The Lies I Told(56)

“Will she remember the accident?” An unknown man’s voice felt vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Maybe one of my doctors or a nurse.

“The doctors are hopeful she’ll remember,” Brit said.

“Have you been here the entire time?” the man asked.

“Almost nonstop. I don’t want her to be alone.”

Knowing Brit, she’d been hovering over me, watching me sleep, calculating therapies, treatments, doctors’ appointments. Brit liked logistics. Taking care of people gave her purpose.

In the hospital bed, my eyelids felt heavy, and it took effort to pry them open just halfway. The light in the room was dim, but I could see the muted television playing a game show. I wanted to call out to Brit, a blurry mash of soft mauves, but the tube down my throat made it impossible. Brit’s back was to me, her attention on the man just out of my field of vision. Finally, unable to sustain even this silent communication, I closed my eyes.

Now as I clung to the memory, I replayed the man’s voice. Have you been here the entire time? Have you been here the entire time? What had been unfamiliar then was familiar now. It was David. They’d met at the hospital, but it never occurred to me he’d been in my room.

I rubbed the back of my neck, working out the tension, angry that he’d seen me like that. I’d been utterly helpless in the hospital. I’d hated the feeling. Felt trapped by the weight of my injuries. And David, a man I barely knew, had been there and seen me at my worst.

All that I’d struggled to remember and what had come to me was David. Maybe this was the beginning of recalling those lost days. Maybe there finally was a little light in the darkness.

I closed my eyes, replaying the moment, but I must’ve drifted off, because when I woke, the sun was rising over the river. I rose, walked to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. Glancing up into my shadowed eyes, I thought for an instant Clare was staring back at me. Do something. Figure this out.

I grabbed my purse and headed out. In my car, I sat for a minute, looking up at the stars in the clear night sky.

I started the engine, pulled out of my parking lot, and crossed the Mayo Bridge toward the city. I wound up on Fourteenth Street and then turned right onto East Broad Street, weaving through the centuries-old buildings of Shockoe Bottom and back up toward Church Hill. It was after six when I stopped in front of Libby Hill Park.

I stared down the hill. According to the accident report, my Jeep had been spotted speeding down Broad Street. At the bottom of the hill, I’d taken a sharp right and almost immediately hit a utility pole with enough force that my Jeep’s engine block cracked, and the vehicle’s front end crumpled like paper.

The investigating officer had asked me several times about my phone. I’d assumed it was in my purse, but he’d assured me it hadn’t been found in or near the car. Brit had always wanted me to install Find My Friends, but I’d never been comfortable with my big sister tracking me.

I surveyed the area, wondering what would have brought me up to Church Hill. I loved it up here, loved the vistas of the river. I’d shot a wedding at St. John’s Church about two years ago but to my knowledge had not returned since. But I had.

The police estimated that I’d been going at least forty miles an hour based on my short skid marks. An aggressive speed on these narrow city streets had to mean something. What had spooked me?

Back out on the road, I drove down Broad Street and turned onto the side street where I’d crashed. As I drove the darkened street, passing rows of parked cars to my left and right, I searched for something familiar.

Nothing about the historic wooden townhomes sparked a memory. I slowed as I approached the accident site. It wasn’t hard to miss. The utility pole, once darkened by weather and time and covered in flyers, had been cut down after the accident, for fear it would collapse. It’d been replaced by a new pole, telegraphing a freshness out of place among the hundred-year-old townhomes.

I found an empty spot, parallel parked, and then shut off the engine. Keys and mace in hand and out of my car, I crossed the street to the spot. Running my fingers over the pole’s smooth new wood, I closed my eyes, trying to remember.

Panic. Fear. Desperation.

Whispers of them all drifted through me. It would be logical to be afraid after the trauma of an accident. But I’d been terrified before.

I drew my fingers away from the pole as if they’d been scorched. Why had I been afraid before? Forty miles an hour in this area was insane. Only someone running for help or away from danger would be so foolish.

There’d been no one who had needed my help. This I knew from Brit, who had asked me over and over why I’d been driving so fast. Brit had chalked it up to the drugs she and the paramedics assumed had been in my system. There goes Marisa again. High, drunk, or loaded.

But I had been riding high in early January. I’d been busy printing and mounting my photographs for my show. I’d had several weddings, and I’d been diligent about following my AA program. My life was on track. There’d been no depression or sense of loss, my usual past triggers.

I wasn’t using. I’d no memory at my disposal to back this up, but I knew I’d been sober.

Someone must have drugged me. Richards said it happened more often than anyone wanted to admit. The realization was as clear to me as the street in front of me now.

The doctors had been more focused on saving my life, so there’d been no examination to determine whether I’d been sexually active or assaulted. The bruises on my body had been explained away by the accident, so if someone had hurt me right before, then the crash would’ve hidden their deeds.