Page 5 of Road Rash

The brakes squeal, leaving black tread marks along the pavement as I slammed on them in front of the emergency room parking lot, almost skidding past the turn-in, arriving at the same time as the ambulance. There, I turn into the lot to find a spot.

I manage all this before they’ve even gotten Jonesie out of the back. Her scared eyes find me, thanking me for showing up. Like I’d leave her alone in this—ever.

The EMTs allow me to walk swiftly next to them holding her hand. They make the exchange of custody, giving updates on her condition.

No one says shit to me about continuing to walk with her back to the room they’ve prepped for her, figuring correctly that I’m her support person.

Small room. Almost claustrophobic. Cream walls make them look like they could use a good scrub down despite the fact that the room smells clean and sanitized. Someone made a mistake choosing this color.

Nurses move her to the bed and begin hooking her up to monitors. One of them, not even bothering to introduce herself, tells us, “They’ll be coming to get her for her CT scan in just a little bit.”

After she leaves us, I drag an ugly peach vinyl-covered chair over to the bed, then sit and take Jonesie’s hand again. She pushes herself to roll into me but can’t quite make it. I lean in to fill the rest of the space. Her cheek rests against my shoulder. It bothers me that she continues not to speak, but she’s content, closing her eyes.

Twenty-fucking-minutes pass before the technicians arrive to retrieve her for her test. They cart the whole bed out. I’m directed to stay in the room, which I don’t like but understand. They can’t have a bunch of antsy family running around their hallways.

Waiting has never been my strongest attribute. As a matter of fact, I fucking hate it and find myself highly agitated and moving from sitting in that ugly-ass chair with my knee bouncing up and down, hitting the floor like a jackhammer, to pacing the tiny cubicle of a room.

My mind continues to race the entire time she’s away. Just a goose egg? Concussion? Traumatic fucking brain injury? I need to know what’s wrong with her to know how to take care of her.

Back in the seat, I resume jacking my foot against the floor until they wheel her, bed and all, back into the room.

“Jonesie,” I sigh, jumping to her side and bending down to take her hand, kissing her head.

She returns my sigh with one of her own.

“Baby,” I breathe.

The woman in the white lab coat, I don’t know if she’s a doctor or a technician, but she shoots Jonesie a look and when Jonesie nods, she tells me, “We’re looking at a grade three to four concussion.”

“So that’s serious?” I ask.

“All head injuries should be taken seriously—but yes.”

“Why won’t she speak?”

“She can speak but it probably hurts her to do so.”

Jonesie nods confirming the statement.

Shit.

“Sweetheart.” I bend in to kiss her cheek this time.

“We’re keeping her overnight for observation.” Okay—she must be the doctor. I doubt a technician would have that info, though, what do I know?

“Many people choose to get a room across the street when visiting hours end.”

I don’t just chuckle, I outright laugh until I see Jonesie wince and I pull it back.

“Not leaving her.”

The doctor rolls her eyes evidently deciding that this ain’t the fight to pick.

Once they have a room ready for her, we move upstairs for the rest of the night, well, they’ll keep her for twenty-four hours.

It’s a long night in an uncomfortable chair while Jonesie sleeps, woken up every couple of hours by her nurse taking her vitals and asking mundane questions that she should have no problem answering except for the fact that she still don’t talk.

“Come on, baby—I know your head hurts but you gotta answer.”

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