Bird Song (34 page)

He followed, somewhat unwillingly, saying nothing until we were in the car and leaving the parking lot.
 
“How long have you known?” he finally managed to say after all we could see of the school was its outline in the rearview mirror.

“Not long.
 
I realized it after I fell,” I answered softly.

“I’m going to call the police as soon as we get to the hospital.
 
This is going to be finished today.
 
I promise you, Grace,” Dad said determinedly.
 
“He smiled at me, actually smiled at me when he saw me.
 
That
bast
-”

“Dad!” I yelled as he raced towards a stoplight on the red.
 
Dad’s foot slammed on the brakes and we screeched to an undignified halt.
 
I braced myself against the dashboard, one hand over my fluttering heart.
 
My head began to throb again and I moaned as the pain grew worse.

“
Damnit
, I’m sorry Grace,” Dad said as he fidgeted with one hand to comfort me and steer with the other.
 
“I’m not good at this emotional driving thing.
 
I must have been a woman in another life.”

“Dad,” I grumbled beneath heavy lids.
 
“That’s not nice.”

He chuckled at my complaint and patted my leg.
 
“Well, when you learn how to drive, you can prove me wrong.
 
Grace?”

I mumbled something incoherent as the black and white spangles returned to my vision.
 
I tried to rub them out, my hands pressing against my lids, but they remained steadfast.
 
“I think you’d better hurry up and get us to the hospital, Dad,” I managed to get out before everything turned black, the high-pitched hum returning to my ears and blocking out any other sound.

***

It’s something quite surreal, waking up in a strange room, surrounded by strange people who are all talking and the only sound you can hear is the pounding of your own heart, out of synch with the moving lips, yet creating an interesting beat all its own.
 
The feeling of something cold rushing up my arm and the painful pinch in my hand told me that Dad had made it to the hospital, but being unable to hear anything made me question whether or not my lobotomy theory had been proven true.

I opened my mouth to say something but the words held fast to my tongue.
 
No one above me seemed to notice as they continued to work around me.
 
There were some familiar faces and some that I didn’t recognize from the many recent trips to the emergency room I had made over the past few months.
 
Someone flashed a bright light into my eyes, moving it from side to side; my own personal light show.

The doctor that had treated Stacy looked at me with a blank expression on his face.
 
He said something to the nurse standing next to him, but his words contained no sound.

And yet, I knew what it was that he had said.
 
I could hear the words in my head, like a little song that flowed in time with the beat from my heart.
 
He was asking for ammonium carbonate.
 
I recognized that from chemistry class the year before as smelling salts.
 
The nurse handed him what looked like the wrapping for a suppository, which he opened.
 
He then leaned in towards me, his hand extended out farther till it was directly beneath my nose.

The intense odor that felt like my head had been dunked into a bucket of cleaning solution hit my nose like a sucker punch.
 
It stung and burned and I could do nothing to get away from it.

“Atta-girl—wake up, Grace,” I heard as his lips moved once more, his voice actually coming through this time.
 
“Well, hello.
 
Welcome back.”

I blinked as he pulled the vile little package away and pressed something cold and wet against my upper lip.
 
“I haven’t left,” I muttered against the dripping cloth.

“You suffered a nasty fall I heard.
 
You’ve got a concussion, and you’ll probably be a bit woozy for the next couple of days, but now that you’re awake I think you’re going to be just fine,” he explained.

“Where’s my dad?” I asked, knowing he must be frantic with worry somewhere; hopefully not restrained and locked in a dark closet.

The doctor nodded to the nurse standing beside me who left with a wink.
 
I frowned at that little gesture, it saying more to me than anything she could have uttered.

“What did you do to my dad?” I demanded, trying to pull myself up.
 
“Where is he?”

The doctor stepped back and allowed me to sit up, a look of panic written clearly on his face.
 
“He’ll be here in a minute.
 
He’s fine, honest!”

I tried to climb off the bed but the sharp pull of the IV that was hanging from a rod attached to the bed prevented me from doing so.
 
“He’s fine?
 
If he’s fine, why isn’t he in here?
 
What did you do to him?” I demanded once again as I struggled with the valve that attached the tube to the needle that was taped to my hand.

“He was frantic and he wasn’t allowing us to do our job, so we gave him a sedative.
 
It was a mild one.
 
He’s asleep in the children’s ward, perfectly fine.
 
I promise.”

I calmed down as the explanation sunk in.
 
“Oh, I knew this was going to happen,” I moaned.
 
I sat back down on the bed and shook my head.
 
“
Ow
.”

The doctor approached me hesitantly, but I did nothing to wave him away.
 
He placed a cold hand against my head, his frigid skin offering a great deal of comfort to my throbbing head.
 
“I apologize for having to do that to your father, Grace.
 
If it could have been avoided, I would have gladly appreciated it but unfortunately there was no other recourse.”

I sighed and gently nodded my head.
 
“I know.
 
He’s never been good with hospitals, and until my baby brother is born, he’s only got me to focus all of his worries on.
 
I just—I warned him that this was going to happen.
 
Well, not
this
exactly, but I knew he’d end up freaking out or something.
 
Thanks, Doctor…”

The doctor chuckled at my confession.
 
