The sun danced between wisps of clouds in the late afternoon sky, its beams following the 'Atlantis Blue' colored sedan down the road and teasingly playing tag with the car's rear bumper. Suddenly the sun's transient playmate turned and the red rear signal blinked farewell. Shadows of trees and buildings enveloped the vehicle as it traveled deep into the complex that was home. The car slowed, pulled into the parking area and came to a gentle stop. The engine silenced and the driver door quickly opened. An excited but queasy young woman got out. She closed the door, dabbed the sweat off her forehead and hurried to the other side.
Mari, hoping to hide her discomfort, took a deep breath and with a cheerful voice opened the passenger door, "Here let me help you my main man."
She reached inside and firmly gripped his arm. Her stomach churned as she watched him swing his good leg onto the pavement. She readied herself when his arm tensed and tightened her grip when he pulled. A few grunts later he gingerly stepped out of the car.
Dylan, one foot on the ground and steadied by his lovely wife straightened up. He inhaled the fresh early evening air.
"Man does it feel good to be out of that hospital and back home. I still can't get over how long it took to get me out of there. The entire afternoon wasted because of that paperwork snafu."
"I know. Sorry I screwed up. I don't know why I did that," Mari replied timidly.
He started to frown but stopped as his remaining myriad of stitches, both internal and external, painfully protested. He winced instead and sighed, tired of all the reminders of that fateful day. The young husband set his other foot on the ground and carefully put weight on his leg, the bones reinforced by a single steel rod.
He reached for the back door handle and responded, "I shouldn't have said anything. It's over and done with. I'm just glad to be here." He let go of her arm and opened the car door.
"Dylan! Stop! Don't put weight on your leg; it's barely been three weeks since the accident!"
His brow furrowed and a smaller less painful frown appeared. He pulled the crutches out and asked what he thought was a simple question.
"Sweetheart, remember what the doctor and hospital therapist said about me walking?"
His 22-year-old wife turned away and sighed, "With all that's going on, I have trouble remembering my name — let alone what a doctor said. I've talked with so many different people. Therapists, insurance adjusters, billing departments, finance people, and of course doctors, specialists, internists, and nurses. I feel like my head is spinning and it won't stop..."
Dylan placed the crutches under his shoulders and faced his overwrought wife. He gave a little derisive laugh, "I guess you don't remember."
Oblivious to his little dig she turned away again, her words still pouring out.
"I mean ever since the accident I keep getting phone calls from that woman's insurance company and the mail is always full of business cards from lawyers. I swear the hospital must get a kickback." She paused to take a breath before seeing that Dylan was waiting for her to stop her nervous chatter.
"What were we talking about?" she asked, realizing that she hadn't heard a word her husband had said.
"I asked if you remembered what the doctor and therapist told us."
He took his hand off the crutch gently pulled her chin up and gazed sharply into her blue eyes. Almost immediately her tummy protested and she averted her eyes to avoid the cause of discomfort.
"I...I'm sorry honey, the bandages on your face make me queasy. It really bothered me when I came into your hospital room and...and...you know."
She choked back bile at the memory. The nurse was cleaning his wounds when she walked in unannounced. She took one look at the swollen mess of jagged stitches, the black and purple blotched skin, the scabs and she ran out of the room retching.
Mari swallowed hard and hurriedly answered him, "No—I don't remember what they said."
He dropped her chin grabbed the crutch hard and hotly replied, "Let me refresh your memory. First, the doctor told both of us that my leg could bear weight if the pain is tolerable and it's for me to decide. The procedure used was designed to keep me walking and hasten my recovery. Second, the therapist said I might have minor problems because my left leg is shorter by a half inch, but they will help me through that. Third, the pelvic x-rays showed only hairline cracks so no issues there. Fourth, I don't need a spleen to live and my abdomen is healing just fine.
"And finally Mari—please pay attention will you? The doctor said in a couple of months they will start plastic surgery on my ugly face—that you have made very, very clear you can't stand to look at — and fix the god damn scars. Got all that?" he finished with a snarl.
"Yes, I got it," was the meek reply as her upset husband headed to their apartment.
Once he was inside her demeanor changed and demonstrating her frustration, she stuck her middle finger up at the closed door, "Fuck you, I don't need this fucking aggravation. Maybe mother was right about you. I mean, first day home—we're not here two minutes, and you bite my head off because I can't remember what doctor number thirteen said! What the hell do you think this is? A test? AND yes, your face is ugly. It makes me fucking queasy."
She finished her solo tirade with a sarcastic, "Sorrry!"
The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she leaned against the blue car. The angry young woman ran her hand along the still open door and took several deep breaths,
"Ever since the accident it's like he's a different person. I visit him in the hospital and all he says is that I am wrong about this, wrong about that. My mother says 'he's' the one who's wrong. Well fine—now that he's out of that damn hospital he can deal with the insurance companies, the doctors and all the rest of the fucking phone calls."
She snatched her purse out of the car, grabbed the door and reared back to slam it when her phone buzzed.
