Still Here

8

I open my eyes to see my mother, bawling. Even my father cries. They haven't noticed my consciousness. In a corner, Porter sleeps curled up in a chair, looking like hell. His hair is a mess, there are horrible bags under his eyes, and his shirt is wet with tears. He looks exhausted, but not nearly as exhausted as Mom and Dad.

My heart sinks. One of my worst fears was surviving my suicide attempt and having to speak to my parents about it after.

But at least they don't know the truth.

"Hi," is all I can think to say.

My parents gasp and clutch my hands. Their crying wakes Porter, who instantly starts joining the cry fest as well. It isn't until I grab Porter's hand that I realize I'm glad to still be alive. Anything might be worth going through for this kid.

God, what was I thinking? How could I nearly abandon all these people who care about me? How could I think they didn't care? Losing another kid would have completely destroyed my parents. They would have been broken again, and this time beyond repair.

It all becomes too much and through tears, I whisper, "I'm so sorry."

My mother freezes. "Honey, why would you be sorry? You were hit by a car."

I want to tell her the truth. My negligent, damaged mother. Just let myself go. But I can't. I can't bear to tell her the truth. It shouldn't matter now, anyway - I'm alive.

So I catch myself, even when it might be best to fall. "I'm sorry I wasn't being more careful."

Mom pulls me close. I wince. She smells like alcohol and sweat. "I'm just glad you're alive."

Dad rubs his eyes, struggling against showing any kind of emotion. "They said they weren't sure you were going to make it."

More sobbing. It hurts too much for me to hug, so we resort to hand holding. Then more sobbing. Back to hand holding. Sobbing, again. It's a cycle.

"My chest . . . it really hurts," I say.

My parents exchange a glance before my mother turns to me with a sigh. "You have a couple of broken ribs, and a . . . " She trails off to dramatically blot her eyes with a tissue before continuing. "A myocardial contusion."

I wait for further explanation, but she doesn't say anything. I look blankly to Porter, who squints before saying, "They said it was basically a bruised heart. You need to get a . . . " He looks at Dad. "What's it called?"

"Pacemaker. It just controls your heartbeat," Dad says.

"I know what it does," I say.

He looks away. "You get to leave soon, but they want to monitor you for a few days here."

I nod. "So . . . am I gonna like, die?"

Porter shakes his head quickly. "No!"

Dad gives me a reassuring half smile. "No, you aren't going to like, die." He imitates me at the end and Mom swats him playfully. I manage a smile.

"You're going to be okay," Mom says.

I'm not sure I believe that, but I don't let her know. A nurse enters and informs my family that I need rest. I tell her that would be nice, but I need some painkillers, too. She laughs a little, and everything inside me buzzes because

I made someone laugh.