M.I.N.D. Read Free

adjust to the light, and then I look around. The walls are stark white and the bed has a rail. Somewhere outside, a siren wails.
    â€œYou’re in the hospital,” my mother says, looming over me. “They moved you up here from the ER about an hour ago. How do you feel?”
    â€œNot bad,” I answer, trying to ignore the volcano in my head.
    I know better than to whine about pain. Scrape my knee while hiking? No more nature walks for me. Ditto for bike riding, even though my neurologist said it was okay as long as I wore a helmet and stayed out of traffic. (“You weren’t in traffic when you crashed into that bush,” my mother pointed out. Hello? It was a tricycle and I was five.) Get knocked down by a volleyball in P.E.? A trip to the ER for an X-ray, and yup, you guessed it, nix the P.E. (Actually, the P.E. thing was a perk. Too bad it was temporary.)
    She peers into my eyes. “What year is it, Cassie? What’s our address? Do you remember what happened?”
    Details of the accident come trickling back, but they’re choppy, as if I’m watching a movie on TV and Tivo-ing through the scenes. I see myself at the front of the bus. Click. I see Amanda lunging at the driver. Click. I see a truck coming at us like a missile from space.
    Click . I see myself in that place again, in a boat with my father.
    I tell her what I remember, but I omit that last part. My mother can barely handle normal, never mind paranormal. She’d have me back in therapy so fast my already dizzy brain would be spinning. Well, forget that. There’s no stigma to therapy after losing your father, but it’s another story when they think you’re nuts.
    She pulls out her organic hand wipes. “You’re lucky,” she says, scrubbing the seat of the blue plastic chair. (Has she been standing the whole time, hovering over me? Creepy.) “It’s just a minor concussion. It could have been a lot worse. They’ll probably release you in a couple of days. Except I think it’s a mistake. If it were up to me, I’d keep you here at least a week.” She smiles feebly and then sits down.
    If she had her way, she’d be camping out next to me, on the floor if she had to (after mopping it, of course). But I don’t say anything. Sure, I hate that she smothers me, but I understand. I’m an only child. I’m all she’s got.
    It was after I woke up in the hospital, that first time when I was ten, that the seizures started. She’s probably terrified they’ll start up again. Truth is, so am I.
    There must be a lot of terrified people here today, I think. I picture the ER filling up with hysterical teenagers, their parents running around and yelling, “Take my child first! We have Blue Cross!” Omigod. Zack. “Who else was hurt?” I ask, panic setting in.
    â€œMrs. Snyder has a few cracked ribs,” my mother says, frowning. She replaces the wipes and snaps her purse shut. “And Mr. Haskins, the bus driver, broke his arm.”
    I breathe out in relief. No one was killed. And Zack is fine.
    â€œAlso, there was another concussion,” she adds, motioning to the empty bed by the window. “She’s still in X-ray. They’ll be bringing her up here shortly.” Her frown deepens. “I tried to get you a private room, but nothing was available. Maybe you should wear a mask.”
    â€œIt’s a concussion, Mom, not Halloween.” Understanding only goes so far.
    â€œYou think this is funny? Laugh all you want, but from now on things are going to be different. There are going to be changes, missy.”
    I once saw a movie about a boy who had to live in a bubble. Is that what she’s planning? To convert the living room into a sterile container? No human contact unless they’re swathed in Saran Wrap? “Mom, you have to relax,” I say.
    She shifts in her chair.
    â€œWhat?” I ask, a warning bell going off