Page 8 of Road Rash

“She’ll call if she remembers anything,” Old Man answers for me. I’m so thankful to have him here playing interference. I hurt. I’m scared. I have a large chunk of time that is simply missing from my brain. “Sleep, baby,” he orders me. “You need your rest.”

“Don’t leave,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

“Never,” he answers.

Never.

I wake up periodically but spend most of my time sleeping. Although I’m still tired, I’m ready to not be in a hospital. They end up keeping me more than the twenty-four hours because that would’ve put my release in the middle of the night. Old Man has clean clothing for me. My clothing. He must have had someone bring it from the trailer.

He helps me to the bathroom for me to shower. I need a shower. He turns on the spray for me and brings it to temperature while I sit on the closed toilet seat. Then he leaves me to it.

Luckily the showers in hospitals have seats built in. Me and standing without wobbling don’t mix today. And sitting allows me to keep my head from getting hit full-on by the spray.

It takes longer to clean myself than on any normal day and even longer to dry and dress. I opt to not blow out my hair because the loud sound of the drying is still too loud. My stomach hurts. Headaches do that to me.

There’s a soft knock on the door. “Baby, you good in there?” Old Man asks.

“Can—” My voice still scratches my throat. I clear it and start again. “Can you help me out?” The door cracks open and he slips his head inside with me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. I’m just tired. That’s why I’m back to sitting on the closed toilet lid.

“No energy. Wobbly standing.”

“They said that’ll happen.”

“I know.”

He steps all the way in, still wearing the clothes he wore to work the other night. There’s blood on his T-shirt and jeans. Tears hit my eyes again. It’s all too real. The next thing I know he’s dropped down to his knees in front of me, wrapping those strong, comforting arms around my arms and shoulders.

“Can we go home?” I ask with my face pressed against his chest.

And this is where my life takes the craziest turn of all. Old Man tips my chin up, tilts his head, and leans in. His lips hit mine softly. It’s short. It’s so soft I could almost convince myself that it’s not actually happening. But I feel it all the way down to my toes. Then he’s standing, helping me up, letting me lean on him as we make our way back out into the room.

I already received my release. We’re free to go. At last. I’m ordered into a wheelchair and the nurse wheels me to the elevator. Old Man never leaves my side.

Down on the first floor, the nurse waits with me while he runs to get his truck. Both Old Man and the nurse help me up from the chair and the nurse exchanges full custody over to Old Man. From there, he helps me to his pickup, lifting me up to reach the soft, gray seat of his silver Ford F-150. Every year for as long as I’ve known him, he’s driven an F-150. I’ll know his body has been invaded by a pod person if he ever shows up with a different truck. With all the large holes in my memory, having this as a constant is comforting. I can’t pretend to know why, it just is.

“You need anything?” He reaches his hand across the seat to rest on my thigh, moving his thumb in slow circles. We turn out of the drive.

“I’d love an iced coffee from Starbucks. You know, one of those… frappes?”

Without one word of griping, he pulls into the closest drive and pulls around. He points the truck in the opposite direction to home. Back to where the fast-food joints and gas stations are located closest to the major interstate running north and south. Part of me wishes we could just jump on and go. I’m scared to go back. Scared that I can’t remember and scared that I will.

He finds me that Starbucks, pulling through the drive-thru. “Just get me a Grande,” I tell him.

“You’re getting a Venti. You’ve had a rough couple of days.”

I could fall in love with this man. After knowing him for ten years, I’m probably halfway there.

Instead of verbalizing my gratefulness, I lean over to rest my head against his shoulder as my thank you. He turns his head to press a kiss to my hair, cupping my cheek briefly before moving us up in line.

Once I have my drink and the piece of lemon pound cake he bought me, too—just because—he heads us back toward home. It’s a beautiful drive through the mountains. All the trees full of bright green leaves. He keeps the air running low because the coffee makes me cold and I can’t really handle the thundering rush of air coming in through a rolled-down window.

Relief washes over me when he finally makes the turn into town. He continues on through to get to his property and that relief is almost palpable because I’m so ready for my bed. It’s soft, he’s always kept the best mattresses for me, and best of all, no nurses coming in to disturb me by checking my vitals or checking on the lady in the next bed. Hospitals aren’t built for convalescing, that’s for certain.

Strangely, Old Man drives past the trailer where I sleep every year, continuing over to the main house and parks next to the back porch. His old hound dog Burk wanders down the steps with his tail wagging and bark-howling his hello.

“Wait here,” Old Man orders me. He hops out moving around the front of the truck to reach my door where he helps me out. Burk tries to jump on me but Old Man inserts himself between us, using his foot to push Burk back. “Go lay down.”

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