The Writer by Amy Cross Page A

the car crash that…” I pause, realizing that I might be stumbling into uncomfortable territory. “Well, it was a couple of years ago, and one day I asked John how his latest book was going and he said he was stuck. Since then I’ve been trying to help him out, acting as a kind of sounding board, but there seems to be some kind of blockage in his mind. Then again, he seems happy enough. Like you said, those books mean everything to him.”
    “And here we are, talking about nothing apart from John Myers. We’d fail the Bechdel test, wouldn’t we?”
    Smiling, I glance across the restaurant, almost expecting to see David watching me from the distance. Suddenly a shiver passes through me, as if something very cold moved nearby.
    “I know this isn’t a date,” Jason says suddenly.
    I turn to him, shocked by his openness.
    “Just in case you were worried,” he adds, with a smile in his eyes. “It’s just a chance to get out and talk. John told me that you’re not…”
    I wait for him to finish.
    “He told you that I’m not what?” I ask.
    “Well, you know… Not… over…” He pauses for a moment, as if he’s struggling to find the right word, until finally he adds: “…it…”
    “He told you that?” I ask, taking a sip of water as I try not to show that I’m a little annoyed. “Well, maybe he’s right, but…”
    My voice trails off again.
    “I’m -” he starts to say.
    “What did she look like?” I ask suddenly, cutting him off completely.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Hannah. My daughter.” I take a deep breath. God knows why I’m asking this, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “After the accident,” I continue cautiously, “I didn’t want to see her body. Or my husband’s. I was afraid that it’d get burned into my mind and I’d never be able to think of anything else, but now I think I made a huge mistake. I should have seen her, because now I just have all these imagined images. You worked on her after the crash, so please… What did she look like?”
    “She looked beautiful,” he replies.
    “Don’t sugar-coat it,” I tell him. “I know she was beautiful, but I don’t know specifically about her injuries. What parts of her were…”
    Clearly uncomfortable, he glances across the restaurant, as if he’s hoping that the waiter will come and interrupt us.
    “She, uh…” He turns back to me. “The main damage was caused by a diffuse axonal injury, so that was contained entirely in the brain itself and not externally visible.”
    “So her body wasn’t damaged?”
    “There was some…” He pauses again. “Are you sure you want to -”
    “Tell me.”
    “Her left arm was broken,” he says stiffly.
    “How badly?”
    “Well… completely broken.”
    “Bent back?”
    He nods.
    “Anything else?”
    “There was a very large bruise on her face from where she hit the window during the impact. If you really want to know the truth, the left side of her skull had been crushed, including the eye socket. She’d hit the glass very hard.”
    Thinking back to the sight of Hannah in her bed a few weeks ago, I realize that there was no sign of any damage to her face. Still, the thought sends a shiver down my spine as I think of the damage to my beautiful little girl.
    “What about her hands?” I ask, trying not to let him see that I’m finding this difficult.
    “Her hands?”
    “Were they grazed?” I hold up my palm for him to see. “Here, was there damage? Maybe gravel in the wound?”
    “I don’t… Not as far as I remember, although that would probably not have been my priority. It’s possible, but…” He pauses again. “I don’t see why there would be gravel in there. She was still in the car when the emergency services got to her.”
    Staring down at my glass of water, I try to imagine the state of my daughter as she lay on Jason’s table in the emergency room. It’s crazy to think that after two years, I’ve suddenly bumped into the one person in the