“Wait, is this my first meal?” She looks at me as if I have two heads. “What have I been eating?” I ask her, utterly confused.
“That machine over there.”
“Oh, okay.”
As soon as she leaves, I pick up my fork and stare at the over easy eggs, the slices of ham that need to be cut, and my left hand. “Yeah, not gonna work,” I mutter to myself. In fact, the only possible thing I can eat are the slices of fruit, the toast, which is dry, and if I can get enough force behind it, I’ll be able to stab the foil on my cup of juice so I can drink that. Everything else requires two hands. I have one working one, if you can call it that. The IVs pinch if I’m not careful.
Out of frustration, I push the tray away. My stomach protests. The couple pieces of fruit and dry toast aren’t doing anything to curb my hunger. I’m also very uncomfortable. The pain in my chest is almost unbearable. I recline my bed and the ache starts to subside, but not enough. I push the button that delivers my painkillers and wait for the agonizing feeling to go away.
I’m on the verge of tears when my mother walks in. She’s nothing but smiles when I’m nothing but anger.
“Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to be here twenty-four seven.”
“You know I’m going to be, Peyton. Did you eat your breakfast?”
“Nope.”
“Are you not hungry?”
I look at her, then down at the cast on my arm, which extends over my fingers. “I have maybe the use of one hand. I can’t eat unless it’s finger foods. Speaking of which, how was I eating before I went into surgery?”
My mom pulls the tray over and starts cutting up the eggs. They’re runny and considering I’ve already eaten the toast there isn’t anything to sop the yolk up with. “You had a feeding tube, but Dr. Colby removed it when you went back into surgery.”
I glance down at my chest, wondering what kind of monster I look like. “I’m ugly now.”
“Open up,” she says, feeding me like I’m a baby. “And please don’t say that. You’re alive, Peyton, and you’re beautiful, inside and out. The scar on your chest is just a sign of how resilient and strong you are. When I look at you, I see my daughter, the fighter, who looks the same today, with her gorgeous brown hair and bright blue eyes as she did last month.”
I do as she says, chewing and swallowing my food. This continues until everything on my tray is gone. She sits down and pulls out a book from somewhere under my bed or on the stand where the machines sit, still monitoring my life.
“I was reading to you earlier, do you remember?”
I shake my head. “Mom, what do you know about Kyle?”
She sets the book in her lap and folds her hands. So damn prim and proper all the time. “Honestly, not much. From what the police have said, you met him at the football game and he asked you out.”
“How did I meet him?”
“What do you remember of that day, Peyton?”
“Not much, and I’m starting to wonde
r if the things I do remember actually happened.”
“Like what?”
“First tell me about Kyle and how I met him,” I plead.
“Professor Fowler gave you an assignment. You were to write an article about the game, but you had press credentials to be on the field. According to Kyle, he almost hit you with the football and you said some smart ass remark back to him.”
I close my eyes and search my memory bank for any sign but come up blank. “I can’t believe I don’t remember being on the field. It must’ve been a dream come true.”
“Peyton, honey, I’m sure it’ll happen again. Once you’ve recovered, you’ll have another opportunity. Now, why don’t you rest a little and let me read you some more of this story?” I lean my head back and start listening to the sound of her voice. The words she reads really aren’t making much sense, but I love hearing her talk. Every so often, she pauses and looks up. Her smile is the widest I’ve seen in a long time. Mom places her hand on top of my fingers and squeezes them gently. We really can’t hold hands because of all the tubes so this is as good as it’s going to get.
The book she’s reading is unfamiliar, but the story seems to trigger something in my mind. “I met Grandma Gracie.”
Mom pauses, but she doesn’t look up. “Grandma died before you were born, honey.”