Still Here

Mia woke up on Monday with the antiseptic smell of hospital still stinging her nostrils. She had showered late last night, not even bothering to turn the bathroom light on and working only by the light peeking through the cracked door and the dull glow of streetlamps in the window, desperate to escape that smell. She had scrubbed furiously, the old washcloth rough against her skin and the artificial coconut scent of the soap relieving her senses briefly.

She shut her eyes against the morning light, squeezing her eyes tight until stars burst behind them. If she tried hard enough she could pretend the smell wasn’t there— as long as she concentrated on the soft sheets and the familiar detergent and the well worn quilt she was safe. In her childhood home, her old bed, no hospitals or IVs or fluorescent lights or prodding nurses. She kept her eyes shut. Today she would stay in bed.

On Tuesday her mom was waiting for her at the table when she finally stumbled down the stairs, compelled by the growl of her stomach. Mia’s spot was set with a plate containing the food she had smelled from her room. There were eggs and sausages, a basket of blueberry muffins and orange juice. Normally this would mean they had something to celebrate and the thought nearly made her laugh. Her mother’s smile seemed heavy, like it took a world of effort to put on. As Mia sat at the table her mother placed a hand over hers. Squeezed and tried to look Mia in the eye. Mia simply stared at her plate.

On Wednesday it occurred to her that she ought to make some calls. That’s what people did, right? When something goes horribly wrong, you pick up the phone. Reach out, attend to business, try to rearrange your world to fit your new reality. Her hands were all but frozen though, holding the phone but unable to reach her thumb out and unlock the screen. The screen occasionally lit up to inform her of the time, to show her how the minutes were slipping right through the fingers which cradled the device. 5, 15, 20, 60 minutes gone all in one stretch that felt like both the blink of an eye and an eternity. The blackened phone screen reflected her own image back at her, the dark bags under her eyes and the healing cut on her forehead that would be a scar eventually. Given enough time. Mia slammed the phone down onto the couch and watched as it bounced up and slid across the carpet.

Thursday she decided to finally leave the house. It had started to feel suffocating— her father clearly struggled to comfort his daughter and so settled for silence, and her mother couldn’t help but fret and hover, ready to pick up the shattered pieces of her daughter the second the cracks started to spread. So Mia would go for a walk (she had no car now after all). She put on her coat and a baseball cap, pulling it low over her forehead and hoping it was enough that old neighbors wouldn’t recognize her and try to stop for a catch up. She set off, jamming one earbud in and picking the most banal song she could find as the soundtrack for her stroll.

Daniel never would have listened to something like this. Mia had heard it in a commercial once, it’s poppy uplifting beat catching her attention and spurring her to look up its name online and download it to her phone. No, he was much more selective in his taste, sought out music that made him feel something or told a story. Mia had always loved the music he would play for her. The leaves crunched under her feet and she shared a hidden smile with the brisk fall wind.

She startled her mom on Friday by volunteering to go to the store and pick up the ingredients needed for dinner. Her walk yesterday seemed to have shifted something in her, like a tiny bit of the weight on her shoulders had been lifted and it had suddenly clicked. Yes, that was the answer, she just needed to move, to get out. Exercise released endorphins right? That’s what everyone always said, and so that’s what she would do. And going into public for the first time since her accident, that would be her first step.

She was wearing the same hat she had worn on her walk yesterday, a shield to protect herself and she picked over the green peppers trying to find the best of the bunch. But it wasn’t enough apparently as an excited “Mia?” drew her attention.

Ah yes, she knew this person. Dana… Dana something or other. She had wild curly hair, and big front teeth, and they had been in choir together in high school. Mia’s heart pounded in her chest, her hands shook as she shoved them in her pocket. This wasn’t part of her plan, wasn’t going to help her get back to normal. There was an order to these things, dealing with the sympathy of old high school acquaintances was supposed to come much much later.

Dana, though, knew nothing of Mia’s life after graduation. Where the years had taken her, how the world had treated her. Dana “didn’t do” social media, had stayed in their hometown and had a kid now. She seemed content to talk about her own life, happy to tell her story to someone who didn’t know how it ended. And Mia was happy to listen; to leave her story unwritten, a series of blanks this person she had barely known at 17 to fill in for herself. In her pocket, her thumb spun her ring around her finger.

On Saturday she spent an hour gathering her courage. Daniel’s parents had tried to call, had spoken to her parents. She was scared though, couldn’t even begin to imagine what she was supposed to say to them. They had all had a piece of themselves ripped away, had been broken down in a way many people would never understand. And yet there was a chasm between them now, their connective fiber had been cut. What would happen when she heard their familiar voices? Would she begin to cry, would they tell her how sorry they were. Would they try to pretend everything was normal, tiptoe around saying his name? She wasn’t sure which would be worse. The phone was ringing.

It was Sunday, and the service was tomorrow. She had nothing to wear.

Monday was gone almost as soon as it came, a ghost that didn’t stick around long enough to haunt. A black dress had been retrieved from her apartment by… someone. Numbness had settled over her long before she even reached the church. A sea of faces greeted her with sad smiles, sympathy falling easily from their tongues. People were expecting something from her. They wanted to see her, wanted her to flay herself open and leave the wound exposed, but she wouldn’t.

The dam broke on Tuesday. First it was a single tear, then two, three more. Soon she couldn’t stop them, they were a river flowing from her very core. Her hands covered her eyes, either to catch the torrent or stop it in its tracks, she didn’t know which. But the tears continued, they leaked between her fingers, stained the pillow beneath her head. It wasn’t just water now, it was her heart, her soul, herself that was slipping away. Rushing between her fingers and spilling down her face and wetting her neck. He was gone and soon she would be too. She was alone, alone, alone.

She woke with swollen eyelids on Wednesday. She could barely see a sliver of the familiar brown irises, the whites of her eyes pink and veiny. Her cheeks were red and her hair was flattened to one side of her head. The dark bags under her eyes… looked better. Less prominent. After her fit she had slept, better than she had been able to in a long time in fact. She didn’t even remember falling asleep, hadn’t woken up to any of the creaks or knocks that usually disturbed her so easily. Now here she was, staring in the mirror in the clothes she had worn yesterday, unkempt and mournful, but still her.

Her mother smiled at her again from the table as she walked downstairs for breakfast, a gentler smile than even the others Mia had seen this week (so she had been heard last night, of course). When Mia sat down her mother again placed a hand on hers. Mia felt the warmth of her mother’s palm this time, felt the firmness of the thumb that moved in soothing circles over her hand. Her shoulders drooped, and she lowered her forehead to rest against her mother’s hand. She squeezed her eyes shut and saw the starbursts as another hand came to rest on her head. She was still here.

Today she would make some phone calls.