Elizabeth Finn - Brother's Keeper

I’m trembling as I approach her door, and as I make my way through and into the small room, I get my first glimpse of her, and I have to grasp the door frame of the bathroom door just to stay standing. She’s pale, her skin has the pallor of a dead person, ghostly white, and I have to remind myself she’s going to be okay. She looks so frail, and it adds to her terribly vulnerable appearance. This isn’t her. I fall apart and sink into the chair beside her bed.

I cry. I cry for her pain and what has been done to her. I cry for my own pain and the sadness of losing her. And as my tears slowly start to dry on my cheeks, I look to her again. I want to touch her so much, but I don’t want to disturb her. So I stare at her—taking in every last detail of her. Her hair has been chopped off, her left eye is swollen and bruised, and her right cheek is abraded. Her throat shows dark bruises where she’s obviously been choked. She’s gowned, but I know beneath her gown the beautiful body I used to worship so incessantly is covered in bruises where she was kicked and bandages and sutures where her body was opened up. Her slender fingers and frail hand are dwarfed by the tubes of the IV line attached to the top of it. She is breathing gently, and her face, though bruised and injured, is peaceful. She’s beautiful—broken and battered, still the most beautiful woman in the world to me—the only woman in the world for me.

I stare at her for what seems like forever. I study every bruise, every swollen spot of skin, every cut and abrasion, and as I look at every visible part of her body, I curse myself for ever leaving her. I want to wake her so desperately. I want to hear her voice and see her eyes. I want to kiss her and promise her I’ll never leave her again, but it would be a lie. My obligations are elsewhere… And I ache for her deeply and agonizingly. There is no denying I’m once again complete in her presence. This is my place. I belong to her and my place is by her side. And the absoluteness of that statement is profound, and it begs to rewrite my life.

I didn’t expect to wake up. In fact, it actually comes as quite a surprise when I open my eyes and don’t see the pearly gates. Instead I’m looking at a terribly white and boring-looking ceiling. The stench of the trailer, though, is blessedly gone, replaced instead with the tell tale antiseptic smell of a hospital. This ceiling doesn’t match the dirty and faded ceiling of the trailer either. Bonus for me. But I feel numb, and I can’t understand why I’m alive. I shouldn’t be. I’m sure I should hurt, and I can feel where my body should hurt: my cheek, my eye, the area below my left breast that wraps around to my side. But the pain I know should be there is dull and faded. My brain is likewise dull. I feel lucid, but so incredibly and comfortably tired. It’s euphoric… It must be drugs. I like these drugs. But in addition to this blessedly content feeling, I also feel safe, and I feel warm. I try to move my hand, but my hand doesn’t respond to the signal that my brain is sending it. I wonder for a moment if perhaps I’m paralyzed, and then I decide I’m not sure I care enough to worry about it—drugs, good drugs.

The first face I see is Sara’s. She looks beautiful as always, though puffy and splotchy from crying. Wow, I must look like hell for her to be this upset. When she sees my open eyes, she starts sobbing and shrieking, and as the room fills with nurses I start to think perhaps I should have just kept my eyes closed for awhile longer. The doctor that enters ushers everyone out of the room, including the nurses, almost immediately before she takes a seat by the bed. She introduces herself as Dr. Ahmari, and she instantly has me at ease when she says that she’s “the only heavy set, middle aged, Indian Doctor in Michigan” so I should feel very privileged she’s my doctor. I do.

She’s kind and motherly, and as she goes through all the different injuries I sustained, I’m glad to have her there as I start to cry. My pain medication starts to wear off, and I’m suddenly nervous. The ache in my side where my ribs are broken and where my many internal injuries were repaired is building, and it hurts. Bad. Dr. Ahmari gives me another dose of pain medication as we talk, seeing the discomfort on my face. She assures me the hurting is normal, and I shouldn’t expect it to go away immediately. The cracked ribs will take a considerable time to heal and will cause me the most pain, but she thinks there’s a better than good chance I’ll be ready for dance in the fall.

She’s going to schedule time with a physical therapist to help keep my strength and flexibility up while I heal, and she has no problem with my training with Anthony as soon as the physical therapist gives the go ahead—though she cautions that Anthony will need to follow the advice of the therapist to avoid any injury to me. I’m relieved I’ll be able to train, at least, and should be back up to par by the time school starts. My education depends on it, after all, and that’s really the only thing I have going for me at this point. Truth be told, I’ve been desperate to get through the summer so I can throw myself into dance and forget about the past year. I’m looking forward to school as much as I have in a long time just for the distraction and the escape of it. I have to fill the void Logan left in some way, and Allendale has just been one awful memory after another.

As Dr. Ahmari stands to leave, she pauses at the door and turns back to me. “You know, Rowan, you’re a very lucky young lady to have survived this. You lost a lot of blood, and your blood pressure kept dropping so low during surgery that I thought we’d lost you for sure. We almost did a few times. Take good care of yourself.” And as an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and apparently I’m not the only one who’s been waiting patiently for you to wake up. The detectives have been showing up regularly to see if you’re ready for visitors.”

That’s just what I need. But it brings up an interesting question. What the hell happened to my father? The last I saw of him, he was quite intent on killing me, yet somehow I’m alive. While I ponder this, Dr. Ahmari fills me in on the police action in the hospital, which revolves around me, of course. She wants to know if I’m up for speaking with them yet. I can’t see any reason to delay the inevitable, so bring on the cops. This should be fun.

Sara rushes in as soon as the doctor leaves and pulls me into a painful but welcome hug. She starts crying yet again, and I wonder how much she’s been doing this over the past couple of days. But before I have time to ask, two detectives enter the room and ask Sara politely to leave.

“Oh, come on! Seriously?” She’s miffed, and with a reluctant and very annoyed look, she turns around and leaves the room again.

The detectives are patient as I recount the events of two days ago. They record my statement and take notes endlessly while I talk, interrupting only occasionally with questions.

When I’m finished, they have more questions: “How many times has he been violent with me, what other injuries have I sustained, why didn’t I tell anyone, how did I avoid this happening more often than it had?” My answers are simple and straightforward. “He’s been violent more times than I can recall, and I’ve sustained plenty of injuries but never to this extent. I didn’t tell anyone because, at first, I was too young to know what to do, and when I was older I didn’t want anyone to know, and I avoided him by disappearing when I needed to thanks to good friends who were always happy to have my company.” I can’t help but sardonically think that Logan would somehow find himself responsible for every single one of their questions—amazing how he can hold himself so responsible for me.