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Leaning over the bowl in the Orchard Grove bathroom, I don’t even realize these flashbacks aren’t real. As far as my mind is aware, I’m still in that County Hospital bed. Still surrounded by worried faces. Worried voices. I don’t know how much time has passed. I think I’ve been asleep, but I’m not sure. I have the feeling that hours have gone by. Lifetimes. I’ve been asleep, I wake up. I’m stirred to full attention by the sound of Reginald’s shouts. It’s the first time I’ve heard him angry for as long as I’ve known him.
“Get that man out of here.” I don’t know who he’s yelling at or why he’s using such an authoritative voice. I want to tell him to calm down, but I’m so drowsy. So weak.
I force my eyes fully open and sit up in bed. Everything in my body feels torn and raw. I lay back down and turn my neck so I can see what’s going on.
“Don’t let him near her.” My sweet-tempered, quiet friend is seething with anger. “Get security and tell them to take him away.”
“That’s my wife in there!”
My heart races at the sound of Chris’s voice. The fear is back. Why would I be afraid of my husband?
“Sir, I need you to step aside.”
I don’t know who’s talking or whether they’re addressing Reginald or my husband. A police woman looks down at me.
“Are you awake?”
“Yes.” My voice is scratchy. I have vague memories of yelling. No, shrieking.
Fearful shrieks.
Pained shrieks.
“Your husband is here to see you.”
Again I try to sit up, but my whole body is a convoluted mess of pulp and exposed nerves. “Ok.”
She puts her hand on me, but I don’t feel afraid. I don’t pull away. “We don’t have to let him in if you don’t want us to.”
For some reason, I’m fixating on the fact that I can’t sit comfortably. Is that why they’re not letting Chris in?
“Do you want me to ask him to come back later?” the woman asks. Kindness and authority merge together in her tone.
Outside my door, I hear Reginald telling someone, “He shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred yards of her.”
I gain a slightly less vague sense of what’s going on. “No,” I croak, and at first the officer thinks I’m talking to her. She frowns sympathetically and is about to talk into her little radio, but I hold out my hand to stop her. “That’s not it,” I say. “It wasn’t him ...” I falter. Because I’ve put enough forensic pieces in place to know what happened to me, but I’m still not ready to accept it. Not ready to confront it yet.
But I can’t have them go on thinking it was Chris. “It was someone else.”
A frown. I can tell she doesn’t want to believe me. “You’re certain?”
I nod. “I’m sure. It wasn’t him. He’s not the one who did this to me.”