“She tells me that like I wasn’t a field nurse for thirty years,” Mrs. Miller grumbled to me.
We both watched as Mom took Megan who was now wailing into her arms. Mom rocked her in her arms, soothing her. “She’s okay, Peanut, she just cut her hand. They’ll have her fixed up and good as new,” she said over and over again, stroking Megan’s hair as she continued to wail.
I could hear the sirens in the background and watched in a daze as the saturated towel above me began to drip onto my chest. I closed my eyes as the dizziness assaulted me again. The next time I opened my eyes, our kitchen was swarming with paramedics and firemen. I could hear Mom explaining what had happened as they checked my vitals and began loading me up on a gurney. I saw one of the firemen pull the offending knife out of the garbage disposal.
A few of the paramedics crowded around Mom and Megan as Mom explained she thought Megan was in shock. She mentioned the accident Megan had been in with my dad and they started checking Megan over while she still clutched my mom. It was weird to hear her finally making noise after so many months of silence.
They loaded us all up in the ambulance as Mrs. Miller promised Mom she’d clean up the mess before we got home, making her point clear when she shot a look at Megan.
The paramedics shielded me from Megan's view when she started chanting, “Too much blood,” in a gasping voice.
I tried to remain focused, but the ride and my dizziness lulled me in and out of sleep.
Several hours later, Megan and I were bundled up in the backseat of Mrs. Miller’s minivan. I was the proud owner of thirty-three stitches on the palm of my hand where the paring knife had done a good job of making my palm resemble sushi. Megan was sleeping since they gave her a mild sedative in the hospital. Mom shocked me by saying that Megan had held an entire conversation with her once the sedative began to relax her.
Mom carried Megan up to her own bed while I lethargically climbed the stairs to my room. Mom joined me a few minutes later and helped me change into pajamas.
“This is going to be a pain,” I said, trying not to bump my hand that was starting to let me know it was not pleased with me as the painkillers began to wear off.
“Literally or figuratively?” Mom asked, making me laugh.
“Both,” I said, climbing under my covers that she held up for me.
“Do you think she freaked out like that because she was stuck in the car with Dad and all that blood?” I finally asked the question we had been avoiding.
She sighed and sat on the edge of my bed. “I think so, but I hardly remember anything from that day.”
“Not me, I remember it vividly,” I admitted.
“You do?” she asked, laying down on the other pillow next to me and holding on to my uninjured hand.
“Yeah, you called me during third period, telling me there had been an accident. Mrs. Lewis called in an aide and drove me to the hospital herself. Dad was in surgery when I got there and Megan was in the E.R. sitting on a gurney covered in Dad’s blood waiting for the doctor to put a cast on her arm.”
“Where was I?” Mom asked in a low voice.
“You were in the chapel praying,” I reminded her. “I held Megan’s hand as they set her arm and then put a cast on it. It didn’t dawn on me until later that she didn’t so much as make a peep when he set her arm. Once her arm was set and casted, I helped her take off her blood-covered leotard and helped her into pajamas the hospital gave us. Grandma and Donna got there as I was carrying her through the halls looking for you. I handed her off to them so I could come find you. The surgeon that worked on Daddy found you at the same time I did,” I said in a quiet voice.
“I left you to deal with all of that,” Mom said in a shaky voice.
“It was the worst day of our lives,” I said, letting her know that I understood we all handled grief differently.
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Mom. I’m just glad we finally got to talk about that day,” I said.
“You said something earlier in the kitchen that upset me,” mom said.
“Oh, don’t remind me,” I said, remembering my rant.
“No, this is something we need to discuss. You said your father’s death was your fault. Honey, that’s not true. We knew nothing was wrong with your car. Your dad figured a tune-up wouldn’t hurt since you had been driving it for awhile.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Really,” she said, squeezing my hand.
“Thank goodness,” I said as the pain killers took affect and I drifted to sleep, exhausted from my evening.
I woke several hours later to a throbbing hand and a small body squeezing in between Mom and me.