23
The pain hits me all at once, so hard and so unexpected I don’t even have time to grab on to anything for support. My head falls forward and my face slams against the ground, and when I open my eyes, I see the blood, pooling under my head. I stare down at the pattern that unmistakably places me in Dad’s office.
No bushes, no trees, no Anna. And no garage, no Jeep.
I crawl over to the end table next to Dad’s leather chair. Using it for support, I try to push myself to standing, but my knees can’t hold me and I fall sideways, collapsing into the side of the ottoman. I feel it slide out from underneath me, and I try to keep my grip, but it’s useless. I’m back on the floor in a crumpled heap within seconds.
The front of my shirt is drenched with blood, and it’s only getting worse. I can feel it trickling down my upper lip, warm and thick, sneaking into my mouth so I taste it too, metallic, disgusting. Using a clean corner of my shirt, I bring my hand to my nose, pinching hard. I sit up again and I let my head fall backward, feeling the edge of the end table dig uncomfortably into the back of my neck.
Every time I blink, my eyes feel like they’re on fire, and I can feel the sweat beading up on my forehead. My head is pounding and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls.
Everything goes dark.
“Bennett!” The voice is far away and muffled, unrecognizable. I try to open my eyes but nothing happens. “Bennett. Wake up. Drink this.”
“Anna?” I can’t see anything, and when I speak the words “Where am I?” I hear them come out slurred and unrecognizable. I try again to open my eyes and finally see a sliver of light. I feel the ground beneath me for clues. It’s soft. Like a rug. “Anna?” I ask again.
“Bennett.” There’s a hand on my shoulder. My head wobbles and I send all my energy to my neck in a desperate attempt to keep it in one place.
“Where am I?” I try again. This time my voice sounds clearer, but still, there’s no reply.
The hand squeezes my shoulder hard. “Drink this, son.”
I feel something cold and smooth at my lips, and before I can even process what’s happening, I feel the liquid, ice-cold on my tongue but searing my throat as it slides down. I cringe and push the glass away.
“Keep going,” he says, and the glass is back at my lips. I take small sips at first, but the water feels so good, so wet, that I lean into it, suddenly desperate for more. The glass tips up and I take huge gulps until it’s empty.
“Good. That’s better.” I open my eyes. Dad’s face is full of worry as his hand settles on my shoulder again. I hear him set the glass on the table next to me. “Do you think you can sit up?” I give him a weak nod and use all my energy to push myself up from the floor.
This bloody nose is nothing like the last one. This time my T-shirt is soaked in blood. I remember the feeling, the taste, and it makes me slump down again, feeling nauseous. Dad grabs me by both shoulders this time and props me up again.
“I’m going to get you some more water. I’ll be right back.” I want to ask him to make it room temperature, but the door clicks shut behind him before I can get the words out. I stare at the ceiling and fix my gaze on a small crack in the plaster. I won’t close my eyes, even though they’re watering and burning and begging me to shut them.
A few minutes later, Dad’s back at my side, pressing a glass of water into my hand and a cold washcloth against my forehead. He opens my other hand, palm up, and sets three pills in it. I give him a weak shake of my head. “They’re just Advil,” he says. “Take them. They’ll help.”
I start to tell him that the headache is normal. That it always passes on its own, and all I need is water, coffee, and twenty minutes to rest. But it occurs to me that this particular headache is different from others, and that what I know about what “always” happens most likely doesn’t apply in this situation. I throw the pills into my mouth and chase them down while Dad watches me. I drain the water in a few gulps.
My hands are still shaking so I clench them into tight fists by my sides. “I’ll go get you a clean shirt,” he says as he heads toward the door.
“Dad.” I stare at the crack in the ceiling again, but in my peripheral vision I can see him stop.
“Would you stay here? Please?” I ask, and before I know it, he’s back by my side, sitting on the ottoman, watching me. We sit like that for a long time, neither one of us speaking.
“Are you ready to tell me where you’ve been?” he asks.
I rub my temples hard with my knuckles, and look across the room at the clock on the wall behind his desk. My eyes narrow as I strain to read it, but the hands keep coming in and out of focus. “Where I’ve been?” I ask, forcing myself to walk through everything that just happened. We were waiting to see the news story about the accident, to see if it was different from the first one I printed out for him. Then I went to see Anna, everything went dark, and when I opened my eyes, I was a bloody mess on the floor and Dad was here with water. “What time is it?” My voice still sounds weak, scratchy. I rub my throat.
Even though the clock is in plain sight, Dad looks down at his watch. “It’s a few minutes after two. Bennett, I need to know where you’ve been.”
“After two?” I repeat, ignoring his question entirely. I rub my temples even harder. That doesn’t match at all. It had to be four o’clock when I left to see Anna.
Suddenly, everything falls into place and I start to realize what’s happening. I was knocked back. Hard.
My heart speeds up as I piece it together in my head. The news story I printed and brought downstairs to show Dad said the accident occurred around three thirty. We haven’t done it over.
Now I’m fully conscious, eyes wide as my head spins in Dad’s direction. My sudden movement startles him and he recoils, but I don’t even try to keep the fear from my voice. “Please tell me we stopped it. We stopped it, right?”
He looks confused. “Stopped what?” Dad asks, and my hands immediately start shaking. “Bennett, I want to know where you’ve been.”
“The
“The bikes?” I can hear the confusion in his voice. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. We didn’t stop it. I got knocked back and we didn’t stop it after all. I cover my face with my hands.
“Dad,” I say without looking up. “There was an accident with these bicyclists and we went back…I brought my skateboard and caused a distraction and you helped. This little girl—” I choke on the last word.
“I know,” he says, as if he’s now concerned about my mental state in addition to my physical one. “She’s okay. They’re all okay. Just like you said they would be.”
I pull my hands away from my face and stare at him. “What? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I was waiting for you to get home so I could show you the article.” He sounds pretty certain but I keep staring at him anyway, as if I’m waiting for him to change his mind. “The news story read exactly the way you thought it would. A kid crashed his truck into a building. There wasn’t a single word about a family of bicyclists.”
He remembers. If he remembers, it happened. I didn’t wipe it out. None of it makes sense, but a huge smile spreads across my face anyway, and as it does, my face feels tight, like it’s cracking. I scratch at my skin and pull my fingernail away. It’s caked with dried blood, but I don’t care. I let out a laugh.
“Bennett, that was yesterday.”
I stop in midlaugh and the smile disappears. “What?”
Dad nods. He’s still looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Yesterday? No…that can’t be right.” I was just in my room. I was just with Anna.
“Bennett, it’s Thursday afternoon.” He scoots the ottoman a little closer to me, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Your mother and I have been worried sick. You left my office, said you were going upstairs to work on an essay, and when your mom tried to find you for dinner, you were gone. You didn’t come home all night. An hour ago, I found you here on the floor.”
I think about the day. I can’t even bring myself to say it out loud.
