Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Very true. You didn’t see the other car?”
He winces. “It was a silver sedan. Beyond that, I’ve got nothing. I sure as hell wish I’d seen the driver or the license plate or something useful.”
I take another sip of beer, thinking it all over. My cell buzzes again inside my purse. I will not look at it. I won’t.
“You need to get that?” he asks, settling himself on the floor.
I shake my head. “No. It’s my mother. I appreciate her caring, but she’s gotten clingy. I’m trying to deprogram her back to a manageable level.”
“Fair enough.”
“Just because I’m a little fragile doesn’t mean I’m no longer an adult,” I say, and boy do I sound cranky. On the verge of ranting, even. Not good.
“How are you doing with all of that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Better than I was at first. I had to learn to walk and feed myself all over again. And there’s a lot more rehabilitation in front of me.”
He just nods.
“It’s unlikely I’ll be running anytime soon.”
“Running sucks. My brother and his wife live next door and he makes me go with him all of the damn time.”
“I have to be honest, I’m not really missing that part of it. Though it would be nice to have the option.”
“Any white tunnel moments? Did you go toward the light and see your life flash before your eyes?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “Some weird dreams about spooky shadows, though. I think it was just the difference between day and night. Nothing interesting.”
He leans his head back against the wall, watching me thoughtfully. “If I can say one thing on the subject of your mom . . .”
“Okay.”
“I was only in the hospital for a few days. Long enough for them to operate and put some screws in to hold my arm together,” he says. “But it was enough to see what was going on around you. The way your people were taking turns to stay with you. So you wouldn’t wake up and have no one there, you know?”
I nod because I do know. Mom and Dad don’t like to talk about it, but Ryan was only too willing to discuss all he’d done. Sharing the many and varied details in an attempt to prove himself the dutiful husband. The hours he spent by my bedside. The sacrifices he made. The long, lonely hours, et cetera. Poor Ryan.
Mind you, waking from a long vegetative state is no small feat. That the odds were against me was made abundantly clear by posts on my Facebook page. Old stories about me. Thoughts and prayers. Messages of loss like I’d already died. There was even a “rest in peace.” No wonder Ryan gave up on me—just about everyone else had. Though those others hadn’t stood up in front of a preacher and taken vows.
Anyway.
“Your mom took the night shifts,” Leif continues. “She didn’t mind me sitting with you because it meant she could go grab a coffee or go for a walk or whatever without worrying. Even though the first time we met she looked at me like I was there to steal her purse.”
“I come from a judgmental family, apparently.”
“You upper-middle-class suburbanites, you’re all the same.” He winks at me. “But, Anna, she was a wreck. It’s probably not my place to say this, but that woman would do anything for you.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“Despite being a wreck, she was all over your treatment, grilling the doctors and nurses, getting all up in their faces if she wasn’t sure something they were doing was best for her baby girl. It was a beautiful thing to see.”
“You’re making me feel like a bad daughter.”
He downs a mouthful of beer. “No one could blame you for being pissed about the situation. It’s got to be a huge adjustment.”
“I had to move back in with them when I got out of the hospital for various reasons and . . . it’s been an adjustment for everyone, I think.”
“My mother is a wonderful woman. But she does have white carpet and a special day of the week for doing laundry,” he says. “So trust me, I understand. There’s no way I could move back home.”
I give him a glum smile and look around to buy myself time. To put my thoughts in order. It’s really quite a nice condo. Older, with character. The kitchen could use some work and I’m guessing the bathroom is similar. But still. The high ceiling and wood-framed windows have charm.
He clears his throat. “What about your friends, they being supportive?”
“Oh. That too is complicated.” And while I don’t particularly want to say more, he just waits patiently for my explanation. “Most of the people I was close to . . . their lives have kind of moved on. Or I can no longer keep up. I get so easily exhausted.”