Made For You

“I don’t want to die. So cold.” I feel like I’m drifting again, and I’m scared, so I grab the nurse’s hand. “Freezing.”

“I’ll get a warm blanket,” she promises.

I’m cold, and I hurt all over. I close my eyes. I’m not sure how long I float in that nebulous state between awake and dreaming. When I hear the sound of footsteps, squeaky soles on the tile floor, I wonder if the pain or the footsteps woke me.

I look over at the white-clad woman. She moves a tube that hangs on the side of my bed and stretches to me. It’s obviously an IV line, but I don’t know why it’s there—or why I’m here.

I feel the cold start to crawl up my arm as the medicine travels through my vein from my wrist upward. It’s a disturbing feeling, one I’d like to stop, but by the time I force my lips open to ask the nurse about it, I’m alone in my room. My mind is encased in an ever-increasing fog, and I’m pretty sure the fog is because of that tube in my arm.

I’m not sure if moments or minutes pass before I ask, “Where am I?”

If someone answers, I don’t hear it. Sleep or drugs make the fog and weight stronger, and I’m out again. When I wake the next two times, I try again to ask questions, but if anyone answers—or hears me—I’m not aware of it. All I know is that I hurt, and then I’m drifting away. Maybe that’s why I dreamed of dying: I hurt from my legs to my head. Vaguely, I realize that between the hurt, the IV, and the nurse, I’m obviously in a hospital. I’m just not sure why.

In one of my moments of lucidity, I realize that I can’t move my arms or right leg, but I’m not sure if it’s from the medicine pumping into my veins or if there’s another reason.

“I’m right here,” Grace says from somewhere nearby. I can’t see her, but I’d know her voice anywhere.

“Grace?” With far too much effort, I try to focus on the shape in the chair that is apparently my usually hyper friend.

“Rest. You’re safe, sweetie. We’re here,” Mrs. Yeung says, and I realize that Grace’s mother is somewhere beside her. “You just came out of surgery.”

Grace hurries over to stand beside the bed. “You’re going to be okay, though, and I’m here with you.”

“Don’t leave me, Gracie.”

“I won’t,” she promises, and I am relieved. There’s no one in this world I trust more than Grace Yeung.

“Everything is okay now,” Grace says. She reaches out one hand as if she’s going to brush it over my face, but she doesn’t actually touch me. It’s only the shadow of her hand that lands on me.

“You’re going to be okay,” Mrs. Yeung repeats.

I glance at her and then look back at Grace. She nods in agreement, and then I’m out again.

This time my dreams are a strange mix that may be a series of wakeful moments and unconsciousness. If not, I’m dreaming about nurses and Grace sliding a chair near the bed with a horrible screeching noise—which seems a bit unlikely.

“Why am I here?” I ask, possibly again, possibly for the first time. I don’t remember if I’ve asked, but it’s the most reasonable question after “where am I?”

As promised, Grace is still here. Mrs. Yeung isn’t with her now, but that doesn’t matter. The chair is beside the bed, and her voice is quiet as she answers, “They had to bring you to Durham. You’re in Mercy Hospital. You were unconscious; ‘head trauma,’ they said, but you woke up late last night. This morning, you had surgery on your leg for a broken femur.”

I nod.

“They had to delay the surgery a day, but they operated today. It went well,” Grace says. “You’re in a new room now. You were in ICU.”

“Hazy.”

“You’re still coming out of the anesthesia. Plus, they gave you sedatives,” she explains.

Time passes, and eventually, my head feels clearer. I swallow, trying to speak with a tongue that feels too thick and a mouth that feels too dry, before repeating, “Why am I here?”

Grace doesn’t answer for a moment, so I watch her face for answers. People are more transparent than they think. Even with whatever medicines pump through the IV tubes, I have enough clarity of mind to see the worry and the anger in Grace’s face. Whatever happened to land me in this bed sent my best friend into a mix of emotions that she’s trying to hide.

“Your parents really should be here to tell you this,” Grace starts. Her lips press together in a judgmental way that’s very familiar when my parents are mentioned. She’s far more judgmental about my parents than I am. I like the independence I have because of their travel and work schedule.

I glance at the giant vase of flowers in the room and know that it’s from them. There are other smaller arrangements, but the big one is orchids, my favorite flower. It’s huge and overflowing. “They sent those.”

