Page 7 of Pretty Thing

“Harold, it won’t magically turn hot again,” Mom teases playfully.

I love their relationship. They’ve been together for twenty years now and are still as much in love today as they were when they first got married. It gives me hope that I’ll one day find the person who completes me the same way.

The car smells like fresh air and pine from the trail we walked this morning, layered with the faint grape of the air freshener. Dad insists on buying one at every other gas station because ‘you just can’t find these at home’. We’re officially good if the apocalypse comes and we need to live in a silo without a shower. We will all smell like sweaty grapes. Mmmm.

I’m scrolling through photos on my phone. The campus sign. The river cutting through the trees. A picture Mom took when Dad decided to sit in on an outdoor class. He looks ridiculous in his business suit and long coat with the collar pulled up. I’m reminded of the old Dick Tracy movies he loves to watch. He sat cross-legged with the other students around the outdoor fireplace and became completely immersed in the discussion.

My dad has always taken an interest in the things I enjoy. I was an ice skater for four months, and the whole time he was the dad at the rink with cute outfits over his arm, helping everyone lace up their skates, and wiping away tears when I fell. When I told him that I wanted to be a famous rockstar, he bought me a guitar and joined me for lessons. Eventually the shine faded for me, but he kept playing and is now incredible.

He’s my biggest fan and my hero.

I’m so busy imagining myself on campus, attending classes, and meeting hot guys that nothing else exists. I don’t notice the sky darkening. I don’t notice the twisty road or the snow falling.

“It’s getting pretty nasty. Should we turn around,” Mom asks, and I look up for the first time in an hour.

It’s dark, but I’m blinded by the bright headlights reflecting off the blanket of snow. I can barely see the road or the red taillights of the car in front of us. When the heck did we arrive at the North Pole?

“There is nowhere to turn around,” Dad says.

“As soon as there is, let’s turn off. I…I don’t have a good feeling.” Mom’s voice is full of concern.

Mom is the worrier. She frets about everything and is famous for saying, “I knew this was going to happen. I can feel it coming.” I’m pretty sure she thinks that she is part psychic or something. It kinda matches her hippie outlook on everything. I definitely got my love of nature from her.

The car slips a little, and I gasp. Mom grabs the holy shit handle attached to the roof and presses herself back into the seat.

“We need to get off this road. I don’t like this,” Mom says.

I lean forward and grab her shoulder. “Mom, it’s going to be okay.”

She pats my hand.

“Oh shit,” Dad exclaims, slamming on the brakes, but we just keep moving. My phone flies out of my hand and hits the door.

“Mom,” I cry out as my eyes snap open.

I gasp hard, and it feels like I’m being stabbed in my side. Pain blossoms across my chest, and I pull my arms in to protect myself.

“Stop—don’t move.”

Hands press gently against my shoulders. The ceiling above me swims, white, fluorescent, and all wrong. The air smells like lemon and plastic, not pine and sunlight.

I’m not in the car. The scent of smoke and blood attacks my senses. I blink, my eyes darting around the room. I’m in a hospital bed.

Terror surges through me, and I try to sit up again. Pain radiates through my ribs and arm like lightning branching through bone.

“Oh God—” I choke.

“Stop trying to move, please.” I blink and see his face…the guy from the crash…Felix. “You’re okay,” he says, his voice calming. “You’re safe. You were in an accident, and now we are at the hospital. Just breathe for me.”

The words crash into me in pieces that don’t fit together, like a puzzle just dumped out of the box. No, this can’t be real. That was a nightmare. I turn my head too fast, and the room spins. Nausea rolls through me as a monitor beside the bed beeps faster.

“Easy,” he says again, his voice soothing. “You just got out of surgery, and you have a mild concussion. Sudden movements are going to make you dizzy and nauseous.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ground myself, but all I can see are my parents slumped forward in their seats.

My lip quivers as the accident slowly takes shape, and I remember what happened.

“Where are they? Where are my parents?”