My name is Nicole, and ten days ago, a car ran a red light and hit me while I was crossing the street on my way home from work.
I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and no memory of the actual impact.
The last thing I remembered was waiting at the corner.
Then fluorescent lights.
A machine beeping beside my head.
My mother sitting in a plastic chair with both hands wrapped around mine.
And my fiancé, Brandon.
I'd later learn that Brandon had been the one who came with me to the hospital after the accident.
But he didn't visit after that.
He stayed for maybe 20 minutes.
I was barely awake when I saw him.
He stood beside my bed, looking pale and uncomfortable.
"Oh my God, Nic."
I tried to smile.
"Apparently I don't bounce."
"Don't joke."
Then he started asking questions.
"What did the doctors say?"
"Lots of things."
"How long are you staying?"
"I don't know."
I shrugged and immediately regretted it because my ribs screamed.
"The doctor said maybe a week. Maybe longer."
"Ten days?"
"I don't know, Brandon."
He nodded.
At the time, I thought he was scared.
Looking back, I remember exactly what happened when I said I might be there for more than a week.
His shoulders relaxed.
Only slightly.
But they did.
Twenty minutes later, he left.
"I'll come tomorrow," he promised.
He didn't.
The next day, I received a text.
"Hope you're feeling better. Rest."
That was it.
No visit. No phone call.
On day three, he wrote, "How are you doing today?"
I answered, "Still here. They haven't removed the chest tube yet."
His reply came almost immediately.
"Damn. Take it easy."
Day four, nothing.
Day five, "Any idea when they're letting you out?"
I should have noticed the pattern.
But I was exhausted, medicated, and frightened.
And when someone you love behaves strangely during a crisis, your first instinct isn't always suspicion.
Sometimes you invent excuses for them because the alternative hurts more.
Brandon was bad with hospitals.
Brandon was overwhelmed.
Brandon didn't know what to say.
My mother wasn't nearly as generous.
"Where is he?"
"He's working."
"Every hour of every day?"
"You nearly died."
"I know."
"Does he?"
"He came the first night."
She gave me a look.
"Twenty minutes isn't a fiancé. It's a delivery driver."
I laughed, which hurt badly enough that I made her apologize.
My sister Kayla was quieter about it.
She came whenever she could between her shifts.
She brought clean clothes, chargers, and lip balm.
And twice, she brought my daughter, Lily.
Although somewhere in my head, she was permanently seven whenever something bad happened.
The first time she visited, she stood beside my bed trying desperately not to cry.
I held out my hand.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said.
"Hey."
She nodded.
Obviously she wasn't.
"I'm okay too."
"You have a tube in your chest."
"Temporary decoration."
I smiled.
She squeezed my fingers.
There was something strange about her that afternoon.
Not just fear.
She kept looking toward the door.
"Nothing."
"Lily."
"I'm just tired."
I assumed the accident had shaken her.
Why wouldn't it?
She'd been staying partly with Kayla and partly at home while I was hospitalized.
Brandon had been around, supposedly keeping an eye on things.
Or so I thought.
When Lily came back on day eight, she was even quieter.
"Is Brandon coming today?" I asked.
Her eyes dropped.
"Has he been home?"
A pause.
"Sometimes."
That should have stopped me.
Instead, a nurse came in to check my vitals, and the conversation disappeared beneath blood-pressure cuffs and medication questions.
By day ten, I could walk slowly.
The doctor finally cleared me to go home.
My mother offered to pick me up, but she had an appointment she'd already postponed twice because of me.
Kayla was working.
"Brandon will come," I told them.
I believed it when I said it.
I called him from my hospital room.
Voicemail.
Again, while waiting for discharge papers.