Shattered & Mended by Julie Bailes, Becky Hot Tree Editing
Authors: Julie Bailes, Becky Hot Tree Editing
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towed it. Wouldn’t someone have called me if they did? Fuck it; I don’t even care right now. I just want to get to Onslow. I call for a cab, and since they’re the only company that’ll come this far out of town, it’s going to be at least forty-five minutes before they get here.
***
An hour and a half later , I arrive at Onslow Memorial. I rush up to the eighth floor and ask if Allie is allowed visitors, but the receptionist tells me Allie’s no longer on their floor. She’s been moved but they can’t—rather they won’t—tell me where they’ve moved her to. I wore a hat for a disguise, and as soon as the lady asks for my ID, I turn away and leave. I take my phone out and call the only person I know to call. Lucille doesn’t answer either time I call her, and then it dawns on me that she’s working. I take the elevator all the way down to the emergency room and search for her. I find her wheeling a patient back out into the waiting room. “Lucille,” I call.
She looks up, surprised to see me. “Why aren’t you at home resting? I told you that I’d wake you if anything changed,” she scolds.
“I rested for eight hours. I’m good to go,” I begin. “I went up to visit her and discovered she’s not in her room; it’s perfectly clean,” I say, my eyes wide and brow arched.
“Oh, yeah, but it’s no big deal. She’s stable, so they moved her down a few floors, out of the ICU,” she informs me, waving her hand as if it really is no big deal.
“It’s change, Lucille. You promised good or bad, remember? Will you tell me which room she’s in?” I virtually beg.
Lucille parks her patient and motions for me to follow her to her station. She pulls out her pen and a notepad. She scribbles down some numbers and places the note in my hand. “She’s here, but you need to know she doesn’t look good. Also, she doesn’t remember the fall or anything that happened Friday night, at all. The argument y’all had; she doesn’t remember,” she says. Stepping closer to me, she reaches up on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “She didn’t even remember she was pregnant. They had to do an ultrasound just to prove it to her. So please, don’t push anything on her, okay? And one more thing, she’s not having a baby.” She steps away and brings her hand up in front of her face, putting up two fingers before she adds, “She’s having two … twins!” Wow. Really? I should be thrilled that she and the babies are doing well, but I’m not. Fury is what’s in my blood. She gives away our one and only daughter and is having two with that dickweed, Blake? Holy fuck … I’m at a loss for words. Two babies? I swallow back my anger, remembering she’s the only person who matters right now; not our baby or their babies—just her and her wellbeing. We’ll worry about all the other shit once she’s back home and fully recovered …
I take the elevator up to the third floor and race across the entire damn hospital to get to Allie’s room. Thankfully, no one stops to ask for my ID; I wouldn’t have stopped even if they had. I race down the hall and skim the doors for her room number, room 323. Her door is cracked, so I place my ear close to the door and listen to see if she’s alone before I enter. Thankfully, I hear nothing but the television playing softly in the background. I push the door open and quietly close it behind me. As I turn around, all oxygen escapes my lungs at the sight of her. Her head is bandaged up, her eyes are black, her lips are crimson stained, and her arms are covered in multi-colored bruises. She doesn’t have any monitors hooked up to her like she did the first time I saw her, and all that’s left is the IV in her hand. Her head is lying off to the side while her legs are extended down the bed and her hands rest over the cover on top of her stomach.
I tiptoe over to the rocking chair that’s sitting in the corner of her room. The chair’s too far away for
***
An hour and a half later , I arrive at Onslow Memorial. I rush up to the eighth floor and ask if Allie is allowed visitors, but the receptionist tells me Allie’s no longer on their floor. She’s been moved but they can’t—rather they won’t—tell me where they’ve moved her to. I wore a hat for a disguise, and as soon as the lady asks for my ID, I turn away and leave. I take my phone out and call the only person I know to call. Lucille doesn’t answer either time I call her, and then it dawns on me that she’s working. I take the elevator all the way down to the emergency room and search for her. I find her wheeling a patient back out into the waiting room. “Lucille,” I call.
She looks up, surprised to see me. “Why aren’t you at home resting? I told you that I’d wake you if anything changed,” she scolds.
“I rested for eight hours. I’m good to go,” I begin. “I went up to visit her and discovered she’s not in her room; it’s perfectly clean,” I say, my eyes wide and brow arched.
“Oh, yeah, but it’s no big deal. She’s stable, so they moved her down a few floors, out of the ICU,” she informs me, waving her hand as if it really is no big deal.
“It’s change, Lucille. You promised good or bad, remember? Will you tell me which room she’s in?” I virtually beg.
Lucille parks her patient and motions for me to follow her to her station. She pulls out her pen and a notepad. She scribbles down some numbers and places the note in my hand. “She’s here, but you need to know she doesn’t look good. Also, she doesn’t remember the fall or anything that happened Friday night, at all. The argument y’all had; she doesn’t remember,” she says. Stepping closer to me, she reaches up on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “She didn’t even remember she was pregnant. They had to do an ultrasound just to prove it to her. So please, don’t push anything on her, okay? And one more thing, she’s not having a baby.” She steps away and brings her hand up in front of her face, putting up two fingers before she adds, “She’s having two … twins!” Wow. Really? I should be thrilled that she and the babies are doing well, but I’m not. Fury is what’s in my blood. She gives away our one and only daughter and is having two with that dickweed, Blake? Holy fuck … I’m at a loss for words. Two babies? I swallow back my anger, remembering she’s the only person who matters right now; not our baby or their babies—just her and her wellbeing. We’ll worry about all the other shit once she’s back home and fully recovered …
I take the elevator up to the third floor and race across the entire damn hospital to get to Allie’s room. Thankfully, no one stops to ask for my ID; I wouldn’t have stopped even if they had. I race down the hall and skim the doors for her room number, room 323. Her door is cracked, so I place my ear close to the door and listen to see if she’s alone before I enter. Thankfully, I hear nothing but the television playing softly in the background. I push the door open and quietly close it behind me. As I turn around, all oxygen escapes my lungs at the sight of her. Her head is bandaged up, her eyes are black, her lips are crimson stained, and her arms are covered in multi-colored bruises. She doesn’t have any monitors hooked up to her like she did the first time I saw her, and all that’s left is the IV in her hand. Her head is lying off to the side while her legs are extended down the bed and her hands rest over the cover on top of her stomach.
I tiptoe over to the rocking chair that’s sitting in the corner of her room. The chair’s too far away for
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