broken two in my career—I weigh the consequences.”
He pauses, looks at me. “Too much information?”
I shake my head.
“You sure this is just about a paper?”
Heat skitters up my cheeks. “Of course, Dad.” He tousles my hair, looks serious again. “On the other hand, sometimes a person just has to do the right thing. No matter what the consequences. And that's a question for your heart, not your brain. Journalists have a moral obligation—well, every citizen does. You understand this.”
Doing
the right thing
will change a lot of lives forever. And it will make my father hate me.
I'm parked in front of the long-term care facility where Analise is living. I don't even remember driving here. I just look up and here I am. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I tell myself to drive away, not to get out and go inside. I lose the battle with myself. I guess I've known for a long time now that I have to see her.
At the reception station, I almost chicken out.
What am I thinking?
These places have security. People can't just walk in off the street and expect to be allowed in. Behind the desk, an older woman is on duty, and I tell her who I'm here to see. She confesses that the regular receptionist is out sick, that she's a temp, but that she knows only certain visitors are allowed in Ms. Bower's room. She picks up a clipboard. “Your name?”
“Amy Cartwright.” I lie—something I'm getting very good at these days.
“Yes … here you are.” She smiles and hands me a visitor's tag.
“I—it's been a while since I've visited. I'm sorry, but I don't remember her room number.”
She tells me and I hurry off, checking numbers beside open doors and hoping no one will stop me. When I find Analise's room, I stop to catch my breath. I can't slow my racing heart. My feet feel heavy, and it takes all my courage to step inside the room.
A PRIL 9
S omeone's in my room that I don't know. Occasionally a new nurse will come in, but I sense that this person isn't part of the medical staff. I know because this person is afraid. I smell the fear. Over time, I've learned to filter the emotions of others so as not to be overwhelmed by them. The girl in my room is full of emotion, but fear is the one that washes over me, like a light turned on in darkness.
Tentatively I reach out to better know her. I sense her, but she can't sense me. Only those closest to me seem to feel when I'm present, when my mind is alert and aware. But this girl is a stranger. And she's crying. Am I so hideous? The ones who love me see me through different eyes, but strangers, well, they see me as I am … a body curled on a bed, with eyes that open wide, close, flutter, but see nothing. All that I “see,” all that Iknow, I gather with my mind, the conscious part of me, which I'm learning to control.
I wonder if she'll come closer to the bed. She doesn't. Slowly her fear morphs into pity, and after pity, remorse. How odd. Why remorse? I soak my consciousness into hers and am astounded. She's had a car accident. No. She has knowledge of a car accident. She has knowledge of
my
accident! The revelation hurls me backward, as if I'd hit a wall and bounced. She knows something! Why has she come? To check me out? To see for herself that her secret is forever safe because I'm in a coma?
Her emotions are raw, yet also tender. I want to speak to her, ask her questions. I have no voice. I have no hands to reach out and take hold of her. And I'm slipping away too. Oozing back into the nowhere place where I sleep when my consciousness can no longer assert itself.
My body thrashes on the bed and the girl stifles a scream and flees from the room.
Again I am alone. And my enemy is free.
A PRIL 2–9
This has been the best week of my life. And for the first time, I feel that I can do no wrong in my old man's eyes. He's proud of me! I never thought I'd see the day. Every campus we visited, every coach we talked to, was better than the one before. They
He pauses, looks at me. “Too much information?”
I shake my head.
“You sure this is just about a paper?”
Heat skitters up my cheeks. “Of course, Dad.” He tousles my hair, looks serious again. “On the other hand, sometimes a person just has to do the right thing. No matter what the consequences. And that's a question for your heart, not your brain. Journalists have a moral obligation—well, every citizen does. You understand this.”
Doing
the right thing
will change a lot of lives forever. And it will make my father hate me.
I'm parked in front of the long-term care facility where Analise is living. I don't even remember driving here. I just look up and here I am. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I tell myself to drive away, not to get out and go inside. I lose the battle with myself. I guess I've known for a long time now that I have to see her.
At the reception station, I almost chicken out.
What am I thinking?
These places have security. People can't just walk in off the street and expect to be allowed in. Behind the desk, an older woman is on duty, and I tell her who I'm here to see. She confesses that the regular receptionist is out sick, that she's a temp, but that she knows only certain visitors are allowed in Ms. Bower's room. She picks up a clipboard. “Your name?”
“Amy Cartwright.” I lie—something I'm getting very good at these days.
“Yes … here you are.” She smiles and hands me a visitor's tag.
“I—it's been a while since I've visited. I'm sorry, but I don't remember her room number.”
She tells me and I hurry off, checking numbers beside open doors and hoping no one will stop me. When I find Analise's room, I stop to catch my breath. I can't slow my racing heart. My feet feel heavy, and it takes all my courage to step inside the room.
A PRIL 9
S omeone's in my room that I don't know. Occasionally a new nurse will come in, but I sense that this person isn't part of the medical staff. I know because this person is afraid. I smell the fear. Over time, I've learned to filter the emotions of others so as not to be overwhelmed by them. The girl in my room is full of emotion, but fear is the one that washes over me, like a light turned on in darkness.
Tentatively I reach out to better know her. I sense her, but she can't sense me. Only those closest to me seem to feel when I'm present, when my mind is alert and aware. But this girl is a stranger. And she's crying. Am I so hideous? The ones who love me see me through different eyes, but strangers, well, they see me as I am … a body curled on a bed, with eyes that open wide, close, flutter, but see nothing. All that I “see,” all that Iknow, I gather with my mind, the conscious part of me, which I'm learning to control.
I wonder if she'll come closer to the bed. She doesn't. Slowly her fear morphs into pity, and after pity, remorse. How odd. Why remorse? I soak my consciousness into hers and am astounded. She's had a car accident. No. She has knowledge of a car accident. She has knowledge of
my
accident! The revelation hurls me backward, as if I'd hit a wall and bounced. She knows something! Why has she come? To check me out? To see for herself that her secret is forever safe because I'm in a coma?
Her emotions are raw, yet also tender. I want to speak to her, ask her questions. I have no voice. I have no hands to reach out and take hold of her. And I'm slipping away too. Oozing back into the nowhere place where I sleep when my consciousness can no longer assert itself.
My body thrashes on the bed and the girl stifles a scream and flees from the room.
Again I am alone. And my enemy is free.
A PRIL 2–9
This has been the best week of my life. And for the first time, I feel that I can do no wrong in my old man's eyes. He's proud of me! I never thought I'd see the day. Every campus we visited, every coach we talked to, was better than the one before. They
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