“Of course, it is,” she says and smiles weakly. “You’re family.”
I take in her appearance: her eyes are puffy and tired, and she looks completely worn out and defeated. Her cheeks look hollow, her hair is sitting limply on her shoulders and her lips are cracked and set into a thin line. She’s a shadow of the woman Ethan first introduced me to months ago. The piano music stops and a minister approaches the lectern. I look wide-eyed at Moira and then glance at the empty seat where my mom should be right now, I need her here; I can’t do this without her. I can’t bear to sit through another funeral. Moira senses my anxiety and runs her hand down over my hair; she squeezes my shoulders and then pulls me into her side like my mom would do. The minister starts to speak, but I don’t hear any words through the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I blink and let my first tear fall, no doubt carving the way for more to follow. I had agreed to come for Moira. I felt bad that she would have to face this alone. I look blankly towards the front but I can’t see anything past my pain.
BEFORE, WHENEVER I woke up from a dreamless sleep, I was disappointed that I couldn’t remember anything; frustrated almost, that my imagination isn’t impressive enough to muster up any subconscious nocturnal entertainment. These past three days I would give anything for that to still be the case. Every single time I close my eyes and try to contemplate a rest, I’m greeted with my own personal slideshow of horrifically vivid images. Ethan’s unmoving body splayed at my feet, not breathing, the EMT’s as they dragged me away.
The doctors have taken to sedating me, but in truth it makes everything feel worse. It blurs the lines of actuality, and for a fleeting moment I get to forget what has happened, what is still happening. It’s cruel. When my mind starts to awaken from the medicated haze, I get to realize that the crash wasn’t a nightmare all over again. I’m not at home tucked up in my warm cozy bed. I’m in a hospital in Arizona recovering from surgery, and Ethan…hell, I can’t even process a thought about him without crying. Each time it happens my mom presses the buzzer for the nurses to come and top up my meds.
I need to focus on accepting my new reality: Frank Jamison is paralyzed, the unsuspecting trucker that hit the rental car we were traveling in is dead, and Ethan may cease to exist. The thought is too painful, so this time it is me reaching for the buzzer.
Three Days Earlier. The Crash.
I OPEN MY eyes and everything looks to be in soft focus. I’m not wearing my glasses for some reason. Why am I not wearing my glasses? I lean forward, and a searing white-hot stabbing sensation spears through my body. I slump back into the position I was in, hoping it will bring some relief. I look down to see Ethan sprawled across me. Then it hits me. We crashed.
“Ethan?” My voice is hoarse and barely registers above a whisper. I’m overcome with a paralyzing fear as I stare down at the unnatural angle of his body. He’s not moving.
“ETHAN!” I shout this time, ignoring the pain and protests from my body as I learn forward to try and rouse him. His chest isn’t moving, and the terrifying recognition spikes my adrenaline. I look up to find the driver’s seat empty. Where’s Frank?
I don’t know much about first aid and I’m sure that you’re not supposed to move someone that’s been involved in a crash, but Ethan’s not breathing and I can’t attempt CPR in the position we are both in.
I’ve seen in the news mothers that have single-handedly lifted a car that has trapped their child, their bodies overcome with an adrenaline rush so powerful they become almost superhuman. I think I must be experiencing something akin to that right now, because Ethan is 6.3” and around 180 pounds, yet I pull him from the car like he’s a toddler. I look around and see that the driver of the truck we collided with has blood gushing from his head and he’s swaying back and forth, frantically shouting into his cell.
I look back at Ethan and start to panic as I struggle to remember what I know about CPR. I blow two breaths into his mouth and then begin compressions on his chest while my tears blur my already compromised vision. I’m not sure how long I do this, but I’m acutely aware of sirens in the distance, and I’m praying to a god that I’ve never really been sure I believe in that they hurry up and reach us.
My arms are aching, and I’m out of breath as an EMT pulls me away from Ethan. I’m frantically kicking and screaming for them to let me stay with him as one of them ushers me into the back of an ambulance, while the other hovers over Ethan. I can hear people talking over the little radio attached to the guys’ uniform; they’re requesting more assistance. I hear the word body bag being spoken before the gravity of the situation hits me with the force of a thousand bullets and my world finally goes black.