Casanova Cowboy (A Morgan Mallory Story) (2 page)

“Tom’s gone
. He booked it the minute we stopped,” Randy said.

I quit protesting and
let my head rest in his lap. I opened and shut my eyes several times; it seemed like a long time that we sat like that. I heard vehicles stop, car doors open and shut, voices giving orders, and finally the sirens shut down. The flashing lights kept going though, and when they opened my door, they filled the car. I watched the red and white light dance off the dashboard; it was pretty in an odd way. I realized from the way the lights danced off the tiny pieces of glass that the windshield was shattered, but most of it was still in place. With the light I could now see two holes in the windshield where some pieces had broken away and fallen into the car.

“Get her first
, her head is split open,” Randy said.

I tried to reach my hand back and feel my head
, but he wouldn’t let me. I knew then why he was holding my head, wanted me still.
Is that why my thoughts are so slow?

“Is her neck
or back hurt?” the EMT asked as he leaned into the Blazer.

“I don’t know
,” Randy said.

“
Is Tom hurt too?” I asked, confused.

“Quit talking.
Tom’s not with us. He’s okay,” Randy said.

The way he said it
, I knew he didn’t want the cops to know Tom had been with us. My mind was foggy and floating, I recalled Tom’s face in the rearview mirror, panic in his eyes as we swerved. The EMT secured a neck brace around my neck with Velcro, and Randy helped them carefully slide me out of the car onto a board. Once I was outside, I had to squint my eyes.
Those lights are so fucking bright.
I tried to turn my head, but couldn’t.
The brace, it must be the brace
so I shut my eyes. I could feel the EMTs jostle the stretcher around slightly as they loaded me into the ambulance.

“Don’t let her go to slee
p,” I heard one of the EMTs say.

“
Sweetie, open your eyes,” another instructed.

I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling of the ambulance.
A young man’s face came into view, and he undid the neck brace and started examining my neck. His eyes were narrowed in concern, his lips tense. His complexion was smooth and he was sort of cute. They gave me repeated instructions on things to move: my feet, my legs, my arms. All I wanted to do was go to sleep now, I felt so tired.

“Where’s Randy?”
I asked. “He’s bleeding.”

“He’s coming to
o,” replied the female EMT.

She smelled like fresh soap, not like antiseptic, and I found that comforting
, like a mom rather than an EMT. The ambulance dipped as Randy climbed in and sat down on the bench across from me. The lower half of his shirt and the crotch of his jeans were dark and wet. He was covered in blood.
How had he gotten so much blood on him?
I could feel the fear now, slowly rising
. His eye hadn’t bled that much? Wasn’t his blood on my dress?

“Randy
, you’re really hurt,” I said worried, my voice sounding to me as if I were underwater, garbled.

“No
, you’re the one who’s hurt,” he said.

I looked into his eyes and could see the concern.

“Sir, you need to lay down,” the other EMT said to him.

He lay down as instructed
never breaking his gaze. He looked so handsome in the partial light. His blond wavy hair spread out on the bench. I wondered why I was afraid to explore him as an option other than Max. Why I kept my current relationship going. The EMT dabbed at the cut above his eye, cleaning off the blood, and still he looked at me. They rolled me onto my side, facing him and it felt like they were poking inside the back of my head. Big jolts of pain shot through it over and over.

“We
’re going to have to cut off your pants,” the male attendant said to Randy.

The sirens started back up
as the ambulance pulled away from the scene. I watched as the EMT took a pair of scissors out. I wondered what Randy looked like with no pants on. The EMT lifted his right leg by his pants.

“I’m telling you it’s
her blood, not mine,” Randy said, annoyed. “Just fix the cut above my eye, that’s the only thing wrong with me.”

“Can’t take that chance
, you have a lot of blood in this region,” he said, his hand circling Randy’s crotch. “We have to be sure you don’t have another injury.”

“I can tell you I don’t, but go for it,” Randy said
frustrated.

Only then did he look away.
I shut my eyes again. I heard the sound of them cutting his jeans, the tear of the scissors going through the tough fabric. I remembered Mom telling me once to always wear clean underwear because you never knew when you might be in an accident. “That dress makes your eyes look really blue” I heard Randy say. I hoped my dress was pulled down, covering me, even if I did have on clean underwear. The siren went on and on as I was jostled around on the ambulance bed; it was making my head hurt even more. The shooting pains were now joined, by a pounding, a terrible throbbing.

“
Morgan? Morgan, wake up,” said a strange voice that resonated in my head.

I felt a hand
on my shoulder, shaking me gently. It was hard to open my eyes, like my eyelids were glued shut, and my head felt thick. The bright lights told me I wasn’t in the ambulance anymore. I stared at the ceiling and the white pressboard tiles, afraid to move my head. A doctor in a white coat sat down on the edge of my bed and looked into my face.

“I’m
Doctor McMahan. Can you tell me how many fingers I have up?” he asked as he held his hand in front of my face.

I wondered where Randy was in the hospital, or if he was even still here.
I hadn’t heard whether the blood on his pants was all mine. I hoped he was all right, that the cut above his eye wasn’t too bad.

“Two
.”

“Now
,” he said, holding up four fingers.

“Four
,” I answered.

“Good
,” he said. “Do you remember the accident?”

“Parts of it,” I said.

