17
Peyton
My room is a revolving door of visitors. Many times over the past few days the nurses have had to tell my family to keep their voices down. One went as far to threaten to remove them and reinstate the one person at a time visiting rule. I’m tempted to ask her. It’s not that I don’t appreciate them being here, but they’re always here, and I’m in pain. A crap ton of pain to be exact. Sometimes I just wish I could just be left alone to suffer in silence, without them worrying about me.
They don’t get it. By they, I mean my mom and sister. Every grimace and grunt has them rushing to my side. They’re either petting my hair or running their hands over my blankets as if they need to be straightened. For whatever reason, they can’t comprehend that my meds are on a timer and when they start to wear off, I start to hurt more.
I’m tired of the question, “how are you doing?” I mean seriously, look at me. I have no control over my body. My right arm is now taped to my side so I don’t move it suddenly, and my leg… considering I can’t feel anything, even when someone accidentally touches my toes, pretty much tells me I’ll never walk again. Let’s not forget the hole I have on the side of my head or my missing hair. And while I can breathe on my own, I have to wear a mask to sleep. So how do they think I’m doing? I’m not sure I can say the word “fine” anymore than I already have. I get that I almost died, but I’m awake now and it would be nice if people started treating me like Peyton, and not some fragile doll. I’ve always hated dolls.
No one is talking about what happened either, despite me asking. My uncle Liam came to visit, I asked him. He had this far off look about him and changed the subject. The same with my uncle Jimmy, he acted like he had no idea. My dad, mom and my good for nothing siblings haven’t been any better. Quinn and Elle should at least be on my side, slipping me pudding and milkshakes, all while telling how it is I almost died. But they’re all tight-lipped and pretending everything is sunshine and rainbows.
The last clear thing I remember Sunday is walking to Kyle Zimmerman’s car. I wish they understood that my memory’s fuzzy and it would be nice to have some recollection of what I was doing before the accident happened. If I had access to my phone, I’d be able to look up the media reports, but my parents are doing a stand-up job keeping me out of the loop. I don’t even remember why I was at the Bears game even though everyone says I was there for an assignment.
My aunt Yvie walks in and stands at the end of my bed. It’s like we’re having a staring game, except she’s winning because I’m still doped up on morphine. I have a feeling that once I’m out of this hospital, I’ll be sent to another one to deal with the drug addiction I’m developing.
“Are you just going to stand there?” I ask. My voice is groggy and hoarse. Side effects of the tube they stuffed down my windpipe to help me breathe.
“I’m afraid to touch you.”
“No one said you had to, but you can come closer. I won’t bite.” I offer her a smile, but it doesn’t feel like my lips are even moving.
Yvie floats over. I say float because she’s as dainty as a butterfly. It comes from teaching dance and yoga. She and Xander own a state of the art facility in Los Angeles where they cater to the rich and famous. My uncle specializes in physical rehabilitation and is one of the most sought-after injury specialists in the country. Many sports teams hire him after their star athlete has been injured. Yvie expanded their mini-empire when she started posting videos on YouTube of her teaching yoga. Now she has a full line of DVDs out, plus there’s a waiting list to take one of her classes.
“Promise not to bite?”
“I promise not to move,” I tell her, straight-faced. I wish I were joking. I’d give anything to lunge out of this bed and tackle her, but any such movement would kill me or leave me wishing I had died.
She kisses my forehead and when she pulls away, she tries to hide the fact she’s crying. “I’m so happy that you’re okay.”
“Thanks. Is Xander here?”
Yvie nods. “He’s out in the hall with your parents and grandma.”
“She’s here too?”
“Of course. We wanted to be here earlier, but your dad…”
“It’s okay. I know I wasn’t supposed to make it.”