two fat female nurses cleaned her off with a sponge. After they left, her physician, Dr. Geist, strode into the room and flipped on the light.
“Turn it off!” Hanna demanded sharply, quickly covering her face.
Dr. Geist left it on. Hanna had put in a request for a different doctor—if she was spending all this time here, couldn’t she at least have an M.D. who was a little bit hotter?—but it seemed like nobody in this hospital was listening.
Hanna slid halfway under the covers and peeked into her Chanel compact. Yep, her monster face was still there, complete with the stitches on her chin, the two black eyes, the fat, purplish bottom lip, and the enormous bruises on her collarbone—it was going to be ages before she could wear low-cut tops again. She sighed and snapped the compact closed. She couldn’t wait to go to Bill Beach to fix all the damage.
Dr. Geist inspected Hanna’s vital signs on a computer that looked like it had been built in the sixties. “You’re recovering very well. Now that the swelling’s gone down, we don’t see any residual brain injury. Your internal organs look fairly good. It’s a miracle.”
“Ha,” Hanna grumbled.
“It is a miracle,” Hanna’s father butted in, walking in to stand behind Dr. Geist. “We were sick with worry, Hanna. It makes me sick that someone did this to you. And that they’re still out there.”
Hanna sneaked a peek at him. Her dad wore a charcoal gray suit and sleek black shiny loafers. In the twelve hours since she’d awakened, he’d been incredibly patient, succumbing to Hanna’s every whim…and Hanna had lots of whims. First, she demanded that they move her into her own private room—the last thing she needed was to hear the old lady on the other side of the curtain in intensive care talk about her bowel habits and imminent hip replacement. Next, Hanna had made her dad get her a portable DVD player and some DVDs from the nearby Target. The hospital rent-a-TVs only got six lame-ass network channels. She’d begged her dad to make the nurses give her more painkillers, and she’d deemed the mattress on the hospital bed completely uncomfortable, forcing him to go out to the Tempur-Pedic store an hour ago to get her a space-age foam topper. From the looks of the mammoth Tempur-Pedic plastic bag he was holding, it appeared that his trip had been successful.
Dr. Geist dropped Hanna’s clipboard back into the slot at the foot of her bed. “We should be able to let you out in a few more days. Any questions?”
“Yes,” Hanna said, her voice still croaky from the ventilator they’d had her on since her accident. She pointed to the IV in her arm. “How many calories is this thing giving me?” By the way her hip bones felt, it seemed as if she’d lost weight while being in the hospital— bonus! —but she just wanted to make sure.
Dr. Geist looked at her crazily, probably wishing he could switch patients too. “It’s antibiotics and stuff to hydrate you,” Hanna’s father quickly interjected. He patted Hanna’s arm. “It’s all going to make you feel much better.” As he and her dad left the room, Dr. Geist snapped off the light again.
Hanna glowered for a moment at the empty doorway, then fell back onto her bed. The only thing that could make her feel better right now was a six-hour massage by some hot, shirtless Italian male model. And, oh yeah, a brand-new face.
She was completely weirded out that this had happened to her. She kept wondering if, after falling asleep again, she’d wake up in her own bed with its six-hundred thread-count pima cotton sheets, beautiful as before, ready for a day of shopping with Mona. Who gets hit by a car? She wasn’t even in the hospital for something cool, like a high-stakes kidnapping or Petra Nemcova’s tsunami tragedy.
But something that scared her far more—and something that she didn’t want to think about—was that the whole night was a huge, gaping hole in Hanna’s memory. She
“Turn it off!” Hanna demanded sharply, quickly covering her face.
Dr. Geist left it on. Hanna had put in a request for a different doctor—if she was spending all this time here, couldn’t she at least have an M.D. who was a little bit hotter?—but it seemed like nobody in this hospital was listening.
Hanna slid halfway under the covers and peeked into her Chanel compact. Yep, her monster face was still there, complete with the stitches on her chin, the two black eyes, the fat, purplish bottom lip, and the enormous bruises on her collarbone—it was going to be ages before she could wear low-cut tops again. She sighed and snapped the compact closed. She couldn’t wait to go to Bill Beach to fix all the damage.
Dr. Geist inspected Hanna’s vital signs on a computer that looked like it had been built in the sixties. “You’re recovering very well. Now that the swelling’s gone down, we don’t see any residual brain injury. Your internal organs look fairly good. It’s a miracle.”
“Ha,” Hanna grumbled.
“It is a miracle,” Hanna’s father butted in, walking in to stand behind Dr. Geist. “We were sick with worry, Hanna. It makes me sick that someone did this to you. And that they’re still out there.”
Hanna sneaked a peek at him. Her dad wore a charcoal gray suit and sleek black shiny loafers. In the twelve hours since she’d awakened, he’d been incredibly patient, succumbing to Hanna’s every whim…and Hanna had lots of whims. First, she demanded that they move her into her own private room—the last thing she needed was to hear the old lady on the other side of the curtain in intensive care talk about her bowel habits and imminent hip replacement. Next, Hanna had made her dad get her a portable DVD player and some DVDs from the nearby Target. The hospital rent-a-TVs only got six lame-ass network channels. She’d begged her dad to make the nurses give her more painkillers, and she’d deemed the mattress on the hospital bed completely uncomfortable, forcing him to go out to the Tempur-Pedic store an hour ago to get her a space-age foam topper. From the looks of the mammoth Tempur-Pedic plastic bag he was holding, it appeared that his trip had been successful.
Dr. Geist dropped Hanna’s clipboard back into the slot at the foot of her bed. “We should be able to let you out in a few more days. Any questions?”
“Yes,” Hanna said, her voice still croaky from the ventilator they’d had her on since her accident. She pointed to the IV in her arm. “How many calories is this thing giving me?” By the way her hip bones felt, it seemed as if she’d lost weight while being in the hospital— bonus! —but she just wanted to make sure.
Dr. Geist looked at her crazily, probably wishing he could switch patients too. “It’s antibiotics and stuff to hydrate you,” Hanna’s father quickly interjected. He patted Hanna’s arm. “It’s all going to make you feel much better.” As he and her dad left the room, Dr. Geist snapped off the light again.
Hanna glowered for a moment at the empty doorway, then fell back onto her bed. The only thing that could make her feel better right now was a six-hour massage by some hot, shirtless Italian male model. And, oh yeah, a brand-new face.
She was completely weirded out that this had happened to her. She kept wondering if, after falling asleep again, she’d wake up in her own bed with its six-hundred thread-count pima cotton sheets, beautiful as before, ready for a day of shopping with Mona. Who gets hit by a car? She wasn’t even in the hospital for something cool, like a high-stakes kidnapping or Petra Nemcova’s tsunami tragedy.
But something that scared her far more—and something that she didn’t want to think about—was that the whole night was a huge, gaping hole in Hanna’s memory. She
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