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The sound of a chair creaking pulls my attention to the far corner, and sitting there, in the dark, is my husband. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging down, he looks…defeated.
“King.” My throat is so sore, only the K sound comes out. But it’s enough to have his head snapping up.
The look on his face causes tears to fill my eyes.
Why does he look so sad?
He stares at me, his eyes moving over every inch of me that isn’t covered by this starchy sheet.
I can feel pressure on the side of my head, where it hit the stairs, and I’m sure there’s a lump. And when I opened my mouth to speak, I could feel the bruise on my cheek, from where that man struck me.
I try to swallow and I feel the pain circling my neck, from when that man tried to choke me.
The tears spill over my lids and King staggers to his feet.
He takes one step toward me, but that’s it. He doesn’t close the distance.
He doesn’t come to me.
“I’m so sorry.” King’s voice cracks, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
I try to shake my head. He has nothing to be sorry about.
But the movement hurts too much, and I’m forced to close my eyes.
The click of the door handle turning keeps my eyes shut as more light streams in from the hallway.
When the door closes, I crack them back open.
King has moved so his back is to the far wall and standing at my bedside is the woman who I think has been treating me.
“Hi, Savannah.” I watch her take in the tears on my cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
My lip quivers and I fight to get out the words. “I want to go home.”
She nods slowly. “Normally I’d argue to keep you here for a full twenty-four hours, but I understand that you’ll rest better in your own bed.” She turns her attention to King. “She needs to stay inactive, mind and body, for at least a week. Her bumps and bruises will heal fine, but the concussion is serious, so she needs to stay in bed. No tv, no phone. Just rest.”
I watch King as she’s talks to him, watch how his hands clench and unclench. He doesn’t say anything, but he tips his chin down, confirming that he’ll do as she asks.
The doctor turns back to me. “I’ll schedule you to come back in four weeks to check on your wrist. But plan to wear the brace for at least six.”
“Okay,” I whisper, vaguely recalling her telling me about the brace already.
She looks to King. “Did you have comfortable clothes brought in?” He bends and picks up a bag from next to his chair. “Good.” The doctor seems to be used to his overwhelming silence in the room. But I’m not. It’s oppressive. Stifling. “Would you like me to send in a nurse to help––”
“No.” King cuts her off, sounding a little more like himself.
The doctor nods. “Alright. I’ll get the paperwork taken care of and have a wheelchair sent to the room.”
When she leaves, King stays where he is. Standing at the far side of the room. Bag in hand.
After a long moment, he clears his throat. “Are you okay with me helping you dress?”
His question stabs into my chest.
Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?
Feeling like he needs me to say it, I wet my lips. “Yes.”
