Something was wrong. Someone else was lying in plaster, covered in sores and bruises. This couldn’t be my little girl. This wasn’t Daphne.
Finally, my daughter spoke. Her words, like a switchblade knife, spilled my guts and entrails across the floor. A part of me died right then and there. As our eyes met, something coursed through me. Something evil. She grimaced as she spoke. Her voice as empty as a blue sky.
“Who the hell are you?”
…
The nurses had to drag me away, kicking and screaming. They even called security. Something came over me. I was devastated. Looking for quick answers. But it was all I could think to do. Throwing a tantrum helped take my mind off of what was troubling me: that girl lying on the hospital bed was not my daughter.
The worst part: I’m to blame.
It was my idea to give Daphne the sparkling new sports car on her seventeenth birthday. Big mistake. Or maybe, the mistake was letting her drive in a storm. But what can a parent do? She’s basically an adult. I had to let her go.
I tell myself this every day, hoping it’ll help.
It doesn’t.
…
As much as I was concerned about my daughter, I was also concerned about my wife. Tara was falling apart. She spent the night tossing and turning, saying strange things under her breath, while I buried my head beneath the pillow and wished for death.
Sleep was impossible, so I sneaked off to search up articles regarding amnesia, and it’s affects on families. I didn’t like what I learned. There was a chance her memory may never return. I prayed this wasn’t the case, and that it was only temporary. By the end of summer, my daughter would be her feisty self again.
The following morning, I drove us to the hospital. The day was humid and gross. It was going to be a scorcher. The journey to the hospital was as miserable as the previous night. Since we were no longer on speaking terms, my mind was off to the races. I couldn’t get those dark, insidious eyes from my mind. Whose were they? They certainly didn’t belong to my precious daughter.
And what about her words: “Who the hell are you?”
Since when does she cuss?
Hopefully today would be different. Maybe today she would remember me.
We came bearing gifts; a bouquet of flowers, some tasty treats, plus Daphne’s favorite stuffed animal: a beat-to-death donkey her grandmother gave her on her first birthday. The room seemed smaller than the previous night, and less significant. The air was thick; the temperature hot enough to boil water.
Daphne was in bed, staring at the ceiling. She turned onto her side, away from us. This took great effort, seeing as how she was wrapped in plaster.
“Hi Hon,” I said shakily, placing the stuffed animal on her bedside table.
She grunted.
My wife pushed past me, and offered her the flowers. They certainly improved the smell of the room. A disturbing odour was permeating from Daphne. The smell of rotting flesh. I made a note to mention this to the nurse.
Tara attempted small talk, which couldn’t have been easy. Things had already been strenuous between them lately, without this. You know how it can be with a teenage girl and her mother. I chalked it up to teenage insolence. My sister and mother were the same. She placed the flowers next to the toy donkey, and asked how she was feeling, then stood there limply, waiting for a response that never came.
Daphne grunted.
The next five minutes took forever. Nobody spoke. Then a nurse came to check on Daphne, saving us from further awkwardness. The look on this young woman’s face did nothing to ease my nerves. It was a look of fear. She asked how Daphne was feeling; Daphne grunted. Those grunts were gnawing on my nerves. She sounded like a dog.
She’s injured, I reminded myself. Show some compassion. Before I could consider this, a voice in my head interfered with my better judgement:
“You’re to blame, Chuck. This is all your fault.”
I hated the Voice. It’s gruff chainsaw-like tone, cutting me down branch by branch.
As the nurse was finishing up with Daphne, my wife and I edged closer. The rotten stench was impossible to ignore. I kicked myself for not asking about it. Except, what would I ask? Why does my nearly-dead daughter stink to high heaven? Not happening. Not today, anyway. Best play it cool, let the experts do their thing.
Daphne was glaring at her mother. So much so, that my wife looked away, fumbling through her purse unconsciously. The pure, unadulterated hatred spewing from my daughter’s eyes was sickening.
I spoke up.
“How are you feeling, Daph?”
No response.
“You look well, under the circumstances.”
No response.
“Look,” I said, finding an ounce of bravado. “You’ve been through a lot. And your memory is all jarred up. But things will work themselves out. I promise.”
But did I really mean this?
“Besides,” I added, hoping to sound cheery. “You’re lucky to be alive. You had us worried.”
