Chapter 1
"Bridget? I don't think she can hear me. She's not responding to me at all."
That's true. I can't deny it. I'm not responding to her voice at all. It has nothing to do with the fact that I was hit by a police car four weeks ago. It has everything to do with the fact that my mother has taken on a personal mission to point out how every decision I've made the past few months has contributed to the fact that I ended up on that street right in the path of that car.
I don't remember much about that night. I remember panicked cries, although I'm still not sure if they were coming from my body or not. The pain drowned everything out. It enveloped me and I couldn't pinpoint exactly where it began or where it ended. It was just there, unrelenting and vast.
Dane had been there, yelling at people to back away so no one would move me. I landed on the hood of the car, my scalp covered in a matted mess of my own hair, shattered glass and blood.
I lost consciousness for only a few minutes, which was both a blessing and a curse. My voice had gotten lost somewhere in my throat so the only way I was able to communicate with the first responders was by a nod of my head. They took that as a positive sign and when I was able to freely move my legs and arms there was a sense of relief that washed over Dane's face and the faces of the paramedics.
The police officer who was behind the wheel of the car that hit me was racing towards the scene of the emergency that had brought Dane and dozens of other firefighters to that block in SoHo. He had slowed the car as soon as he saw me dart onto the road but the impact was unavoidable. I had been lucky. That's what the doctors in the ER had told me over and over again.
I'd spent a week in the hospital recovering from three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, a concussion, and numerous small cuts on my scalp and face. In the days following the accident my thoughts were so muddled that I struggled to remember the first moments after my parents arrived at the hospital and the look on Zoe's face when she saw me on the stretcher. The dress she had bought for me was torn and stained. My bloody hand had reached for hers and without hesitation she had cradled it between her palms before pulling it to her chest.
The night that I was supposed to introduce my drawings to the world ended in a way no one could have predicted but the outpouring of support from strangers had captivated the news media.
A bystander brought to that street by the barrage of fire trucks had captured an image with their smartphone of my body sprawled across the hood of the police car. My name was front page news. The real reason the fireman were all on that street was shadowed by the story of the burgeoning artist who had walked into the path of a police car. No one cared that three utility workers had become trapped in the basement of that building when they were working on the gas line. The old and rotted floor above them had collapsed on them. Thankfully they were all pulled to safety and brought to the same hospital as me.
Within days of the accident, all of the drawings I had displayed at the gallery space were purchased by people I've never met. Zoe's husband, Beck, had taken it on himself to rummage through the box of drawings I kept hidden in my apartment. He'd framed many, taken them to the gallery and as quickly as he hung them, they sold.
As I recovered in a hospital bed surrounded by my parents, Zoe, Vanessa, and Dane, the dream I'd kept hidden within me, of being a recognized artist, had finally started to come true.
"Bridget." My mother steps closer and taps her fingers against my shoulder. "I need to talk to you."
When I'd told her and my father that I wanted to rest it was a thinly veiled attempt at garnering just a few minutes alone. My mother had made the unilateral decision to move in with me after I was released from the hospital. She's been staying in the second bedroom, although that's truly only
"Bridget? I don't think she can hear me. She's not responding to me at all."
That's true. I can't deny it. I'm not responding to her voice at all. It has nothing to do with the fact that I was hit by a police car four weeks ago. It has everything to do with the fact that my mother has taken on a personal mission to point out how every decision I've made the past few months has contributed to the fact that I ended up on that street right in the path of that car.
I don't remember much about that night. I remember panicked cries, although I'm still not sure if they were coming from my body or not. The pain drowned everything out. It enveloped me and I couldn't pinpoint exactly where it began or where it ended. It was just there, unrelenting and vast.
Dane had been there, yelling at people to back away so no one would move me. I landed on the hood of the car, my scalp covered in a matted mess of my own hair, shattered glass and blood.
I lost consciousness for only a few minutes, which was both a blessing and a curse. My voice had gotten lost somewhere in my throat so the only way I was able to communicate with the first responders was by a nod of my head. They took that as a positive sign and when I was able to freely move my legs and arms there was a sense of relief that washed over Dane's face and the faces of the paramedics.
The police officer who was behind the wheel of the car that hit me was racing towards the scene of the emergency that had brought Dane and dozens of other firefighters to that block in SoHo. He had slowed the car as soon as he saw me dart onto the road but the impact was unavoidable. I had been lucky. That's what the doctors in the ER had told me over and over again.
I'd spent a week in the hospital recovering from three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, a concussion, and numerous small cuts on my scalp and face. In the days following the accident my thoughts were so muddled that I struggled to remember the first moments after my parents arrived at the hospital and the look on Zoe's face when she saw me on the stretcher. The dress she had bought for me was torn and stained. My bloody hand had reached for hers and without hesitation she had cradled it between her palms before pulling it to her chest.
The night that I was supposed to introduce my drawings to the world ended in a way no one could have predicted but the outpouring of support from strangers had captivated the news media.
A bystander brought to that street by the barrage of fire trucks had captured an image with their smartphone of my body sprawled across the hood of the police car. My name was front page news. The real reason the fireman were all on that street was shadowed by the story of the burgeoning artist who had walked into the path of a police car. No one cared that three utility workers had become trapped in the basement of that building when they were working on the gas line. The old and rotted floor above them had collapsed on them. Thankfully they were all pulled to safety and brought to the same hospital as me.
Within days of the accident, all of the drawings I had displayed at the gallery space were purchased by people I've never met. Zoe's husband, Beck, had taken it on himself to rummage through the box of drawings I kept hidden in my apartment. He'd framed many, taken them to the gallery and as quickly as he hung them, they sold.
As I recovered in a hospital bed surrounded by my parents, Zoe, Vanessa, and Dane, the dream I'd kept hidden within me, of being a recognized artist, had finally started to come true.
"Bridget." My mother steps closer and taps her fingers against my shoulder. "I need to talk to you."
When I'd told her and my father that I wanted to rest it was a thinly veiled attempt at garnering just a few minutes alone. My mother had made the unilateral decision to move in with me after I was released from the hospital. She's been staying in the second bedroom, although that's truly only
Similar Books
