on my back, staring at the ceiling tiles, and run through the list of words that make up my new reality. Accident, coma, trauma . . .
Now that I’ve seen what I look like, I add broken, bruised—unrecognizable.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and when I turn my head, I see a new face. It belongs to a girl dressed in bright pink scrubs, even younger-looking than Betina.
“You’re awake,” she says with a bright smile. She comes in carrying a bouquet of flowers.
I move to sit up, but the pain in my ribs stops me short. I wince.
“Oh no,” she says, setting the things down on my bedside table, “let me help you with that.” She grabs the bed control and pushes the button to raise the head end. I brace myself as she brings me slowly to a reclined position.
“Are you okay like this?” she asks.
I look at her and think for a second about telling her that nothing about me is okay, but her smile is so kind that I just nod.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’m Lauren.”
“Are you the daytime nurse?”
“One day, I hope. Right now I’m a hospital volunteer.” She smiles again. Motions at the flowers. “These came for you this morning. Aren’t they pretty?”
I look at the sunflowers in their mason jar vase. “They are.” My throat feels a little better today, but I’m not much in the mood to make small talk.
It’s quiet a moment.
“Your mom’s here, by the way. She’s down the hall talking to the nurse, but she should be right in.”
“Thank you,” I say, hoping that’s all, and that she’ll leave.
But she lingers a moment, looking almost shy. “I, um, I just wanted to say that it’s pretty incredible, how strong you are. I mean, I saw what happened, and it was—”
“You were there?” Suddenly I do want to talk to her.
She looks startled. “Oh. No, I mean I saw the video of—”
“Good morning, sweet girl,” my mom singsongs as she comes through the doorway. She walks over to the bed and gives me a kiss on the forehead, and before I have a chance to ask Lauren what video she was talking about, she’s disappeared out the doorway.
I look at my mom. “Was there a video of my accident?”
The smile tumbles from her face and she blinks twice before answering. “That’s not something you—” She stops, her eyes darting out the window.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Something out there has caught her eye. She goes over to the window, presses her lips together, and sighs at whatever is out there, then takes out her phone and punches the screen.
“Bruce?” she says, almost immediately. “That woman is here again, parked outside with her van and camera crew.” There’s a pause. “No. I haven’t seen her come in.” She looks at me. “Liv, honey? Has anyone come in to try and talk to you this morning?”
I shake my head.
“No,” she says into the phone. “Okay. Thank you. Love you.” She hangs up.
“Who’s out there?” I strain a little to try to see past her. I wonder if it’s the same reporter from yesterday. Dana Whitmore, maybe?