Still Here

12

Go figure.

I almost laugh, it's so fucking preposterous.

"You've gotta be joking."

Dad's expression grows even more worried. "I'm sorry, but I'm not joking."

"Well, that's just my luck, isn't it?" I shake my head. "Can I see him?"

"You still want to?"

"I'm sure Michael didn't hit me on purpose. And he definitely wasn't driving drunk at 3 p.m. Well, probably wasn't." I say it seriously enough for Dad's eyes to widen so much that I can't help laughing.

It is so strange to laugh.

A few seconds later, Dad gets my joke and nods sarcastically. "I'll go leave you and your . . . hitter."

I laugh again. It feels sort of wonderful. "My hitter? Alright, Dad."

"Call me if you need anything. If you need me to hit your hitter."

"Sure. Yeah. Okay."

He leaves and suddenly I'm conscious of every part of me. My hands. My hair. My mouth. Everything. I shouldn't be worried in front of Michael. He hit me with his car, for fuck's sake. Why would I be self conscious in front of him?

I'm pondering this and even starting to get angry when he enters.

I've never seen anyone look so exhausted. His eyes are puffy and red. But before I can say anything to him, he dumps a bucket of apologies on my head. I shiver in the aftermath, speechless.

"I'm so sorry, Audrey. I've never felt so bad about anything in my life. God, I'm so sorry. You - I - I didn't mean to. I swear to God, it was an accident. I didn't even see you coming. I didn't even know it was you, not until after it happened. And then I lost it. I just fucking lost it, Audrey. I was the one who called 9-1-1. I'm so fucking sorry. Oh, God. I haven't been able to sleep. I've been waiting for you to wake up. I'm sorry if I woke you. I'm sorry for a lot of things - I'm sorry I couldn't stay away from you. I just needed to talk to you. I understand if you hate me now, or something. It would make sense. I wouldn't understand if you didn't, to be honest. Oh, I'm so sorry. They didn't tell me whether or not you were okay. Are you okay? It's an idiotic question, because you got hit by a car, so you are definitely not okay, but I mean, what level of okay are you on? Are you moderately okay? Completely not okay? Beyond ever being okay again?"

I'm crying a little bit, but I don't know why. He was too caught up in his own words to notice while he spoke, but he notices now. He leaves his spot across the room and runs to me, nearly touching me before he catches himself and backs away. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I swallow hard and force myself to speak. "You . . . you don't have to be sorry."

He looks at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am. I'm not sure. "It's alright," I tell him, "I'm going to . . . " I nearly say be okay, but I know that I can't promise him that. ". . . live," I say at last.

I have an urge to tell him the truth, an urge I feel so deeply, it is consuming me. I'm lying to him if I don't confess. He has no idea that this wasn't his own doing. That I headed into that street, impaired by my own fault. And if he didn't hit me . . . I wouldn't be here now.

But I can't tell him the whole story. I don't have the strength.

He watches me carefully, tears shamelessly spilling down his cheeks. "Don't forgive me. You should completely despise me."

It's such a silly thought.

"I could never despise you," I say gently.

I'm blushing, but he doesn't notice. He just shakes his head, over and over. "I hit you with my car. I nearly killed you . . ."

You saved me, I think.

"It doesn't matter," I say weakly. "What matters is that you didn't kill me. I'm still here, Michael. That . . . that counts. It must."

He puts his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

I hate myself.

"But you . . . you're stuck in a hospital. Because of me!"

I hate myself so very much.

"But I'm going to get out. Look, I know it wasn't on purpose. You wouldn't hurt me. Not on purpose. You wouldn't hurt anyone, for that matter. You're a good person - "

He looks truly disgusted. "Don't call me a good person."

My bruised heart feels like it's falling. "But you are. I . . . I know it."

He meets my eyes, his full of tears. "You don't know me."

And my heart reaches the bottom of me and shatters completely.

I thought I did.

"Then I'd like to," I say.

He's beyond my words at this point. Too far gone. "Actually, I don't think you would," he says, his voice as hard as stone.

He rubs his eyes and murmurs, "I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry. For everything. I'll go now."

I want him to stay. I want to know why he thinks he isn't a good person and prove him wrong. I want to get to know him. Even the bad parts.

Stay, I think.

"Will you come back?"

"I don't think I should," he says quietly, his hand on the doorknob.

"But . . . " I start.

He stops. "But?"

"But don't you think that you owe me?" I say.

He turns to face me, frowning.

"I know a way you could make things up," I say, my voice wavering.

He keeps his eyes on me, listening intently. "How?" he says, speaking so softly that he's barely audible.

"Visit me again."