I look at her. Sit up, even as my head howls.
She turns to my parents.
“It’s okay. Why don’t you leave us now?”
They don’t need to be told twice.
Accessing is still hard. I know the facts are there, but they’re behind a murky wall.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Dr. P asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t remember.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Yeah. It’s that bad.”
She asks me if my parents have given me any Tylenol, and I tell her no, not since I woke up. She leaves for a second and comes back with two Tylenol and a glass of water.
I don’t get the Tylenol down on the first try, and I’m embarrassed by the chalky gag that results. The second time is better, and I gulp down the rest of the water. Dr. P goes out and refills the glass, giving me time to think. But the thoughts in my head are still clumsy, dull.
When she returns, she begins with, “You can understand why your parents are upset, can’t you?”
I feel so stupid, but I can’t pretend.
“I really don’t know what happened,” I say. “I’m not lying. I wish I did.”
“You were at Cameron’s party.” She looks at me, seeing if this registers. When it doesn’t, she continues. “You snuck out to go there. And when you got there, you started drinking. A lot. Your friends were concerned, for obvious reasons. But they didn’t stop you. They only tried to stop you when you went to drive home.”
I’m still underwater, and my memory of this is on the surface. I know it’s there. I know she’s telling me the truth. But I can’t see it.
“I drove?”
“Yes. Even though you weren’t supposed to. You stole your father’s keys.”
“I stole my father’s keys.” I say it out loud, hoping it will spark an image.
“When you went to drive home, some of your friends tried to stop you. But you insisted. They tried to stop you. You lashed out at them. Called them awful things. And when Cameron tried to take your keys away …”
“What did I do?”
“You bit him on the wrist. And you ran.”
This must have been how Nathan felt. The morning after.
Dr. P continues. “Your friend Lisa called your parents. They rushed over. When your father got to you, you were already in the car. He went to stop you and you nearly ran him over.”
I nearly ran him over?
“You didn’t get far. You were too drunk to back out of the driveway. You ended up in the neighbor’s yard. You crashed into a telephone pole. Luckily, no one was hurt.”
I exhale. I am pushing inside Dana’s mind, trying to find any of this.
“What we want to know, Dana, is why you would do such a thing. After what happened with Anthony, why would you do this?”
Anthony. That name is the fact that is too bright to hide. My body convulses in pain. Pain is all I can feel.
Anthony. My brother.
My dead brother.
My brother who died next to me.
My brother who died next to me, in the passenger seat.
Because I crashed.
Because I was drunk.
Because of me.
“Oh my God,” I cry out. “Oh my God.”
I am seeing him now. His bloody body. I am screaming.
“It’s okay,” Dr. P says. “It’s okay now.”
But it’s not.
It’s not.
Dr. P gives me something stronger than Tylenol. I try to resist, but it’s no use.
“I have to tell Rhiannon,” I say. I don’t mean to say it. It just comes out.
“Who’s Rhiannon?” Dr. P asks.
My eyelids close. I give in before she can get an answer.
It starts to come back to me while I’m asleep, and when I wake again, I remember more of it. Not the end—I genuinely can’t remember getting in the car, almost running over my father, hitting the telephone pole. I must have checked out by then. But before that, I can remember being at the party. Drinking anything anyone offered. Feeling better because of it. Feeling lighter. Flirting with Cameron. Drinking some more. Not thinking. After so much thinking, blocking it all out.
I’m like Dana’s parents, or Dr. P—I want to ask her why. Even from the inside, I can’t figure it out. Because the body can’t answer that.
My limbs are heavy, wooden. But I prop myself up. I edge myself out of bed. I need to find a computer or a phone.
When I get to the door, I find it’s locked. There should be a key that lets me out, but somebody’s taken it.
I’m trapped in my own room.
Now that they know I remember at least some of it, they are letting me stew in my own guilt.
And the worst part is: it’s working.
I am out of water. I call out that I need more water. Within a minute, my mother is at the door with a glass. She looks like she’s been crying. She is shattered. I have shattered my mother.
“Here,” she says.
“Can I come out?” I ask. “There are some things I need to look up for school.”
She shakes her head. “Maybe later. After dinner. For now, Dr. P would like you to write down everything you’re feeling.”
She leaves and locks the door behind her. I find a piece of paper and a pen.
What I feel is helplessness, I write.
But then I stop. Because I’m not writing as Dana. I’m writing as me.
The headache and nausea are subsiding. Although every time I imagine Rhiannon alone in the cabin, I feel sick again.