Sweet Girl by Quell T. Fox
Charlotte
SinceJonathanhasmovedout,Ifindmyselfaloneinthehouseoftenandit’sstartingtobecometiring.IcamehometovisitmymomandnotthatIexpectedhertobeherewithmetheentiretimebutIexpectedhertobeheremorethanshehasbeen.
She definitely works more now than she has before. Something that must have changed once I left. I mean, she always worked a lot, but this is extreme. But, if her and Jonathan were having problems and she’s suddenly dating a doctor, I guess being at the hospital makes sense.
I keep my ass parked in front of the TV for most of the afternoon, watching some cooking show. It gets me in the mood to make something and I figure what the hell. I push myself up from the couch and rummage through the fridge. Mom went shopping a few days ago, so luckily there is a good array of food to choose from. I pull out a bunch of random things, figuring I can make some kind of good concoction. Chicken and a bunch of vegetables. I guess making a stir fry should be easy enough.
It’s not that I hate cooking, I just don’t do it often enough. I didn’t cook much when I was here before, always living off of take out and I do pretty much the same thing while in school. Living on campus doesn’t give me the freedom to cook.
But here I am, got this whole house to myself. I may as well use the kitchen. Cooking is a skill we all need, so I should probably start figuring it out now before I’m really on my own.
I chop up some peppers and put them in a bowl. Next I move on to the onions. They must be extra ripe because my eyes are tearing like crazy. I blame my hand slipping on the fact they are extra juicy and not being able to see. I don’t realize what’s happened at first, but when my hand begins to burn and the cutting board is flooding with blood, it hits me.
“Shit!” I drop the knife into the sink and grab the dish towel that’s on the counter, wrapping my whole hand in it.
I pick up my cell from the end of the counter and dial my mother. She doesn’t answer. I go to the cork board and find her number and extension for the hospital, the one that’s listed for emergencies. I dial that number, nearly dropping my phone with how shaky my hands are, and noting the dishrag soaking with blood. Maybe I should be calling 911 instead.
Working in a hospital is not something I could ever do, unless it were in the gift shop or something. I don’t do well with blood and that sort of thing. So this right now, this is taking a toll on me, but I try my best to keep it together and remember my basic first aid training Mom taught me.
“Grand Wing nurses station, how can I help you?”
“Allison Evans, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Yes, this is her daughter. Charlie.”
“Charlie, sweetie, your mom isn’t working tonight.” The line is silent for a moment. “Is everything okay?”
“Y-yeah, everything is fine.” The words are practically a whisper, in fact, I’m not sure I spoke them at all.
I press the button on my phone to end the call, my hand still shaking. I dial my mother again and still no answer.
I do the last thing I can think of. Scrolling through my contacts, I hit the green call button.
I’m sitting at the table, trembling and probably pale. I haven’t looked at the cut on my hand, but I can tell it’s bleeding a lot by the small droplets of blood dripping from the towel and landing on the floor. I’ll need stitches for sure. All I can hope is that my finger is actually still attached. I should probably wrap my hand tighter, find a way to stop the bleeding but even the thought of having to see what shape my hand is in makes me queasy.
If I weren't so occupied with the pain in my hand, I'd be more worried about the fact my mother lied to me.
The door opens, slamming against the back wall. Mom used to yell at me for that all the time. It hit so hard this time, I swear there has to be a hole in it.
“Charlotte, are you okay?”
Jonathan rounds the table, his eyes widening when he sees me.
“Oh my god. When did this happen? Why didn’t you call 911?” He sounds angry but I know it’s just because he is worried about me.
“I called Mom at work. She told me she was working but…” My eyes sting with tears, the emotional turmoil of everything finally hitting me. I try to be strong, act like things don’t bother me. I try to just live my life, but… it’s not always easy.
“Come on, baby.” He walks towards me, scooping me up from the chair, one arm under my knees and the other around my back. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“I’ll bleed all over your car.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “You think I give a fuck about my car?” He manages to get out the door and close it without letting me go. “That’s a lot of blood. You got yourself good.”
He squats down a little, pulling the car door open and setting me down on the tan leather seat. At least if I do get blood on it, it should wash off pretty easily, right?
He wraps the seatbelt around me and buckles it. After closing the door he rushes around the other side and we’re off to the hospital. We make it there in record time and Jonathan parks his car right in front of the ER doors, in a no parking zone.
“Your car…” I say, my voice weak. My hand has been bleeding a while and the pain is almost unbearable at this point. I feel dizzy and tired. The smell of the blood alone is making me want to vomit. I know it’s my nerves making this worse, but I can’t seem to calm myself enough.
“They can fucking tow it,” he growls, storming into the ER with me in his arms once again and pushing past the line of people to stop at the front desk. “She needs a room,” he states. My eyes are closed and I’m focusing on not throwing up. Who would have thought I’d feel this shitty over a cut on my hand from a kitchen knife? I really must have gotten myself good if it’s this bad. “Now!” he shouts, causing me to startle. The entire room turns silent, no doubt wanting to catch a glimpse of the crazy man carrying the bleeding woman.
I raise my hand up, patting him on the chest. “Take it easy.”
“Sir, you’re going to have to fill these forms out first.” The nurse’s voice has a bit of a tremble to it.
“Do I look like I can fill anything out right now?” His voice is as cold as ice, full of unspoken threats and it has me smiling.
So feisty.
“It’s fine.” Someone from the side of us says. “Sit her here and we will get her to the back. You can fill out the forms there.” I look over to see a male nurse standing behind a wheelchair.
“Thank god. Someone who knows what they’re doing.” His voice is cocky and it makes me almost laugh. We start to move again. “Sir, the chair?”
“I’d rather carry her, thanks.”