I drift into sleep and back out again. In one dream, I’m walking through the half-finished frame of my house, and beams keep turning into people I love. In another, I’m on a horse that won’t listen. In all of them, Tabitha is at the edge of the field, her hair catching the sun, her face turned to me, and I can’t tell if she’s walking toward me or away from me.
I wake to the scrape of the door opening.
Mom’s alone this time. “Dad went home,” she says. “Just me for the rest of the day.”
I wave her away. “You can go too. I’m fine. They’re springing me tomorrow.”
“I’ll never leave you, sweetheart.” She kisses my forehead. “You’re going to have a bald spot for a while. Lucky that your hair grows as fast as your father’s.”
I nod. At this point, I’d gladly give up my whole head of hair if only I could see Tabitha.
“So…” Mom says.
“What?”
“You…and Tabitha.”
Ugh. Just what I don’t want to talk about.
“We had a fling.” I sigh. “This isn’t the kind of thing a guy talks to his mother about.”
“A fling?” she says. “Or something more?”
“I told her we had no future.” Saying it out loud tastes like chewing on a nail. “After the wedding. I thought I was being honest. Ever since Ralph… I’m kind of broken.”
“And now?”
“I still think I was honest,” I say. “But…honesty isn’t always the same as right.”
Mom sits with that. Then she leans forward and covers my hand with both of hers. “I’m not in the business of telling you what to do about your heart,” she says. “But I am in the business of telling you you’re allowed to have one, no matter what you’ve been through. And sometimes, Henry, an accident puts things in perspective.”
My mom’s words warm me. But the truth? I’d already decided to go after Tabitha while I was standing in the wooden skeleton of my house. Right before the beam cracked my head open.
I open my mouth to tell my mom so but then decide not to.
Seems like it’s too late now.
She’s right about my heart. I do have one. Because it’s breaking.
A nurse practitioner enters then and runs me through a cognitive check, asking me the date, the time, the current president, what city I think I’m in. Then she makes me count backward by sevens. My tongue feels thick halfway through, but he smiles and says I passed with flying colors.
What the hell does that mean, anyway? Flying colors?
“Get some more rest,” Mom says when we’re alone again. “And tomorrow we’ll take you home.”
I nod. “And then?”
“And then you’ll sit on the porch and let me take care of you. Zach will sure be glad to have you home.”
“I miss the mutt.”
“And he sure misses you. We can’t seem to pry him off your bed.”
I roll my head to the side and stare at my phone on the night table.
I imagine a text from a number I don’t recognize that starts with Hey. It’s me. I’ll be there the next time you wake up.
I imagine her footsteps in the hall.