“These were waiting when we got to your new room,” Grace says, but she scowls again. Orchids don’t make up for their absence in her book, but I’m sure they have a reason for being away. They always do. Most of the reasons boil down to them forgetting that I’m not actually an adult yet—not that I’m complaining.

“Why did I need surgery?”

“There was an accident,” Grace says, her expression going from angry to gentle in a blink.

I grab her hand and tug.

She straightens her arm so our clasped hands rest on the edge of the hospital bed. She looks almost as tired as I feel. She squeezes my hand and stares at me. Her eyes are red and puffy, and I can tell she’s been crying a lot and sleeping only a little. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispers. “I was so scared. You must’ve been terrified.”

“I don’t think I … I don’t remember anything,” I tell her. My voice wavers a little, but I’m not as upset as I probably should be. I feel sort of like I’m in a haze, which raises another question. “What am I on?”

“An antiseizure drug, a muscle relaxer, and … I’m not sure what else.” Grace glances at the bag of medicine. “Sugar water or something for hydration. Plus sedatives and stuff from the surgery.”

“Where’s your mom?” I ask. I’d heard Mrs. Yeung earlier, but I don’t see her.

When my parents travel, she’s my unofficial mom. Truthfully, she fills that function even when they’re home, but when they’re away, she has a signed power of attorney form for emergencies. My parents trust her completely—and for good reason. Mrs. Yeung has all the traits that “good Christians” in the South are supposed to have, including a few that my parents lack. She’s a stay-at-home mom who gave up a career to move to our little backwater town in North Carolina with her husband when he got a chance at his dream job.

“She had to leave,” Grace says. “We’ve been here a lot, and Jimmy had to miss a game already. She wanted to stay till you woke, but—”

“She was here when I needed her,” I interrupt. “She’s awesome.”

Grace scoffs. “Yeah, you say that because you don’t live with her. The other day …”

I know that Grace is still talking, but I can’t focus on what she’s saying. Things don’t add up. I remember leaving the coffee shop. Robert was to meet me, but he didn’t show. We didn’t argue at the party the night before. He was distant, but we didn’t fight or anything. We never really fight. We’re friends who’ve known each other since the cradle and decided to date last year, but honestly, we still mostly feel like friends who sometimes have sex. Fighting isn’t an issue for us, so when he didn’t show for our date and didn’t answer when I called—or when I texted him—I was confused.

Both my parents and Grandfather Cooper were out of town. Grandfather Tilling was home, but he goes to bed early, so I didn’t want to bother him, and I felt stupid calling Grace to come pick me up when it was only a couple miles to walk. Really, it would’ve taken longer for Grace to get there than it would for me to walk it.

“I was on my way home. I remember that. Robert forgot me or something.” I look at Grace, as if her face holds the secrets I can’t find inside my memories. Sometimes with Grace it kind of does. She’s very readable. She squeezes my fingers, and I notice that I’m still holding on to Grace’s hand.

“You got hit by a car when you were walking, sweetie.”

“Hit? Like someone ran over me?” I try to remember, but I have nothing. It’s a bright blur there when I try to think about it.

“Yes.” She starts to tear up and adds quickly, “But you’ll be okay. You hit your head; they call it a traumatic brain injury. That’s why you can’t remember things, and you have a broken leg, some bruised ribs, and … lots of black and blue.”

But Grace looks down and won’t meet my eyes, and I know there’s more.

My mouth feels like the desert looks, and I have to swallow before I can prompt, “And? Am I …” I look down at my feet and quickly wiggle my toes. Then I glance at my stomach and arms. There’s a bandage on my right forearm, as well as scrapes and cuts on my hands. The cuts aren’t as bad on my left arm, but my right biceps is liberally decorated with slashes and dots. My left arm is scratched and cut, but nothing severe. Looking at my skin isn’t going to tell me if there’s something really wrong under it though. “Did I lose an organ or …”

“No! You still have all your organs; you’re not paralyzed. You’ll be fine,” Grace hurriedly assures me. “They put a plate in your leg, but that’s not going to mean much other than physical therapy. You hit your head pretty hard, and we were scared about that. You were out for a while, but you’re awake now and seem okay so … that’s good, too.”

She’s still avoiding saying something though. I know her too well for her to succeed at it. For someone so eager to dive into confrontation with most people, she treats me like I’m in need of sheltering. I take a deep breath and ask, “And? Just tell me.”