“I’m Ambrose.
 
The nurses here call me Dr. Bro because they think I don’t like my name, but to tell you the truth, I do.”

“I do, too.
 
Ambrose…like the Saint?” I asked, surprised at my question.

He grinned and nodded.
 
“Yes, actually.
 
Not many people know that.
 
He’s not exactly one of the more well-known Saints, but my mother, she wanted me to grow up to be a great doctor and so she named me after one of the ‘doctors of the Church’.
 
She couldn’t read very well so she didn’t know that Saint Ambrose wasn’t a medical doctor, but the end result is still the same.
 
She’s got her doctor son named Ambrose.
 
How do you know about him by the way?
 
Your dad doesn’t strike me as Catholic…”

I smiled.
 
“No, he’s not Catholic.
 
We’re not very religious, actually.
 
I do like to read a lot, though.
 
I suppose I read about him at some point, but don’t ask me when because I probably couldn’t remember.
 
Not now, anyway.”

He chuckled but then quickly sobered as a question formed in his head.
 
“The police are waiting outside to ask you some questions.
 
Do you know why?”

I looked at the ground and took in Dr. Ambrose’s shoes.
 
They were dark blue clogs, comfortable looking and very plain.
 
“They’re here to ask me about the man who ran me over.”

He nodded solemnly and walked over to the doorway to peer out into the hallway.
 
“Do you have something new to tell them?
 
Is that why they’re here?”

“I know who it was,” I answered quietly.

He turned around and looked at me in surprise.
 
“You do?
 
How do you know?”

“I saw his shoes.”

His head quickly dropped to his own feet before snapping back up to look at me once again.
 
“Who is it?”

“That’s exactly what we want to know,” a stern voice concurred through the doorway.
 
An officer with a pen and pad pinched between his fingers stood between me and the only exit.
 
I glanced from between the officer and the doctor and knew that whatever came out of my mouth was going to set into motion a set of actions that I couldn’t take back, for better or for worse.

I took a deep breath and began…

As all things go, the ordeal of having to explain to the police what had led me to believe that Mr.
Branke
had been the one to run me over was a long and involved one.
 
As soon as Dr. Ambrose gave me the all clear, I was whisked away to the police station to give my statement.

Although Dr. Ambrose—probably out of guilt—argued that I should be able to give a statement at the hospital, or at least wait until Dad arrived from the children’s ward to be with me, the police in turn stated that I was now a legal adult and didn’t need my father to be with me when they questioned me.
 
And so I was placed into the back seat of a very dirty, off-smelling police vehicle and made the relatively long journey to the Newark police station.

Once there, I was seated in front of a desk littered with stacks of papers and fast food wrappers.
 
The officer seated behind the desk was a portly man with dark, greasy stains on his already dark uniform.
 
His nametag had a dollop of what looked like dried mustard on it, and he had the remainders of what had probably been a pizza clinging to the cleft in his chin.

“Okay young lady, you’re going to write down everything you’ve said to the officers in the hospital and then you’re going to sign it at the bottom of this-” he placed a lined sheet of paper in front of me “-form and date it.
 
When you’re done, you’ll be free to go.”

I blindly accepted the pen he handed me and began to write.
 
All around me, the business of law enforcement seemed to revolve around answering phones, rushing out, stomping back in, and the filling of endless amounts of paperwork.

“How much time do you guys actually spend outside?” I asked as I neared the end of my statement, checking it twice before signing off on it.
 
I dated it and then handed it to him before the officer finally answered.

“It depends on what our assignments are.
 
Some of us get stuck on desk duty for one reason or another.
 
I was wounded while on duty, so I’m on desk duty until I get the all-clear from my doctor,” he garbled, his lips getting in the way of fully articulating his words.

“Wounded, Charlie?
 
Tell that girl the truth!
 
Listen, little lady, Charlie over here ‘wounded’ himself by throwing his back out when he bent down to pick up some Skittles he dropped on the ground,” a female officer laughed from the desk across from us.
 
“He’s been on desk duty since before you were even born and will probably be there till he retires.
 
Wounded while on duty.
 
That’s a good one, Charlie!”

I turned to look at Charlie and immediately felt sorry for him.
 
“I like Skittles, so I don’t blame you for getting hurt.
 
Nothing sucks like a wasted candy.”

He smiled at me and took my form, looking it over to make sure that I hadn’t missed out on anything important.
 
“You’re a good kid, Grace.
 
I hope that we catch this S.O.B. so that you can stop worrying about him.
 
That wasn’t right, running over a kid and then leaving without helping.”

I nodded as he stood up and walked over to an office that was surrounded by glass and wood panels.
 
A man inside stood up and peered out of the glass, his eyes focused on me.
 
He nodded his head and then picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk.

Charlie turned around and walked back towards me, a smile on his face.
 
“They’re calling it in.
 
He’ll be brought in within the hour, if you want to wait so you can identify him, although we won’t necessarily need that.”

Was that what I wanted?
 
To be sitting here while they brought Mr.
Branke
in handcuffed?
 
I shook my head.
 
“No, I think I’ll go and wait outside for my dad.”

The officer nodded and then thanked me.
 
“You stay safe, now.”