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this
person, I don’t want to be hanging over your head.   So don’t hold on.” I’m stunned. I would hate
it if Sam found someone else.   I can’t
imagine what is going through Emily’s head right now.   More tears break through and start to trail
down Nate’s face.
    “Forget me if you
have to, but I want you to move on.” Tears are coming down both their faces and
she seems almost desperate.   It’s hard to
watch — these two adults crying and breaking apart — but I can’t get myself to
stop watching.
    “Please, promise me,”
she’s almost in a panic. “Nate, if you love me at all, promise me you’ll move
on.” Her sobs are painful to hear.   Both
of their faces are drenched as Nate nods his head.
    “Okay, Em, I will,”
Nate says. “It’ll destroy me, but I will.”
    “For you,” he
finishes.   Emily looks relieved as she
closes her eyes again.
    “Thank you, Nathan.
Thank you.” I leave the room to give them some privacy, already feeling like I
stayed too long.
    Sam spends every day
at the hospital with her mother.   She
tells her about her day and all the things she’s done.   Her mother listens and laughs.   I sit in the room as silent support.
    She seems happy
during these times with her mother.
    Sam watches her
mother close her eyes and silently pass away two weeks later.

 

Chapter Eight

 
    Present Day

 
    The second day of being bed-ridden is starting out
a lot better than the first day, if you count a visit from the police as a lot better .   As soon as they walk through the door to my
room, I start going through all the things I’ve done in my life to warrant a
visit from the cops.   Though I know
they’re most likely here because of the accident, I can’t help the guilty
conscious.
    “We just want to ask a few questions about the
accident,” one of them tells me as soon as they get comfortable.   I nod.
    “Okay,” he starts, “how fast were you going?” I
think back to the accident and flashes of Sam bloodied and slumped over fill my
head.   I shake them from my mind and try
to focus on answering the question.
    “I’m not sure,” I answer. “The light had just
turned green, so I couldn’t have been going too fast.” The officer jots down my
answer on his pad and nods.
    “Did you see the truck before you were hit?” I remember
the blood and panic.   Another mental
shake and focus, I remember looking at Sam briefly and seeing the truck over
her shoulder.
    I nod my head ‘yes’.
    “What did you do?” the officer asks, though it
doesn’t sound like an accusation.   I
focus on that moment and try to remember what happened.
    “It happened so fast.   I didn’t even have time to register that a
truck had run the light before we were hit.” He writes in his pad some
more.   I start to get lost in my thoughts.   Should I have reacted faster?   Would slamming on my brakes have lessened the
damage?   Would Sam be better off if I
had?   Would she be worse?   Should I have taken another road that
night?   I should have taken my first
choice instead of trying to take the long way around in a vain attempt to spend
more time with her.
    Look at us now.   Definitely not worth it.
    “Had you been drinking that night?” Police
officers have a way of asking a question that makes you feel like you’re guilty
of whatever they’re asking about, even if you aren’t.
    “No, sir, I’m only 20.” The officer raises an
eyebrow as if to say, “don’t patronize me.”   I let out a giant sigh.
    “Look, I occasionally go to a frat party or two
and have a couple of drinks, but I don’t drink normally.” The officer writes in
his pad again.
    “Drugs?”
    “No.” I say through gritted teeth.   I’m getting irritated with these
questions.   It’s like they want to blame
me for the guy hitting us.
    “I’m the one who got hit, you know?” I ask
angrily.   The officer raises his eyebrow
in confusion.
    “We know that,” he answers, “we’re