Meline and I had driven to my parents house for what was supposed to be a simple Sunday lunch. My younger sister, Celeste, was turning 35 the following day, and my mother, Priscilla, had insisted we come over to discuss party preparations. The accident happened in their driveway. My father, Warren, had been backing out his oversized pickup truck just as Meline ran behind it to chase a butterfly.
I had been inside helping my mother arrange flowers when I heard the scream. By the time I reached the driveway, my daughter was lying motionless on the concrete and my father was standing beside his truck with his hands pressed against his temples. I didn’t see her. He kept repeating, “I didn’t see her.” The ambulance arrived within 8 minutes, though each second stretched into an eternity.
Meline had suffered a traumatic brain injury, three fractured ribs, and internal bleeding. The doctors induced a coma to reduce brain swelling. And now, sitting on this hospital floor at 11 at night, I had no idea if my daughter would ever wake up. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I almost ignored it, but some reflexive part of me, the part that still functioned despite the terror, pulled it out.
My mother’s name glowed on the screen. Hello. My voice sounded foreign, hollowed out. Finally, I’ve been calling for hours. Priscilla’s tone was clipped, impatient. Listen, tomorrow is Celeste’s birthday party. I need you here by 9 to help with decorations and food prep. The caterer canceled last minute, so we’re doing everything ourselves.
I blinked at the phone, certain I had misheard. Mom, I’m at the hospital. Meline is in critical condition. She might not. I couldn’t finish the sentence. I know, I know, but there’s nothing you can do sitting there, is there? The doctors are handling it. Celeste’s party has been planned for months and I won’t have it ruined because you want to be dramatic.
