They cleared me to go home the next morning.
I sat in the hospital room, staring out the window and half-listening as Dr. Graham gave a few final instructions.
"Make sure she takes it easy these next couple of days," Dr. Graham was telling Connie. "We've still got to keep an eye on that concussion." Then her tone changed, and she spoke more softly. "She's suffered a great emotional trauma, as well. Would you like me to provide the names of some therapists in the area?"
Connie, please, no, I willed silently, shuddering at the recollection of the weekly so-called "self-help sessions" my mom had made me attend with her nut-job therapist back in LA.
"Sure," Connie replied, then added, "We'll talk it over before we decide anything, but some names might be helpful."
"God must've had a very special angel watching out for you, young lady," Dr. Graham said, turning toward me. "You've been very fortunate."
"I guess so," I conceded.
After a final farewell from Dr. Graham, Connie was whisked away to the front desk to fill out some paperwork.
Left alone in the room, I struggled to collect my thoughts. Disjointed flashes of the previous evening's nightmares raced across my memory. It felt like I was running away from something I'd never quite be able to shake, like a deep darkness was slowly and inevitably closing in on me. I'd been trying to push it all out of my mind—how guilty and afraid and utterly helpless I felt. But there was no escaping it now. Alone and overwhelmed by my thoughts, I tried praying for the first time.
"God, if you're up there, I could really use your help getting through this."
"Earth to Jules!"
I snapped out of my daze.
"What? Oh—"
Connie had returned and was waving her hand dramatically in front of my face.
"Are you ready to get out of here?" she asked, once she'd gained my attention.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Connie and I spent most of that day doing nothing. When we tried to watch a movie together, Connie burnt the popcorn, and I somehow ended up locking us out of our Netflix account.
The Meltsners came over that evening, and we ate a quiet dinner together. Buck and I didn't say much to each other. We were both grieving a loss we didn't quite understand, and words seemed inadequate to express what we were feeling.
When we hugged goodbye, I held on just a little bit longer than usual. He whispered something in my ear as he headed for the door. I thought I heard "I love you," but I really couldn't be sure.