In an Instant(34)
“She’s here. She’s okay.”
My dad closes his eyes in deep relief. He doesn’t know to ask about Oz. He assumes Oz is fine, that my brother was rescued when he was.
“Mr. Miller,” the doctor says, stepping forward and causing my mom to step back. The doctor asks a battery of questions to assess whether there’s brain damage, which thankfully there doesn’t appear to be.
“You’re a lucky man,” he says when he finishes.
I’m not certain my dad agrees. My dad holds his emotions tight but trembles with the effort. He is not listening as the doctor tells him that he no longer has a spleen, that his leg will take four to six months to heal, that he will have a permanent limp, that he will be in the hospital for another two weeks and confined to a wheelchair for five, that he will need physical therapy several times a week for at least a year.
My dad hears none of it, his eyes still fixed on my mom, holding her gaze and offering her all the strength and courage he could not offer on the mountain. His guilt is enormous; I feel it. Not so much that the accident happened—my dad is a firm believer that we do not control luck—but that he couldn’t stop it once it started, change things or fix them and somehow protect his family.
Finally, the doctor leaves, and when the latch clicks closed behind him, my mom begins to cry, great sobs that flow unchecked, her shoulders shuddering as her grief overwhelms her.
With a wince, my dad shifts a few inches to the right and holds out his hand, and like a small child, my mom clambers onto the narrow bed beside him. Her body shapes itself to his, her left leg draping over his uninjured one and her arm wrapping across his chest. He takes her hand in his and rests his chin against her hair.
All night that is how they remain, entwined together, my dad slipping in and out of consciousness as my mom sleeps deeply for the first time in a week.
38
Aubrey sits in Chloe’s room paging through Modern Bride. When the door opens, she shoves the magazine beneath her chair.
I do not blame Aubrey for her distraction. It’s been ten days since the accident, and life goes on. Her wedding is three months away, and it is far better to think about that than the death and suffering around her. So I understand. And I also feel bad. All the joy that was swirling around her and her big day has been sucked away and reduced to a guilty indulgence she needs to hide from everyone.
The woman who walks in is the psychiatrist assigned to Chloe by the hospital’s social worker. I do not like her. Short and wide with puffy brown hair and small bird eyes, she talks to Chloe like she is five and has tried everything from bribery to threats to get my sister to respond, a Hail Mary approach to headshrinking that has zero chance of success. To put it mildly, she sucks, and I know Chloe thinks so as well.
“May I speak to you outside,” she says to Aubrey.
“Uh, sure,” Aubrey says and follows her out the door.
For the most part, Aubrey has been uninvolved in the aftermath. She’s here because my dad was wakened last night, and my mom didn’t want Chloe to be alone, but since her first visit directly after the accident, she’s been home, she and Ben taking care of Bingo and the house while my mom was here looking after Chloe and my dad.
“I’d like you to tell me a little about your sister,” the woman says.
Aubrey scrunches her brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what she likes to do. What are her hobbies, her interests? I’d like to get a better understanding of her so I can figure out a way to connect.”
Aubrey’s eyes move left and right as she thinks, and as I watch her, I realize how little she might actually know about Chloe. While Aubrey and I got along great, and Chloe and I got along great, the two of them never really vibed. Five years divide them, and when Aubrey went off to college, she pretty much disconnected from everyone except my mom.
Come on, Aubrey, I encourage. Chloe. She likes to listen to music and walk on the beach. She collects shells and rock and roll albums from the seventies. She likes anything with cinnamon and loves to bake. Snickerdoodles are her favorite because they’re made of cinnamon and the word is fun to say. She likes words like that and sprinkles them into her sentences: shenanigan, debauchery, phlebotomist, Zimbabwe. She’s a sucker for anything pathetic and helpless—stray cats, bunnies, lizards—and she loves those ridiculous reality shows like The Biggest Loser or Love in the Jungle. She’s a hopeless romantic and was crazy in love with Vance until he abandoned her in the snow. Come on, Aubrey, think!
Aubrey shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, looking at the woman with genuine apology in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
The psychiatrist frowns, causing Aubrey to squirm, and desperate to add something of value, she blurts, “She listens to awful music, the kind with screaming guitars and lots of drums, and a month ago she cut off her hair and dyed it black.”
“So she’s angry?” the shrink says, lighting up as if this is some kind of breakthrough. “Do you think she was depressed?”
“Uh . . . uh, I . . .”
No, Chloe wasn’t depressed. She was the happiest she’s ever been. She was graduating in four months, head over heels in love, and openly revolting against convention, society, and my mom. She was rebel-without-a-cause, goth, snarky-and-loving-it happy.
“Maybe,” Aubrey says.