Daphne’s face twitched. Her lips curled. Her eyes never leaving her mother’s.
“Fuck off.”
I collapsed onto the dilapidated chair, reeling in those ugly words. She’d never spoke to me like that; nor to anyone, as far as I knew. Daphne was a good girl.
My wife’s eyebrows slanted. “Now, now, Daph, don’t speak to…”
“Shut up, bitch.”
My wife recoiled. She moved next to me, tears spilling down her makeup-free face. She looked defeated. Something inside her died. If I’d known what was to come, I would’ve tried harder to comfort her. But how was I to know? Besides, I was hurting too.
I flicked on the small TV attached to the wall, looking for diversion. A sleazy game show host greeted us boorishly.
Daphne disapproved.
“Turn that noise box off!”
She made a gargoyle face. It’s terrible to say this, but it was true. More and more, I began to suspect the worst. This wasn’t my daughter. Something happened. Something sinister. The rational part of me disagreed. She’s injured. This is part of the healing process. It was too soon to tell.
Without warning, my wife grabbed my arm and forced me to the washroom. Instead of speaking, she mouthed, “Our daughter isn’t right.”
“I can hear you,” Daphne mocked. Her voice like a lawnmower.
Impossible. We were on the opposite end of the room. The TV game show host announced the next contestant on Let’s Make a Deal with the Devil. I didn’t trust his voice any more than my own daughter’s.
I turned off the TV. The silence was deafening. Daphne’s breathing became unbearable. It sounded like a motorboat passing through tiny nostrils. Now facing her, I started to say something cute, but she cut me off.
“GO AWAY.”
Her voice was colder than the month of February. Her icy words chilled me to the bone. Again, I fell to my chair, almost destroying my tailbone in the process. They really need better chairs in this hospital.
Tara spoke up. “Don’t you talk that…”
“GET OUT.”
My wife crumbled. She literally fell to the floor. Her body hit the linoleum like a marionette released from its strings. Just then, another nurse entered the room. An older black lady looking as tough as Chuck Norris. A momentary glimpse of relief filled me. Maybe she had answers.
The nurse pulled my wife and I out of the room. The look on her heavyset face was foreboding.
“Look,” she said. “Your daughter’s been though a lot in the last twenty-four hours. She’s suffering from amnesia. This affects people differently. She’s confused. And needs people to blame. Also, she’s in a lot of pain. She nearly died, you know.”
She leaned in close enough so that I could smell her shampoo. It smelled like strawberry-kiwi.
“After you left last night, she threw a fit. It was quite the scene, let me tell ya. One nurse quit. Stormed straight out of here.”
I was forming a response; the nurse waved her meaty hand, ordering me to hush.
“It gets worse.” She whispered, “I wish I didn’t have to say this. But something tells me I should: That nurse killed herself. Gunshot to the head did the trick.”
Her eyes moistened. “I don’t think this has anything to do with your daughter, of course. But you know. It makes no sense. Tamara was happy. Something triggered her do it. Something bad. Anyway, not sure why I’m telling you this. Just be careful.”
She wiped the corner of her eyes, then forced a smile. “Anyways, things should improve with time. They usually do. We’re keeping close eye on your daughter. You should too.”
Her eyes added one final detail: Your life may depend upon it.
With that, we re-entered the hospital room. Daphne was staring at the ceiling, not blinking. I approached with caution. The smell of death was getting stronger with every step. Once I reached the bed, I leaned in to kiss her forehead.
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped.
I kissed her anyway.
I wish I hadn’t.
The moment my lips touched her skin, a sharp pain surged through my entire body. My lips were electrocuted. I winced.
The nurse came rushing over, folded her arms. She towered over Daphne as a principal does during detention. This is a woman I would not want to cross. My wife tore out of the room, beelining it to the elevator. I shot the nurse a quick glance, said goodbye to Daphne, then went after her.
My wife was waiting at the elevator. The door opened. I almost knocked over some poor kid on crutches, just to make it on time.
My wife snarled. She grabbed my hand and squeezed until it hurt.
“This is your fault, Chuck.”
For a scary moment, I was unable to decipher who said this. Was it my wife, or the Voice?
There were no tears left inside me. I took this on the chin. She was grieving, I had to cut her some slack. For me, the only cure was a six pack of cold beer and the Red Sox game on TV. You see, at this point, I had a shred of optimism. Like the nurse said, my daughter was sick. She’s in shock. Things will improve. Slowly but surely.
