There are few things that give me greater pleasure than creating new works, and sharing them with you for your reading entertainment and pleasure. That's why I love #writerwednesdays. It gives me a chance to put my works in front of you.
Today I'm sharing a snippet from something I call "My Sister's Keeper." Read on...
I looked from him to Mr. Henderson. He stood eyeing me carefully, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip.
I shook my head no.
“You were involved in an accident that caused injury to you. Do you recall any of the details of the accident, Mrs. Henderson, or what may have occurred leading up to the accident?”
“Accident? What accident?”
“Baby, you were in a car—”
“Mr. Henderson, please let me,” Dr. Smythe stated, placing a firm hand on the man identified as Mr. Henderson’s shoulder.
“What accident, doctor? He said car. Was I in a car accident? Whose car? Who was driving?”
A frown wrinkled Mr. Henderson’s forehead and he glanced impatiently at the doctor.
Dr. Smythe sat down on the edge of my bed.
I was becoming agitated because there was information I needed and for some reason the “good doctor,” was taking his time giving it to me.
“What accident?” I pressed.
“You were involved in a car accident with a delivery truck. You were driving and apparently the driver ran the red light. He did not sustain any injuries, but the driver side impact created quite a bang up for you young lady. You’ve sustained a head injury, which resulted in a concussion, a broken arm, and bruising to your lower left rib just above your intercostal artery. We’re going to—”
“Yes, Mrs. Henderson?”
“Can I speak with you, please?”
“Sure, what questions do you have for me?”
I glanced at the man claiming to be my husband and then back at the doctor.
“Privately?” I whispered.
Unfortunately the gentleman heard and a look of hurt came across his face.
“Naraja? Baby, what’s wrong?” He reached for my hand and I quickly pulled it away.
Why was he calling me my sister’s name? Where was she? Had anyone called and told her what had happened to me? What about my father, would he be coming as well?
Tears began to leak from my eyes as I realized I was all alone in Chicago without my family. Suddenly I wanted to return home to Atlanta where I belonged. The few close friends I had, lived such busy and on-the-go lives, I knew they couldn’t be bothered to stop by the hospital to visit.
But I needed support and I needed someone to help make sense of what was going on with me. More than anything I needed someone to find out why this stranger was bothering me. Yet, something about him seemed so familiar. I just couldn’t put a finger on it.
“Just for a moment, Mr. Henderson,” the doctor nodded his head towards the stranger.
He looked between me and the doctor, shaking his head before blowing out a breath and leaving the room.
The door let out a loud whooshing sound as he closed it forcefully behind him.
“Dr. Smythe,” I started before I lost the courage. “Who is that man and why don’t I know him?”
Dr. Smythe’s eyes grew large, before narrowing in on me.
“Mrs. Henderson that man is your husband.”
“But I’m not married! Did anyone bother checking?”
“Well, of course. Both his ID and your ID show the same address. When the accident occurred, the delivery driver stated Mr. Henderson was on the car phone screaming your name. The driver was the one who informed Mr. Henderson over the phone about the accident. Your husband, er Mr. Henderson rushed to the scene right away. You were already gone by the time he arrived. He left the scene of the accident and came here; he’s been here ever since.”
“How long what, Mrs. Henderson?”
“Have I been here in the hospital?”
My life had been slipping away unbeknownst to me. Where had I been during that time?
“Why don’t I recall those two days?”
“You were in a medically-induced coma, Mrs. Henderson. But here at Emory Medical Center—”
“Wait, what?” I screwed up my face and tried once again unsuccessfully to sit up.
Dr. Smythe placed a gentle, yet firm hand against my shoulder restraining me.
“Slow down there, little lady. You’re putting too much pressure on your body.”
I knocked his hand away, and winced at the pain in my side I felt from my efforts. “No! You said I’m at Emory?”
“But there’s no Emory here in Chicago. That’s in Atlanta.”
The doctor frowned and pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number quickly and begin giving instructions to someone on the other end within a matter of seconds.
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