Page 35 of Life Out of Order

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mama says. “You have no way of knowing if that’s a good idea. If Alba told you to jump in front of a bus, would you do it?”

“Hey,” I try to say, but it just sounds like a moan. Dr. Kendrick says, “Get the neurologist back in here.”

Zach says, “You know Alba will be fine.”

Mama replies, “You don’t know what happens between now and then! She might be brain damaged for years.” Oh, no. Poor Zach. “You don’t have to go along with stuff just because Alba tells you it’s already happened. You can refuse. You are not caught up in some kind of determinism machine. You can choose. In the present, you can always choose. Use your own damn judgment, Zach. Don’t amplify Alba’s recklessness.” Mama pauses for breath; Zach braces himself for another onslaught, but she turns on Dr. Kendrick. “And what about Rosa!?”

“Rosa is going to be fine,” Dr. Kendrick says. He turns to me. “She was taken to a different hospital. She’s just bruised from the airbags. If she were taller, she might have been unscathed.”

“David, don’t encourage them,” Mama says to Dr. Kendrick.

He replies, “Okay. Zach, Alba, consider yourselves unencouraged.”

We don’t attempt to reply to that. A nurse comes in and shoos everyone except Dr. Kendrick out of the room. She checks my eyes and my drip, helps me to sit up (the room spins, the floor lurches), gets me on my feet and (slowly, slowly) to and from the bathroom, back into bed. Dr. Kendrick says quietly, “Don’t let them in just yet, Yvonne.” The nurse disappears from my field of vision. I am disinclined to turn my head, in case the spinning starts up again. Dr. Kendrick leans near me and murmurs, “Nadia sends her love. She’s very worried about you.”

“Where is she?” I try to ask him. “Is she okay?”

“She misses you all,” he says, and I think he’s understood me but then he says, “I don’t suppose your older self told you how long your speech is going to be affected?”

“No.” It comes out as ow but he gets it.

“Hmm. Well, I’ve got to get back to the office, but I’ll stop in later. They’ll keep you at least overnight for observation. I didn’t see any real damage on the scans, but you were out cold for quite a while. If an older you shows up, have her call me, okay? And try to stop pulling stunts like this, you’re giving your mother panic attacks.” Dr. Kendrick closes the blinds for me, bids me a cheery good afternoon and leaves.

I shut my eyes and remember being flung through the air, revolving over the wreck until the upside-down world abruptly vanished. I must have time traveled, but where did I go, why don’t I remember? The memory just stops.

This headache is brain-devouring. I hear Mama’s voice, far away, reassuring, and it reminds me of being small and waking from a nap, hearing my parents talking in another room, about what, I didn’t know and it didn’t matter, their presence was lulling, I was safe. Here in this dim room, in pain, I borrow that moment from my child self: hush, no one will hurt you now, you’re safe, you are safe.

Zach: It’s evening. Alba is asleep. I’ve always heard that if you have a concussion you’re not supposed to sleep, but Dr. Kendrick explained that she’s being monitored and that the scan didn’t show any bleeding in her brain, so she’s allowed. She needs to rest so her brain can heal. Clare and Beck vacillated all afternoon about whether to go home or not; now they’ve finally gone, and the hospital room is blessedly quiet except for the dripping, beeping machines and the conversations out in the hallway that come and go. I stand up and stretch. I haven’t eaten all day and I’m desperate for a smoke, but once I leave I won’t be able to get back into the ward.

The room’s windows look west, and the sky is a disturbingly pretty lavender-violet-red that seems photoshopped. Sunsets are extra vivid these days because of all the fires in the West. I stand beside Alba and stare vacantly at our reflections in the windows. Her pale skin contrasts with her black hair in the rumpled white bed, white and dark against the sunset, monochrome drama superimposed upon Technicolor drama. I touch her hand: her skin is cold. I look around for an extra blanket.

The door opens and another Alba walks in. She’s wearing her own, all-black clothes and carrying a bag of fast food, which she places on the overbed table next to an array of congealed leftovers. The smell of hot grease makes me salivate like a lab animal. She kisses me and says, “Sorry about the Mickey D’s, it’s all that was open downstairs in the food court.”

“Yeah, no worries, I’m starving, thanks.” I sit in the ugly vinyl armchair and start wolfing down french fries.

“I always think it’s horrible that hospitals allow them on the premises,” Alba says softly. She stands at the foot of the bed, staring down at her damaged, sleeping self.

“It’s good for business,” I say. “Hey, you just missed your mom and Beck.”

“That was on purpose,” she says. “I’m not in the mood to get yelled at.”

“She’s done all her yelling already, at me,” I tell Alba.

She unpacks the rest of the food. I reach for the strawberry milkshake, but Alba moves it out of range. “That’s for my self, when I wake up. Everything tasted funny for a few days. I was pretty much living on these until my taste buds recovered.”

“Why did you let this happen?” I ask. “This is much worse than I thought it was going to be. I mean, you nearly died.” I don’t add that I feel complicit in almost murdering her.

“Those other girls are dead. Don’t you feel amazing, knowing that we got that asshole?”

“Not yet. Maybe later. I’ve been here all day, wondering how much brain damage you have and how bad you feel and how long till you recover?”

“Yeah. I know it’s scary. But I would definitely do it again,” Alba says.

“You just did,” I say.

“No, it happened once. I’m not Sisyphus, this isn’t Groundhog Day,” she says. “To answer your questions, I have a nasty headache that will last for a week, some vertigo, some nausea, and I’m going to feel fatigued for about three months.”

“Okay,” I say. “When are you coming from?”