The blood test.
She became silent when I mentioned the medication.
Then she said something that made my skin go cold.
“I asked you about that last year.”
“What?”
“Thanksgiving.”
I couldn’t remember.
“You fell asleep at my house sitting straight up at the table. I asked what you had taken.”
“I was tired.”
“That’s what he said.”
I closed my eyes.
She continued.
“Then he practically carried you to the car.”
My stomach twisted.
“I don’t remember that.”
“I know.”
Her voice broke.
“That’s why I asked you the next morning if you were okay.”
I remembered a text.
Barely.
Her asking if I got home safely.
My husband had read it over my shoulder and laughed.
Your sister needs a hobby.
My sister said, “Please don’t go home with him.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m coming.”
When I ended the call, the social worker wrote something down.
Then there was a knock.
A security officer entered.
Not the same one as before.
He said my husband had returned to the hospital lobby.
“He says he has your insurance information and needs to speak with you.”
“No.”
“He also says he has your medication list.”
The room went silent.
“What medication list?”
The officer looked toward the nurse.
“He told security you’re confused because of the concussion and that you take medication for anxiety.”
“I don’t.”
The nurse’s expression hardened.
“None is listed in her chart.”
The officer nodded.
“That’s why I came up.”
My husband was trying to create an explanation.
In real time.
Before the test results came back.
I told security I did not want him near me.
The hospital placed a restriction on my room.
No visitors except my sister.
No information released by phone without a code.
My husband kept calling.
Then stopped.
Thirty minutes later, the toxicology results returned.
The doctor came back.