…
While drinking beer, throwing popcorn at the TV when necessary, Tara cleaned the entire house, top to bottom, mumbling to herself the entire time.
“His fault. This is his fault. Not mine. His fault. He’s to blame. Not me.”
Smartly, I said nothing. We all have different coping mechanisms. This was hers. Besides, she was correct. This was my fault. I was to blame.
Tara slept in Daphne’s room. This was a bad idea, and we both knew it. But once her mind is set, there’s no changing it.
I slept alone with my thoughts. It wasn’t long before the Voice had completely taken over, never letting me catch a wink:
“Your fault Chuck. You and only you. Nobody else is to blame. You did this. You destroyed your daughter.”
At some point, when the rays of sunshine sprinkled into the wilting bedroom, I picked myself up out of bed and forced myself to the bathroom. I showered.
The water was my salvation. I closed my eyes and surrendered to it. Something was wrong. The water was thick and gooey, like having warm gravy poured over you. My eyes opened. Blood was shooting out the shower head, covering me top to bottom, like a slaughtered pig. I shrieked. The crimson-colored bar of soap fell through my fingers, and slid down the drain. My legs gave out.
This is just my over-tired imagination. I’m exhausted, that’s all.
I blinked, and the blood disappeared. Just water.
My daughter was doing this.
I hated myself for thinking this. Another thought arrived as fast and furious as the first one:
Or maybe it was the Voice.
…
The wife stayed home. She’d made a long list of chores that couldn’t wait, including talking to the police, who wanted to know everything about my daughter’s birthday party, including who her friends were, and what – if any – substances were consumed.
The drive to the hospital was fruitless. Rain drowned the streets like sewer rats. Meanwhile, the Voice raged on.
“You’re a bad father, Chuck. Everyone knows this to be true.”
The same tired-looked receptionist greeted me. She looked like she hadn’t slept either. The elevator trip was abhorrent; the people inside recoiled at the sight of me, as though my misery was contagious. Maybe it was. All bets were off by this point. If only the Voice would shut up, or at least take a break.
It didn’t.
“She despises you, Chuck. Your own flesh and blood. And it’s your fault.”
“SHUT UP!” I cried, unsure if I’d spoken aloud.
The elevator shuddered. A young man in a wheelchair huffed, then wheeled away as soon as the door sprung open, shaking his head the entire time.
I looked at my shoes in embarrassment.
“Everyone knows you did this, Chuck,” the Voice chimed.
“Shut up,” I whispered.
Defeat had my on the ropes. I was barely keeping it together. When the elevator dinged, I tripped as I was leaving. The long hospital hall loomed sullenly. I was reminded of The Shining. The strange patterns on the floor, twisting and turning like a drunkard’s walk home. The walls were the color of yellow, when white turns filthy. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact.
Someone pushed past me.
“Um, sorry Mr. Draper.”
Bryce was ghost white. His eyes bulging to his knees. As I turned to talk, he bolted.
“Hey!” I shouted.
All I saw was Bryce’s backside, as he raced towards the elevator. He stabbed the orange button repeatedly, shifting from leg to leg.
“Bryce,” I called out.
A million questions surfaced in my mind. Without realizing it, I was heading towards him. As I grew nearer, the elevator beeped. I made it just as the elevator door closed. Before it shut, his troubled eyes found mine.
“She’s somebody else.”
The elevator closed. Bryce disappeared.
I stood at the door, scratching my head. Hearing him utter those words was deeply disturbing. Why was he so shook up? Suddenly, I didn’t want to see my daughter. This thought nearly killed me. It took every ounce of strength to march toward her hospital room.
Our rendezvous was brief. She told me to jump off a tall building.
I left the hospital feeling worse than ever. Bryce’s words were dangling like a noose on a dule tree:
“She’s somebody else.”
The rest of the day was spend arguing with my deteriorating wife. Things between us were at an all-time low. I was afraid she might hurt herself, or me. She was angry all the time. This will be a tough week, I reminded myself, as she gathered her things to spend another night in Daphne’s room. I watched her shadow disappear under the dying glow of the hallway, and heard the door creak as it closed.
The next day was no better.
Bryce was found dead. Suicide. A gunshot did the trick.