“The back of your head suffered a rather large laceration. We’ve stitched that up now, and you should be fine. Better the back of your head than your face. The policeman told me you went partially through the windshield, so I’m surprised you didn’t have more injuries.”

I tried to
grasp what he was telling me. I didn’t remember my head hitting the windshield. I could hear the sounds of the metal and glass again, and it made me cringe. I reached tentatively towards the back of my head. I wondered how large a laceration.

“Careful
,” he said, pulling my hand forward. “You have quite a few stitches, and you also have a concussion. It’s mild, but your head will definitely hurt. I need you to stay awake for a while once I release you. We don’t want patients with concussions to go to sleep too soon after.”

Sleep sounded so good. I wanted to block tonight out.

“Is Randy okay?” I asked worried.

“Randy’s fine
, he has a laceration above his eye and some minor cuts on his face. He did a great job of holding your wound together until the ambulance arrived. The majority of the blood on him was yours. We stitched him up and sent him home.”

I wondered in what, wondered if he even wore briefs or boxers
—a lot of the boys didn’t.

“Do my parents know?”
I asked.

The reality was racing in.
Fragments of what had happened, the consequences. My parents finding out I’d been drinking and driving filled me with dread.

“They’re
here in the waiting room. The police want to speak with you first, though,” he said as he raised the head of the bed with a button.

I adjusted myself to more
of a sitting position as he did so. I could feel fear seep into every part of my body.
The police.

“
I’m going to go get the officer now. He will have some questions for you about the accident. Just be calm,” the doctor said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.

I could feel my mouth go dry and the prickling in my jaw that I got when I was
super nervous. I worried that the police might arrest me right here.

“Ok
ay,” I said softly, not wanting to be here any longer.

When he left
, I reached behind my head. I felt the area gingerly, my hair around the wound had been shaved, an area about as large as the palm of my hand. I felt the stitches that ran down my scalp, and I calculated the wound to be about two inches long. I wondered how it must look because it felt like a large area, and Frankensteinish. When I pulled my hand away, there was blood on it, which I quickly wiped on the white sheet covering me. I’d seen enough blood tonight.

The police officer
that came into the room looked like he had just stepped out of the military, his posture very rigid and black hair short and neat. My father, who looked worried, followed him. I was nervous enough thinking it would be a police officer, but now my dad was here too.

“
Morgan, I’m Officer Jim Lewis, and I need to ask you a few questions,” he said in a deep voice.

I looked at my
dad and felt the guilt rush through me. I shifted tensely as my dad took the chair against the wall. I sensed his concern though over the police being involved and my being questioned.

“
The vehicle involved in the accident is not registered to you. Who is the owner of the vehicle?” the policeman asked.

“My boyfriend
,” I gasped. “It’s my boyfriend’s.”

I couldn’t hold back the tears
, and they ran down my face as I tried to wipe them away.
Oh god, I’d run Max’s Blazer into a telephone pole.
The officer stepped around the bed, bringing me back a Kleenex. My dad stood up behind him now.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded at me. He asked me several more questions about the accident, some of which I couldn’t answer because I didn’t remember. I thought about Max; how pissed off he would be. I wondered if my parents had called him yet.

“S
o basically, what I conclude is it was an unfamiliar vehicle, and you lost control. Correct?” the officer coached.

I looked
from the officer to my dad in shock. My dad was nodding his head very subtly up and down. There had been no questions about alcohol. I couldn’t believe it would be this simple; I was sure there was more to come.

“Correct
,” I answered.

He jotted some notes onto his report and handed me the clipboard and pen.
I took it from him holding my breath.

“Sign this report
for me if you would,” he said.

I signed the for
m with my hands visibly shaking.

“Hope you’re feeling better soon
,” he said and left the room.

I was stunned
. I let out a huge sigh of relief. He’d given me a break I knew I didn’t deserve. Dad looked at me and sat back down in the chair. He raised both hands to his forehead and pushed his fingers into his hairline, rubbing slightly, something he did when he was stressed or worried. I felt a flash of heat race through me, ashamed at what I’d done.

“I presume
, if he had taken a blood test, he wouldn’t have found alcohol in your system?” he asked.

I stared back at him
, not answering. I blinked a couple of times, trying to hold back the tears, but it didn’t work. I dabbed at my eyes with the worn Kleenex and looked down into my lap. Of course he would have found alcohol in my system and my dad knew it.

“Kind of what I figured
. You’re a very lucky girl in a number of ways, Morgan. Get your clothes back on, and let’s go home,” he said flatly.

Once he was gone
, I slowly got off the bed. My head throbbed and I felt like I might pass out. I clutched onto the bedrail as I reached for my dress. I held onto the rail as I attempted to pull off my hospital gown and put my bloody dress back on with one hand. I was having trouble, as I felt weak, I was afraid to let go of the rail and use both hands. I was so grateful when my mom pulled back the white partition curtain and rushed into the room.

“Let me help
,” she said, taking the dress from me.

I
knew Dad was disappointed in me, and it weighed heavily on my heart. There’d been another incident with alcohol and driving right before I turned eighteen, just before I met Max. I’m sure he felt that I should’ve learned from that, that at twenty-one I should be smarter. The time prior, I was pulled over for swerving and failed the roadside test. Since I was still considered a minor, the court reduced the charge to reckless driving. This time I’d managed to squeak by as well, but it was much worse. This time I had hurt people and property. I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach, a twisting burning knot.