Page 48 of The Heart That Breaks
*
Ann-Elizabeth
SHE INSISTS ON taking me to the emergency room.
The bruise on my left hip is alarming. Even I have to admit that.
Henry rides with us and stays in the back seat of the car with the windows cracked while we go inside. Mama had refused to leave him at home, clearly worried that Lance would come back and do something to him.
Sitting in the cubicle, waiting for a doctor to come in, I look at Mama, somehow seeing her with completely new eyes. “Thank you for what you did tonight,” I say.
“Oh, baby, if it weren’t for me, none of it would ever have happened in the first place. How could I be so stupid?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I already have,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand with mine.
The curtain swings open, and a young guy in a white lab coat walks in. “I’m Dr. Martin,” he says, looking at me with a compassionate smile. “Want to tell me how you got that awful bruise?”
I glance at Mama. She nods once, and so I tell him. He listens quietly, then says, “Would you like to file a police report?”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, we would.”
*
Nathan
ANN-ELIZABETH ISN’T answering. I’ve tried calling her and texting her a dozen times, and I’m beyond worried.
When my phone pings at ten o’clock, I grab it from my nightstand.
Had a little incident with Lance. At ER. Should be fine.
My stomach sinks as if I have just swallowed a rock.
I bolt off the bed and jerk my way into jeans and a t-shirt, my hands shaking so hard I can barely get them on. I take the stairs to the living room two at a time, yelling out to my mom and dad who are watching TV. “Ann-Elizabeth is at the hospital. I’m heading over there.”
“What happened, son?” Mom calls out, worry in her voice.
“I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” I say, slamming the front door behind me and running for the Jeep.
*
I PRAY ALL the way to the Emergency Room.
I know I’m new to Ann-Elizabeth, and she’s new to me, but I also know that we have found something special in one another, and I feel sick with fear at the thought of losing her.
In the parking lot, I create a space where there isn’t one, leaving the Jeep sitting with one tire on the curb. I’ll risk a ticket rather than spend another minute not seeing her with my own eyes, not knowing what’s happened.
I run through the double doors of the hospital, coming to an impatient halt at the information desk.
A woman in a pink smock with a volunteer badge on her lapel smiles and asks if she can help me. “Ann-Elizabeth Casteel. Can you tell me where I can find her?”
“Is she a patient?”
“She’s in the ER,” I say.
