Pulse

Stupid Daniel. Stupid self. Ivy thought, turning into her driveway, angry tears splashing over her cheeks, making her hair wet, ruining the perfect waves with their saltiness. Stupid tears.

She slammed the door of her poor old truck and made her way over to the entryway of her house. Taking a few deep breaths to dispel her anger and crying, Ivy quickly pushed a hand over her cheeks, wiping away all evidence of any former irritation.

“Ivy,” she heard her brother Randy say, his voice shaky with fear. “Ivy!” he yelled, running over and burying his face in her stomach.

Without thinking, she scooped him up into her arms, walking over to the kitchen where their mother was supposed to be making dinner. She wasn’t there. Maybe she’s in the bathroom, Ivy thought, shaking her head. No, she wasn’t there either.

Randy was openly sobbing now. “Randy, what’s wrong? And where’s Mom?”

Randy took a few deep gasping breaths, trying to tell her what she needed to know. “Mom” gasp “She - is - is - the hospital - they called.”

Ivy went pale, forgetting all of her troubles about her music. “Which one?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.

“R - R - Richfield”

Ivy drove to the hospital in a daze, barely recognizing anything around her. She kept one hand on Randy’s back the whole time, as if when she broke contact she would just float away.

After a while in the waiting room, Randy stopped crying and Ivy had to go talk to the doctors. She had to know what happened. “Um, excuse me?” she said, walking up to the receptionist. She was surprised at the strength of her own voice.

“Yes dear?” The receptionist asked. According to her nametag, her name was Trish. Funny, that sounds more like a waitress at a cheap diner.

“Uh, my name’s Elaine, and, uh, my mom’s in here somewhere.”

The receptionist’s bright red knot of hair bobbed up and down as she nodded. “Last name.” She said, all business as she turned to the computer, hands poised over the keyboard.

“Georgeson.” She said, adding her mother’s first name as an afterthought. “Greta Georgeson.”

It was quiet for a moment as Trish typed the information into the system. Ivy let her mind wander, gazing blankly at the anti-drug and pro-cancer awareness posters scattered across the room. “Here we are.” Trish’s voice finally broke through Ivy’s mind. “Greta Georgeson. She’s still in surgery.”

“Thanks.” Ivy said, beginning to get uncomfortable. A knot of worry had lodged itself somewhere in her small intestine. “Um, do you know what happened?” her fingers started nervously tapping on the desk. She glanced anxiously back at the still sniffling Randy.

Trish’s answering smile was meant to be comforting, but instead it just made Ivy’s vague speculations on her mother’s condition get wilder and wilder.

“Why is she here?” Ivy snapped, her voice more tense and harsh than she meant for it to sound. She was getting impatient with this old, red haied lady with too much makeup.

Trish smiled again, trying to calm Ivy down. “She was in a car accident. Would you please come with me please?”

Ivy walked over, grabbed her brother’s hand, and followed the strange lady down a long hallway to a small, cold room. “Wait here. The doctors will come down in a moment.”

Ivy sat down on one of the many ugly chairs. She knew what this room was. This was the “We’re sorry, but they died. Actually, since I don’t really know them, I don’t really care. Sucks to be you.” Room.

“Shitfuck.” Ivy said again, for the fourth time that day. Randy gave her a questioning look. “Never say that.” She managed to say, proceeding to methodically tear up magazines. She couldn’t help it. She needed to do something with her hands, and those crappy old magazines were all that were available at the moment. But who wanted to read a Seventeen magazine from 1988? Those were only good for lining bird cages now.

After about half an hour of shredding magazines, a doctor walked in. He was smiling, which was a good sign.

“Is she dead?” Ivy asked, bluntly as always.

“No.” the doctor sighed. “But we’ll have to keep her here for a few days until her condition stabilizes. We had to remove her spleen and part of her right lung was badly damaged.”

“What happened to her?” Ivy whispered, the fight running out of her.

“She was in a bad automobile collision. The other driver wasn’t so lucky. But his family says they’re not going to press charges.” The doctor looked sympathetically at Randy. “Why don’t you take the boy home? He looks beat. Come to think of it, you look tired, too. Your mother will still be here tomorrow. She’ll be fine. Come back then.”

The doctor had a point. It was a random Tuesday. There was school tomorrow. Randy was only in third grade. Ivy had a calculus test. All in all, the whole sleeping thing made sense. So she told herself this all the way home, and when she took her mother’s alarm clock. She didn’t bother to even try to write tonight.