Spinning Out

Chapter 1

JAINA

This hospital parking lot feels like home now. Ten more minutes before visiting hours—a system that should not apply to those headed for the ICU, however, I comply so I don't get banned from his list. I'm tired, but not the kind of tired that can be fixed with a good night's sleep. This tiredness is a part of me now like an over-filled backpack I can't remove. Rest, sleep, food, sunshine—everything that's been offered to me as a cure for this perpetual exhaustion does nothing to hammer away at its iron grip.

My eyes burn as I try and open them wide enough to unlock my phone screen. I'm giving facial recognition a challenge today, knowing full well I look very little like the old me. The stitches on my cheek crack as I lift my brow to aid my sleepy lids.

Fooled it.

It opens and I shake my head because as smart as my phone is supposed to be, it hasn't realized yet that I'm never going to be the kid from last week again. That kid died Saturday night—twenty minutes after the last song at prom and somewhere beneath an overpass on a Los Angeles freeway. I don't recognize me anymore, but this damn phone won't forget.

My thumb taps the Snap Chat app. Nathan Urban. His name is at the top of my list. His avatar stares at me, his hat on backwards and the damn red shirt he chose because he was so proud of that work promotion and the bright shirt that came with it. I've Snapped him so many times this last week, and at least a million before that.

My lungs hurt as I draw in a deep breath before opening up our conversation. It's one sided, and I'd really like it if he'd wake up and respond.

It's been a week since you've opened your eyes.

I wait for his avatar to pop up and peek, crouched at the bottom of my screen. Of course, he's not coming. In fact, his phone vibrates beside me on my passenger seat. He can't have it in the ICU.

One day you will read this message.

I was thinking about you this morning.

Remember the time we dug that hole in your yard looking for dinosaur bones?

We were sure we'd find some if we only kept going.

Your father was pissed. He was sure we were fucking up the roots of his lemon tree.

He told us if we dug deep enough, the people at the center of the earth would eat us.

The way he had said it so casually as he looked over our shoulders made us believe him. We filled that hole back up without him having to ask.

I miss doing stupid shit with you already.

How long has it been since we did something without a screen?

Your hand is so swollen, Nathan. It's worse than the time you broke your fingers at football and even worse than the time you punched Julio in the face our sophomore year.

They say your fingers aren't broken, it's just the trauma of what your body has been through and all the medication they have to give you to keep you alive and comfortable.

When I asked you to squeeze my hand today and yours felt lifeless in mine–I kinda wanted be back in that yard digging a hole to climb into.

I close out the app because I don't give a shit what anyone else is doing right now. It doesn't matter. The posts about prom make me sweat and want to puke. My head rings when I see pictures from that night. Of course, the non-stop posts about graduation don't help either. Why is it still happening? How is our whole school going to pretend that one of us might not make it? How is the administration going to justify leaving an empty chair with his name on it as equal and fair to honoring the years it took for him to accomplish what everyone else did that will walk and get their diploma. Do they think his grandma will be there? Do they think that's even on her radar? She can barely make it to the hospital. The woman who has raised him since she adopted him as a toddler is too sick to get over to the visiting hours and can't bear to see him in the state he's in, but they think she will show up for an empty chair?

The glove box creeks open as I reach for a mask and my proof of vaccination. I have this routine down. I lock the door behind me and set the alarm. Parking is easy early in the morning, but by lunch there won't be a spot open and cars will be waiting for others to leave. I never risk that. I have enough credits to graduate and with my injury, I have a reason not to be at school anyway. It's become second nature to make this walk from the lot to his room. I pass the blinking stop sign, over the small crosswalk, through the hedge-lined walkway, and around the curved pass that runs along the valet parking. This is where I allow myself a moment to study people. Are they here for something painful like I am, or are they welcoming a new family member in the maternity ward? Perhaps they have just received good news about life-saving surgery. I can usually see it on their face if they don't have on their mask, or read it on their balloons as they shine and float beside them while they wait for the start of visiting hours too.

When it's a slow day for visitors, I allow my eyes to trail along the words laid into the pavers at my feet, bible verses that boldly line the planters and benches: "Blessed are the peacemakers," and "Blessed are the pure in heart." And often before I reach the doors, I add my own, "Blessed are the many machines," because honestly, I'm not a religious girl, but I had no idea how many machines it took to keep someone alive until the day I walked into the ICU and saw my best friend on life support.

I hand the girl behind the counter my ID and vaccination card.

"Nathan Urban," I say.

She hands the girl beside her my ID so she can mark my name in the visitor log. It only takes a second. After, she hands me back both my ID and the card and writes his room number on a cheap paper bracelet. I now have a rainbow collection of these in my glove box. For the first few days, they would ask me if I knew how to get to his room, but now each shift of workers is familiar with me.

"Ok you're clear,' she tells me as she finishes securing the bracelet to my wrist.

I nod and head for the elevators. I won't feel better until I'm sitting beside him, and even then, it's a small relief because I have come to learn that there is nowhere I feel like I know NOTHING, more than at the bedside of someone on life support.

The doors slide open and I'm expecting the elevator to be empty. Instead, a boy about my age is leaning angst the back wall, his one arm supporting the other in a soft cast. His eyes are sunken in and the dark circles beneath them merging into the greenish bruise on his cheek. For a heartbeat, I swear he's not real. A ghost. The residual soul of someone who I never met out of these walls alive. But then...THEN...he lifts those sunken eyes and meets my gaze, and I swear he sees what I've been through. Every second of it. The accident. Nathan. Impossible. Then I blink, and the moment is gone. He's just a stranger in the elevator. Not a ghost. Not a mind reader. Just a dude with a broken arm.

His black hoodie is thrown over his shoulder, partially hiding the car icon in his grey shirt. The black baseball cap on his head is turned to the back, but I can make out the blue lettering of the iconic FORD Motor Company. He's clearly a car guy, and I can hear Nathan's voice in my head saying, "Red flag, Jaina." It makes me smile beneath my mask for the first time in days.

His wrist band doesn't match mine; it's white with block, black lettering. He's a patient—or was a patient. He stands and tucks his chin in a small hello nod. The dark eyes watching me as I step aside to let him out.

"Sorry," I offer as he moves closer.

"It's ok," he assures as he makes his way past me.

Proper elevator etiquette allows me to turn and watch him go. Just as the doors are about to fully close, he turns and looks back. His gaze taking in every inch of my face and obvious injuries. He might be assuming I'm headed to the ER myself, but he's wrong. I close my eyes and force my lungs to expand, pushing the immediate memories of the car spinning out seconds before it slammed into the center divider from my brain. My hand instinctively reaches for my chest as I press lightly against the long, thick bruise left by my seatbelt. When I open them again, my eyes can only focus on the small COVID safety poster on the back of the door. The boys is gone, but I'm sure Nathan will want to hear about how cute and mysterious he was, and I'll have a lot of quiet time to fill as I sit beside him.