When I open my eyes again I’m lying in a bed next to a flashing machine with a wave on it that I realize is my heartbeat. I think how it’s weird to suddenly see something that before I’ve only felt or heard.
Then I think that the fact I’m thinking means I’m not dead.
I look around and see that, as far as I can tell, I’m not in the ER, or on ventilation or anything. There’s a drip in my hand connected to a tube on a stand, and that thing monitoring my heart, but that’s it for machines. I check my arms—fine. I’m in a blank white-walled room, old-fashioned flowery curtains on the windows. A granular light seeps in, the kind that has been filtered through a thin white blind or netting.
Then a memory tweaks at me. My leg.
I sit up a bit and see this ENORMOUS BOX THING covering the lower half of my right leg, with the bed covers sort of drawn over it so I can’t see what’s under there. I mean, I hope it’s my fricking FOOT under there but who knows? They might have had to amputate it.
Oh my god, they amputated my foot.
I jerk forward, to try to move the box, and there must be something stuck to my chest because instantly the heart machine starts flashing in a way more full-on way, the wave flatlines, and the door opens.
A doctor comes in, followed by Mom. The doctor’s eyes do this quick flicker from the line on the screen to me, then back to the screen, and I can practically hear his thoughts as he realizes that it’s just me accidentally pulling off the sticky things. He has a mustache and his name tag says Dr. Maklowitz.
Shelby, honey! says Mom. I’m so glad to see you!
She comes close and holds me and when Dr. Maklowitz is leaning forward to adjust the monitor, she says just to me, What the hell were you doing out on the street?
I don’t answer any of this.
What’s the deal with my foot? I ask.
Shelby, says Dr. Maklowitz, speaking slowly like I’m special or something. We’ll come to your foot. But you sustained a pretty bad head injury—we need to make sure that …
He walks over to my bedside and takes a small flashlight from his shirt pocket. Then he flicks it on and shines it in my eyes. Look left, he says. Right. Up.
I do.
Okay, he says. Who is the current president of the United States?
Barack Obama, I say out loud. The sounds feel strange in my mouth—my tongue is dry and feels too large for the cavity it is in; I don’t seem to have full control over my lips. Painkillers, I guess.
Good, says Dr. Maklowitz. Good. We need to do more tests, run the whole inventory of the Belfast [ ], but I think with the scans too we can probably rule out major brain damage or [ ].
He’s speaking fast and my brain is slow, affected by the drugs, so I don’t catch everything he says.
You also had some wounds that we have stitched up, he says. To your leg, mostly—we think you fell on some glass. And your ankle is—
You could have died, says Mom.
Dr. Maklowitz gives her a look, like, shut up. We stopped the bleeding, he says. You’re going to be okay. Some scarring, but of course you already have … He tails off. Anyway, we’ll have you out of here soon. For now, you just need to rest.
I look at him. Will I … walk again? I ask hesitantly, looking down at the box over my lower leg.
He stares at me for a moment and then laughs. Of course! Yes, of course you will. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. We think you must have damaged your foot and ankle when you fell—you must have [ ] and twisted it. Actually most of your injuries—and they’re fairly minor ones—come from falling, not the car itself. We should be able to discharge you soon, once we’ve—
What about her foot? says Mom. She seems weirdly impatient.
Two things, says the doctor. On the ankle, a stable oblique fracture of the lateral m[ ], and on the foot, a displaced extra-[ ] fracture, requiring—
Oh God, says Mom.
He smiles again. No, no, those are okay. I mean, the best kinds of fractures. We need to give you a small operation, reduce the displacement of the [ ], but it’s easy. We can do it under local.
I nod.
You were really very lucky, he says. An SUV like that … It’s actually remarkable what little damage you have suffered.
Will she need a wheelchair? asks Mom. Crutches?
He shakes his head. Should be fine with a …, and then he says something like camera.
Dr. Maklowitz goes over to a corner of the room and brings back a sheet of paper, which he hands to Mom. They cost a couple hundred dollars, I’m afraid, but they’re amazing things.
Show me, I say.
Mom tilts the paper and I see CAM Walker. Oh, so that was what he said. There’s a picture of a massive boot on someone’s leg—like the bottom part of a storm trooper’s armor or something. It’s plastic, robotic.
I have to wear THAT? I ask.
You’d prefer a wheelchair? says Dr. Maklowitz.
I shake my head.
He smiles. I like his smile. It’s only for four weeks, he says. And you can take it off at night. Of course. Like I say, you were lucky. If the car had been going a bit faster …
I lie back. I don’t feel very fricking lucky. But I do feel about 159 times more relaxed now I know they didn’t saw off my leg.
Mom and Dr. Maklowitz take a step away from me and lower their heads to have a conversation, so I don’t catch all of it. But I follow some. To start, Mom is timid, facing the ground, as usual. And the doctor is tough, assertive. His words fly flat at her, like projectiles, like baseballs; hers fall at his feet, like a mouse being offered in tribute by a cat.
But as they keep talking, Mom’s head slowly comes up, as if there’s a string attached to it and someone is pulling on it. She’s still hunched, still nervous, but she’s pissed and she’s not backing down.
Interesting, I think.
Mom: [ ]
Dr. Maklowitz: We can’t discharge her immediately after the operation.
Mom: But they said at the desk that [ ]
Dr. Maklowitz: Yes, that’s right. The law requires [ ]
Mom: [ ] So we’re paying for everything at this point? I mean, for tonight, and the next operation?
Dr. Maklowitz: We stabilize patients in the ER, regardless of insurance status. Everything after that has to be paid for. If the patient is uninsured, then they or their legal guardian must pay.
Mom (head fully up now and pulling severe angry face): She’s hardly stable, she’s got furniture on her—
Dr. Maklowitz: She’s stable in the sense that she’s no longer dying. That’s what it means. Even after the operation, even after she has her CAM Walker, we’re going to need to—
Then Mom makes another face at him and pulls him to the other end of the room, which is totally out of character, and they turn away from me, which makes the rest of the conversation just [ ]. I can tell from Dr. Maklowitz’s body language though that he is uncomfortable dealing with someone like Mom, who has to push two hundred pounds and can be a real badass when she wants to be.
But from what has already been said, I gather that:
I am not insured, which is news to me, because I figured I was on Mom’s work insurance.
Mom is going to have to pay for the rest of my treatment, however long that takes.
Mom is behaving really weirdly, facing up to people and dragging them around rooms and stuff, being all amped up and unlike herself.
Dr. Maklowitz leaves the room, looking stressed, and Mom comes back to the head of the bed.
How can I not be insured? I ask.
It’s complicated, says Mom. She seems tense, and I guess she must be worrying about the money.
But this will be thousands of dollars, I say.
Mom smiles, only I can tell she’s doing it just for me. Then a nurse comes in, with a tray. Dinner, she says. It’s mac and cheese.
Oh good. I hate mac and cheese. It’s like eating barf. I leave it on the nightstand. Mom starts trying to talk about the food but I’m not letting her off the hook.
The money, Mom, I say. What are we going to do?
Don’t worry, she says, you know we have something saved away for a rainy day.
It never rains in Arizona, I say.
Exactly, Mom replies.