“Enough for now. We can revisit it later.” Her gaze settled on me, dark and weighted with expectation. “Why don’t you tell me how you’ve been, since you don’t answer my calls anymore, mija?”
“I’m really tired.”
“Always tired, tired. Too tired to talk to your mother.”
“Too tired to hear how disappointed you are,” I snapped.
Mamá’s eyes flashed.
“Come, flaca.” She put an arm around Ellis. “I’m starving and you’re too skinny. Let’s find something to eat.”
At the door Elle glanced back at me, a specter of hurt in her face. I turned toward the window and watched dusk fall in shades of blood and old bruises. When I was alone I recited the story to myself, the car crash story, until the details were sharp and straight in my mind, honed to a razor’s edge.
My mother stayed for two days. We’d had enough of each other after two hours.
Every time doctors came by she acted like I was a baby, not twenty-two. She made them tell her everything, then had Ellis re-explain in layman’s terms while I sat there mentally headdesking.
Compound fracture of the radial head. (Broken elbow.)
Distal radius fracture. (Broken wrist.)
Multiple phalangeal fractures. (Broken fingers.)
Soft tissue injury. (Bruises on the inside.)
Injury to radial, ulnar, and carpal nerves. (Puppet strings cut.)
The doctor said, “It appears you braced against the steering column at the time of impact.” (Elle said, “Imagine trying to stop a truck with your palm.”)
The insurance investigator said, “There were two impacts. The other car rear-ended you, then you hit the bridge rail.” (Elle looked away, her eyes shadowed.)
The cop said, “We will not be pursuing criminal charges, Ms. Bergen. We wish you a speedy recovery.” (Elle was not in the room.)
When they finally let me out of bed—my arm strapped tight to my chest, throbbing through the meds—I snuck into a supply room, stole a white coat, and put it on Ellis. We made rounds and talked to the other patients. She loved this kind of stuff. Her and her big soft heart. She’d listen to any sob story, no matter how obviously fake or drug-induced. It was better than her staring at me with that hangdog expression, her eyes glimmering with questions.
We’d both taken a Breathalyzer that first night. Standard procedure for any serious crash. I was stone-cold sober. Elle’s BAC was 0.11.
I tried not to think about white shards on black asphalt.
“He can barely see,” I said, pulling Ellis away from an old man who mistook her for his son. “He thinks you’re a boy.”
She shrugged.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Why would it?”
“Because you’re not his son?”
“He’s alone, Vada. If it makes him happy, it doesn’t hurt to let him believe that.”
“Don’t lead people on. It’s cruel.”
She recoiled as if I’d hit her.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “My arm hurts. It’s making me bitchy.”
It was making me more than bitchy.
THINGS I COULD NO LONGER DO WITH A FUCKED-UP ARM:
1. Shower alone.
2. Dress myself.
3. Handle my fucking period.
Mamá was right to baby me, because never in my life had I felt more powerless than when I went to piss and saw blood on the paper. It hit me then, harder than anything else had: this was my life now. I couldn’t wash my own hair. I couldn’t put a bra on. I couldn’t put the fucking menstrual cup in.
Once upon a time I had a bit of a Cinderella complex. I resented the mundane chores that consume your life when you’re poor: hauling clothes to a coin laundry, lugging groceries home on city buses. I wished for freedom, fantasized about a life where my days weren’t measured in cups of rice, where I didn’t have to decide between eating protein that week or having a beer to unwind after working a double shift and studying my ass off for finals. Well, I got what I wished for. Just like in fairy tales, the wish wasn’t worth the price.
Please, I prayed. Take it back. Let me scrub my clothes in the tub again. Let me work. Let me suffer and ache.
This isn’t freedom. This is the cage. I was so wrong.
Elle knocked at the door and I wiped my tears away. “Yeah?”
She passed me my phone. On it, a text from her:
Write down anything you need. I’ll go get it. She won’t know.
I texted back, my savior.
While Ellis was gone, all Mamá talked about was my younger sister, Ariana. Ari was dating some hotshot lawyer, Ari was in love, Ari was getting engaged. My twenty-year-old sister had already been engaged twice. Instead of going to college, she majored in heartbreak.
“You could have been married by now,” my mother said, sighing. “Living in a nice house, with a baby to keep you busy. Then this never would have happened.”
Just like you, I thought. “That’s not why this happened.”
“Then why?”
Subject change. “You seriously think I’m old enough to have kids?”
“Seventeen was old enough for me.”
“I haven’t even finished college.”
“You already have a degree. Why do you need another?”
“Because I—” I cut off. Still no good answer beyond because I want it. But when I thought hard, sometimes the answer was Because I’m stalling. Because I’m not ready to be an adult yet. “I don’t know.”
“What do you know? Besides that my life isn’t good enough for you.”
“Stop projecting. No one’s judging you, Mamá.”
“Every choice you’ve made is a judgment on me.” She picked at her nails. “Ari wants children.”
“Good for her. I’m not my sister.”
“Yes. That is clear.”
Then she started talking about wedding dresses.
When Elle returned, I whispered, “Please get me out of here before I hurt myself and others.”
The doctors insisted I use a wheelchair. Ellis pushed me down eerily quiet halls in the dead of night, the harsh light tinting our faces ashen, ghoulish. When we passed the nurses she pushed me fast, sprinting down the corridors as I shrieked in surprise and glee. She grinned down at me, that rake of red hair all mussed, cheeks pink. So pretty.
“Speed demon,” she said.
I smiled, but part of me was in the car, watching the odometer tick up. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.
“Demon,” I agreed. “El diablo.”
The cafeteria was deserted this late, so Elle bought me gummy worms out of a vending machine. Gummy anything: my go-to comfort food.
“Do you know what tonight is?” she said.
I bit a worm and stretched it transparent. “Nope.”
“New Year’s Eve.”
The worm snapped against my teeth. I’d lost all track of time. Some friends from school were throwing a big New Year’s bash, and I’d planned to take Ellis. I’d planned to show her the latest painting I was working on. I’d planned so many things.
My mother loved to say, If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
A sinking feeling opened up in my chest, widening, plunging, and heavy things inside me slid toward that precipice.
“What are you thinking?” Ellis said.
“How much I can lose in one fucking night.”
She touched my shoulder, lightly. “I’m still here. You haven’t lost me.”
It didn’t mean much. Not when she couldn’t remember the crash. If she did, she’d take that promise back.
“What do you want to do tonight?” she said.
“Wallow.”
“Aside from that.”
“Maybe some navel-gazing. An hour or two of angst.”
“Vada.”
I sulked at the cafeteria counter. A display of kid’s meal toys caught my eye: lacy tiaras, magic wands. I pictured Ariana in a Disney princess dress.
When we were little, Mamá was our queen, looking like a million bucks in Gucci heels while scrubbing grilled cheese off the floor. Never mind that the Gucci was thrift store and the grilled cheese bought with food stamps. She wanted a do-over. Wanted us to marry rich and rewrite her life story. I was more interested in watercolor paints than wedding gowns. By the time we were teens, Mamá had shifted her hopes to Ari.