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Nothing physical happened, of course. Roller coasters aren’t the only no-nos with concussions. Plus, I had surgical gauze wrapped around my head like Björn Borg. Which pretty much put the kibosh on anything, ya know, nonspiritual.
But emotional things happened.
Like, we held hands. And we thanked each other for everything we could think of. And we felt grateful to be alive.
There may or may not have been snuggling involved.
And I guess there really is something profoundly healing about letting somebody love you.
Because the next morning, when I woke and found Jack sitting on the side of the bed with his head in his hands, I could tell something was different.
Before I could ask, Jack turned and took in the sight of me—head bandaged, hair making its own rules. He stood up, came around to my side, and said, “How’s your gunshot wound?”
I waved him off. “Totally fine.”
“There’s blood on the bandage.”
“It’s like a paper cut.”
But he fussed over me anyway. He made me change the bandage on my head—and also around my toes. Which hurt much worse. He also made me brush my teeth, and put on a soft chenille robe, and drink some warm tea, and take my antibiotics.
And then he thanked me, again, for not dying.
And only once we’d taken care of all those things did Jack confess to me, “I had my nightmare again last night.”
“The same nightmare?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes. But it was different.”
Different was good, I hoped. “What happened?”
“I got in the car with Drew, like I always do. We headed straight for the bridge, like we always do. But then, as we got close, I saw something in the road.”
“What?”
“A person. Waving us down to stop.”
“And did you stop?”
“Barely. Drew slammed on the brakes, and we skidded like a hundred feet.” Jack shook his head. “It was so real, I could smell the burning rubber.”
“But you stopped,” I said. “That’s different.”
He nodded. “Just in time. I mean—just inches from hitting her.”
Her?“Was it your mom?”
Jack shook his head. “It was you.”
I leaned in to get a good look at his face. “Me?”
Jack nodded. “You came to my window and gestured to roll it down. And then you said the bridge was closed. ‘You have to turn around,’ you said.
“But that’s when I saw that Drew wasn’t in the car anymore. I got out to look around for him and saw him walking away—off toward the bridge, like he was going to cross it. ‘It’s closed!’ I yelled. ‘We have to go back!’
“He stopped. And turned. But he didn’t come back.
“‘Hey,’ I called, all determined, like if I convinced him hard enough, we could change things. ‘Hey. We have to go back.’
