Chapter Fifteen
Paul
"We have to take x-rays of her legs; there is a very high chance that we have to amputate on both of her legs. You look very confused, you're Sam right?" A woman with a very short nurse skit said.
"No, I'm his uncle, Paul."
"Oh, well like I said before, there is a seventy five percent chance that we will have to take both of her legs off."
"What's the twenty five percent?"
"Her legs stay on." Outside the door I heard Sam yelling outside. I ran to the door and opened it. A man was punching Sam and a woman stood and watched.
"Just because she's nineteen doesn't mean you can just get her in car accidents," the man said.
"Hey," I yelled. Sam, the man, and the woman looked at me. "What's wrong with you?"
"Everything is wrong with them." Sam yelled.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"I'm Grace's dad," the man said.
"And I'm Grace's mother," the woman said.
"Sam, hurry," Grace yelled from inside the room. We all ran into the room and Sam knelt down next to Grace.
Sam
"Grace are you ok?" I asked
"Yes I'm perfectly fine." I leaned in and kissed Grace.
"Oh, my Grace, my poor Grace," her mother cried.
"Now Sam I think you need to get out before you ruin-"
"Stop I can't stand it, he didn't do anything I decided to come back to see Sam, he didn't do anything. Just because you might have thought that Sam raped Olivia or killed Olivia, or raped me or anything, he didn't. He didn't even lay a hand on Olivia. You two have such sick minds, now I'm on my death bed and all you two do is yell at Sam." Grace actually interrupted he own father. That's why I love her.
"Grace," her mother gasped, "you're not on your death bed." Isabel, Rebecca, and Cole ran into the room and were huffing and puffing.
"Hey everyone," Cole said as he caught his breath.
"Oh my, it's Cole St. Clair." Grace's mother said.
"Ewe, mom you listened to him, no offence Cole" Grace said.
"Ya, but that was when your dad and I were hip."
"Help me," Grace groaned.
"Sorry to end your conversation but I need to speak to Grace's immediate family, Sam your included." A female nurse said. Grace's parents and I walked behind a curtain with a whole bunch of other doctors and nurses.
"Grace is in poor condition," one doctor said.
"We are going to have to do surgery," another doctor said. Grace's parents didn't seem fazed by the fact that Grace wouldn't have legs by the end of the day.
"So what are you telling us?" Grace's mother asked.
"Grace isn't going to have legs," I whispered so that Grace didn't hear, even though Grace probably knew what was going to happen.
"What?" Grace's mother cried, "You can't do that the girl will be heart broke." Anger raged up inside me when her mother said that.
"When do you seem to care about Grace will feel like, or better yet what will happen to Grace, all you two care about going out with friends that you haven't seen, and jobs, jobs, jobs." I felt good but everyone in the room was very spacial.
"We love Grace, it's just, it's just sometimes jobs are more important." That reminded me of a poem the Rilke wrote,
How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws *one* voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
Everyone would be so discussed that Grace had fake legs but just having Grace alive is all I need.
"I'll go prep her," a doctor said.