Dream On(2)

“Where am I?” I ask.

“In the hospital. You had an accident.”

My vision clears, and I realize that I am, in fact, lying in a hospital bed, wearing a thin patterned gown with a stiff white blanket pulled up to my waist. A heart monitor beeps steadily from the corner. Brie’s here, but where’s Devin? He must have stepped out.

“Where—”

“Hold on. Mel… Melanie!” she shouts over her shoulder. Rapid footsteps approach and my mother appears beside Brie. Dark circles ring her eyes, and her normally shiny hair is limp. She’s only forty-two—she had me at seventeen—but she looks at least fifty today. My stomach tightens as she smooths a lock of damp hair from my forehead. “Cass, is that you? Can you hear me?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, Mom, I hear you. You’re shouting.” I attempt to scoot higher in bed, but pain blasts through every cell of my body and I wince.

“Shhh, don’t try to move. You were in a car accident, honey. You’ve been in a coma. We weren’t sure if you…” Mom’s chest heaves and a sob rips through her. Oh God, Mom never cries. Brie curls an arm around her shoulder while she struggles to regain her normally unflappable composure.

Wait, a coma? The heart rate monitor beeps faster. “How long was I—”

“Out?” Brie finishes. Gnawing her lip, she takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but… the year is 2041, and the robots have taken over. I’m sorry. I hope you’re ready for the apocalypse.” Her lips twist in an obvious attempt to suppress a smile. I blink.

Mom slaps Brie’s arm. “Brielle Owens.”

“What? The opportunity was too good to pass up. I couldn’t help myself.”

Warmth fills my chest. Brie’s always known how to make me smile.

Mom shakes her head. “It’s August 4. You’ve been out for six days.”

I glance around the hospital room, at the blue vinyl chair pulled out into a bed in the corner, the open bag sitting on top of the twisted sheet, the lunch tray of half-eaten food on the rolling table. It looks like Mom, or Brie, or both, have been staying with me. Maybe they’ve been taking turns with Devin to visit. “Hey, can you—”

“Someone’s up, I see.” A rosy-faced nurse bustles into the room, and a swell of activity ensues. The nurse calls in a doctor, who examines me and asks what feels like a million questions. “Do you know your name? What year is it? Who’s the president?” Half an hour later, a specialist arrives and introduces herself as Dr. Holloway, a neurologist. She studies my chart as the nurse inclines my bed.

“I could use some caffeine,” announces Brie. “Can I get you a coffee, Mel?”

“Yes please. Two creams, one sugar. Thanks, Brie,” says Mom.

“You got it. I’ll be right back.” She flashes me a reassuring smile as she leaves the room.

Adjusting her laptop, the doctor peers at me over her tortoiseshell glasses. “Tell me, Cass, what’s the last thing you remember before waking up today?”

“I—” I cough, and Mom hands me a paper cup of ice chips. I slurp one into my mouth. The chilled liquid feels good against my abraded throat. Apparently I was on a ventilator until two days ago, when I began demonstrating bouts of wakefulness—of which I remember nothing—but my throat still feels like someone shoved a red-hot poker down there. “I remember taking the bar exam.”

“Mmm-hmm. And what about after that?” the doctor asks.

I think back. I recall the last day of the two-day, soul-sucking exam, how I felt elated and exhausted when I left the test center in Columbus, and then… “Nothing.”

She types for several long seconds before shutting the lid of the laptop. “The good news is it looks like there’s no brain damage.”

Across the room, my mother slumps in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“But she has a long road of recovery ahead. We were able to relieve the swelling on her brain with an emergency craniotomy, but it’s possible she may experience lingering adverse effects.”

I automatically finger the thick bandage behind my ear.

“What kind of adverse effects?” asks Mom.

“Possible trouble with coordination, short-term memory loss. We won’t know until we run further tests. And with two cracked ribs and a fractured tibia, I’m recommending she be moved to a rehabilitation center…”

I close my eyes while the doctor explains my recovery plan. The back of my neck tingles, and a memory lumbers to the surface. “Wait,” I say, opening my eyes. “I do remember something. Before driving home after the bar exam, I had dinner with Devin.”

Mom frowns at me. “Who’s Devin, honey?”

I blink. “You know, Devin Bloom. The guy I’ve been seeing.”

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

“I did, you’ve just been working too hard,” I mumble. “So wait, he hasn’t come to visit me?” Disappointment swells in my chest like a cresting wave.

“No one’s been here except me, your stepdad, and your brothers. They came by yesterday after you were moved out of the ICU. And Brie, of course. She jumped in the car and drove up as soon as she heard about your accident.”