Thirty-Two
THE DOC AT the ER called the scrape on my head a “million-dollar wound.”
Bad enough, in theory, to earn me some time off work, but not bad enough to need stitches.
Or, you know, to have killed me.
“One millimeter closer,” the doc said, after letting out a long whistle, “and it would be a whole different story.”
Once they cleaned me up and got a good look, it was like a two-inch-long, pencil-lead-wide trench above my ear—with the sides built up a tiny bit, like a berm.
Jack took a bunch of photos with my phone so I could see.
They didn’t have to shave too much of my hair, which was nice. Just pulled the bulk off into a surprisingly perky side ponytail. Then they irrigated and disinfected it, packed it with an antibacterial ointment, and covered it with a dressing—encircling my head with gauze like the sweatband of a 1970s tennis player.
“This is actually a good look for you,” Jack said.
I just kept thinking it could’ve been so much worse.
They didn’t even keep me overnight. Once the MRI came back fine, they discharged me with some antibiotics, industrial-strength Tylenol, and strict instructions to “treat it like a concussion.” No driving, no sports, no roller coasters.
Check.
Jack and I had arrived at the ER in an ambulance, and so Glenn sent a car later to pick us up. And in a classic, Glenn Schultz–style sadistic flourish, he made Robby drive it.
Do we need to review all the times Robby said there was no way I could ever pass for Jack Stapleton’s girlfriend? Do we need to reflect on Robby’s astonishing callousness from the breakup and beyond? Do we need to have a moment of realization here that Robby’s strategy for keeping me in a bad relationship was to convince me that I didn’t deserve a better one?
All true.
But maybe we can just savor this particular, exquisite moment from that night, right as Jack and I reached the car, when Robby, trying to manifest some big secret-service energy, opened the back door of the Tahoe and started to help me in.
Robby might have passed for a cool guy in that moment.
If he weren’t standing two feet from Jack Stapleton.
And if I hadn’t just come to a whole new understanding of what, exactly, a cool guy was.
Anyway, Jack stopped him as he reached for me.
“I got it, man,” Jack said.
“It’s my job,” Robby said, trying to continue.
But Jack stopped him again, stepping between us to block Robby’s access, moving in with such purpose that Robby just lost his momentum.
Next, Jack put his arms around me, all tenderness, and lifted me up. He set me in the back seat, clicked the buckle like I was something precious, gave me a brief but suggestive kiss on the mouth, and then turned to Robby. “That may be your job,” Jack said, gesturing at the Tahoe, “but this”—he placed his hand on my thigh like it belonged to him—“is my girlfriend.”
So.
Not the worst night of my life.
In the end.
JACK WOUND UP sleeping over.
At my place. In my bed.
No wall of pillows necessary.
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.’
“But Drew shook his head.
“So I got out and ran over to him and stopped just a few feet away. ‘There’s ice on the bridge,’ I said. ‘We have to turn around. Come on.’
“But Drew just looked into my eyes. He needed a shave. And his cowlick was making that one little sprig of hair stick up in the back. And he wouldn’t say anything. Just stood there until I knew for sure that he wasn’t coming back with me. And then I could feel tears on my face. I tried one more time. ‘Just come back with me, okay? Let’s just go back together.’
“But Drew just shook his head. And I knew he wasn’t coming. That there was nothing I could do.
“And then my voice was so shaky I almost thought I wouldn’t get the words out. But I said to him, ‘I am so sorry that I couldn’t protect you.’
“And then Drew nodded, like I know. It’s okay.
“And he turned and walked off toward the bridge. I watched him until I couldn’t see him anymore. And I think—at least it felt this way—like you stood beside me and watched him go, too. When I woke up, I was crying. But I felt better, in a way.”
For some reason, hearing about it gave me shivers.
“I know it wasn’t real,” Jack said. “But it felt real.”
“Maybe it was real enough,” I said.
“Thank you for being there,” Jack said.
I could have pointed out that he put me there. But I just said, “You’re welcome.”
“Anyway,” Jack said, “I think you were right about the dream.”
“I was?”
Jack nodded. “That it was a chance.”
“To say goodbye?” I asked.
But Jack shook his head. “To say I’m sorry.”
THAT DREAM WAS the last one Jack ever had about the icy bridge.
He still dreamed about his brother from time to time—almost always about looking up in a crowd to see Drew smiling at him, or winking, or giving him a nod, like You got this.
Jack didn’t believe those dreams, exactly. He didn’t think they were literal windows into the afterlife. He figured it was just his imagination telling stories.
But they were good stories. Comforting stories. And he was grateful for them.
They were stories he needed to hear.
Did they cure his fear of bridges?
That depends on how you define “cure.”
He’s still not a fan of them. But he can cross them now.
He gets a little concentration dimple in his cheek, and he tightens his hands on the wheel, but he makes it across every time. Without throwing up afterward.
And we go ahead and count that as a win.