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Chapter Four

"I need an appointment. As soon as possible."

My therapist's assistant, Becky, asked me to hold a moment. A recent cancellation provided Dr. Peters with an opening for 2pm tomorrow. I jumped on it.

I was fifteen minutes away from home. I need a shower, I need food (maybe even pizza), I need a beer. I need someone else.

I texted Rog. It's been almost a week since we last spoke. He knew I needed to spend time with my Aunt. We've only been seeing each other a month when she had her stroke. The nursing home called me three times while we were at the movies. I always silence my phone and tuck it in my purse. I had no idea. Part of me wish I could have answered the first time, been there when Aunt Hay Hay got to the hospital, maybe made things less scary for her before the doctors operated. Part of me, deep down inside, thought it was a just revenge on the nursing home who never answers my calls except for after the times I storm in there and cause a ruckus at the front desk.

Aunt Hay Hay always said a little ruckus goes a long way.

That night, I laid on my couch in front of my TV. I wasn't in the mood to watch anything. I was staring at myself in the reflection of the black screen. It was me sitting there. A dirty plate with little streaks of tomato sauce on the table in front of me. When I took a drink that reflection, sitting its black world, took a drink too.

I had taken the time off from work for the whole week. I didn't have to do anything tomorrow except my therapy appointment. One more beer will put me to sleep. I'm already dozing off here and there. One more will do the trick.

Rog knocked at the door. A surge of energy went through my veins. Suddenly, I'm not so into sleeping.

I let him in. He helps me with my final beer. He's a little hungry so I let him have one slice of pizza, because I want to save the other two for lunch, or maybe even breakfast, tomorrow. I want whatever makes me feel good, even if it's just for a few fleeting seconds, and I want it now. Beer. Pizza. Rog.

He's only on the crust before I pounce on him. I'm not usually like this and he notes it. We met on one of the swiping apps a few months back. It was a newer one, I don't even know. My friend, Abigail, had good luck with it, so I wanted to give it a try. I'm enjoying how casual it's been. He does do a good job of making conversation, usually. I'm getting exactly what I want and expect having him show up here at a quarter to midnight...

The next morning, he manages to sleep through my phone alarm. He does mostly freelance work so early mornings aren't really his thing on a day-to-day basis. I need to stop into work for a quick chat with my boss, just to get her up to date on everything going on. To touch base and keep things moving forward.

It all hit me in the shower.

I need to get groceries.

I need to pay my internet bill.

I need to call Aunt Hay Hay's friend, Linda. She was so sweet when we moved Aunt Hay Hay into the home. She had a plate of cookies that she claimed to have made (but I recognized as Nabisco's "Ready To Heat Then Eat"s, and she chatted us up as we got Aunt Hay Hay settled. She really did a good job of making me feel comfortable that I was leaving Aunt Hay Hay in a good place.

And then I realized the water running down my cheeks wasn't from the faucet. I was crying. I was remembering all the smiles Aunt Hay Hay made me smile. When I eyes of my stuff tiger faded away, she took a black permanent marker and made them whole again. When I scraped my knee she kissed it and it didn't hurt after that. When it was cold and rainy outside, she made us hot chocolate and cuddled with us on the couch. Most nights like that, we'd fall asleep, Aunt Hay Hay with her hands on our heads from running her fingers through our hair.

It was the best.

Even though these were memories from childhood, memories that stayed there and hadn't been replicated in any noticeable way since... Something about Aunt Hay Hay being dead really meant it was over. There would be no more memories.

I let Rog sleep in my bed. I trust him to see himself out, maybe eat one of my Pop-tarts or bananas or both. I haven't been hungry for what feels like days. Someone needs to make sure my food doesn't go to waste.

The drive to work was gray and misty. It must have rained at some point early in the morning. I had been sitting in silence for about fifteen minutes before I decided to turn the radio on. It was some poppy song from the 80s. Couldn't tell you the name or the artist, but I was able to hum along the whole time.

I was at the intersection of Cross and Merrick, getting ready to turn right. There were only a few cars on the road with me. I did, admittedly, leave earlier than usual. Normally, I like to take my mornings slow, but I just can't help but feeling that if I stop moving, I'm not going to leave my couch. The sooner today is done and I can climb back into bed. With Rog. The better.

I get my green light. Finally.

Then, reality shifted.

I heard the crunch of metal. The smashing of glass. I felt hugged so tight I couldn't breathe.

I think I screamed... but that may have been the tires screeching. It was a lot of tires.

I see the 18-wheeler sliding along the street in front of me. It's jack-knifed and leaning away. It's engine hits a tree that stops it dead. Another car crashes into it and a car not paying attention crashes into that.

People start running toward it. There were so many people all of a sudden. I mean, it felt like the whole city was converge on this moment, but really it was only about seven or fewer. I recognized one as a guy who merged in front of me without using a turn signal from about a mile back.

I keep waiting for the pain to kick in. I'm standing amongst them, but I knew I saw the airbag go off. I know I have a concussion waiting to drop on my head like a bag of bricks. I know it's going to hurt...

I know that these people who I saw running past me are at my car.

What's left of it anyway.

And I see that they're trying to pull me out of it.

And I see the woman who reached in to try and talk to me scream. Then everyone moves back.

Half of my face is missing.

I touch my own and it feels like it's all there.

But I'm also looking at myself. My limp body hanging from a seatbelt in a crunched up mess of metal.

And half my head is gone.

And it hurts.

And I remember the song I heard.

Belinda Carlisle.

Ooooh baby, do you know what that's worth?

And it hurts.

It. Hurts.