3. Carrie
— ? —
Carrie
I’m not unconscious.
I should be, God knows my head hurts enough, but I’m not. I’m floating in a strange twilight between awake and not, aware of voices above me but unable to move, unable to open my eyes, unable to do anything except lie here on the cold marble while a warm, wet pool spreads beneath my head.
Blood. That’s blood. I know it’s blood because I can smell it, that copper-penny scent that means part of me is leaking out.
“Is she breathing?” Martha’s voice, high and panicked. “Ulises, is she breathing?”
“How the hell should I know? Call 911.”
“I’m calling, I’m calling.” The sound of buttons being pressed, frantic and fumbling. “Yes, hello? I need an ambulance. My sister, she fell down the stairs. She’s not moving. There’s blood, a lot of blood.”
My sister. The words cut through the fog in my brain. My sister, who was just in my bed. My sister, who was just wrapped around my husband. My sister, who’s now kneeling beside me, her hand on my shoulder, her tears dripping onto my face.
“Carrie? Carrie, can you hear me? Please, please wake up.”
I want to tell her not to touch me. I want to scream at her to get her hands off me, the same hands that were just touching Ulises, but my body won’t cooperate. My mouth won’t open. My eyes won’t open. All I can do is lie here and listen.
“They’re sending someone.” Martha’s voice again, closer now. “Ten minutes. They said to keep her still and talk to her.”
“Great.” Ulises sounds annoyed. Actually annoyed, put out that I’ve become an inconvenience to his afternoon. “So we just wait?”
“She could be dying, Ulises!”
“She’s not dying. She fell down some stairs. People fall down stairs all the time.”
“There’s blood everywhere. Her head hit the marble. What if she has brain damage? What if she-”
“Then we’ll deal with it.” His voice moves closer, and I feel his presence above me, his shadow blocking what little light penetrates my closed eyelids. “Carrie? Can you hear me?”
I don’t respond. I can’t respond. But also, some part of me doesn’t want to.
Let them think you’re worse off than you are.
I don’t know where that thought comes from. It floats up from the same place that told me to run, the same instinct that’s kept me alive through all the small cruelties of my marriage that I’ve been pretending not to notice.
Let them think you’re unconscious. Let them take you to a hospital where there are witnesses. Where he can’t touch you.
“The ambulance is on its way,” Martha says. “Should we move her?”
“No, you idiot. The dispatcher probably told you to keep her still. Were you even listening?”
“I was scared! I am scared! This is all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.” His voice softens a little, and my stomach twists. That’s the voice he used to use with me. The gentle voice. The one that made me believe he loved me. “She tripped. She fell. It was an accident.”
“But if we hadn’t, if she hadn’t walked in.”
“Then we wouldn’t be standing here covered in her blood. But she did walk in, so here we are.” A pause. “We need to figure out what we’re going to tell the hospital.”
“Tell them the truth?”
“And what truth is that, exactly?” His tone sharpens. “That my wife caught me fucking her sister and then threw herself down the stairs?”
“She didn’t throw herself.”
“She ran. She was hysterical. She wasn’t looking where she was going. That’s not our fault.”
Silence. Then Martha’s voice, small and uncertain: “What about her parents? They’re going to want to know what happened.”
“We tell them she fell. That’s it. She fell down the stairs, hit her head, end of story. The rest of it.” He pauses. “The rest of it stays between us.”
“They’ll ask questions.”
“Then we won’t answer them.”
“Ulises.”
“This is my marriage, Martha. Mine. I decide what information gets out and what doesn’t. You want to be part of this family? You do what I say.”
The words sit there between them, heavy and toxic. You want to be part of this family. He’s dangling it in front of her, the same future he dangled in front of me, six years ago, when he was charming and attentive and not yet the monster I now know him to be.
Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.
“Finally,” Ulises mutters. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to dry your eyes and calm down and act like a concerned sister. I’m going to act like a devastated husband. We tell them she fell, nothing more. Got it?”
“Got it,” Martha whispers.
I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to open my eyes and tell them both that I heard everything, that I know exactly what they are, that they can’t hide this.
But I don’t.
Because a plan is taking shape in the back of my mind. Desperate and dangerous and possibly insane.
They’re going to lie about what happened.
They’re going to protect each other. My parents will believe whatever story Ulises tells them, because they’ve always liked him, always thought he was such a catch.
“You’re so lucky,” my mother said at the wedding.
“He’s going to take such good care of you. ”
No one is going to help me. No one is going to believe me. If I accuse my husband of cruelty, of abuse, of trapping me in a marriage I can’t escape, they’ll think I’m hysterical. Dramatic. Bitter.
But if I can’t remember what happened...
The thought is wild. Reckless. A thing that only works in movies.
But what other option do I have?
The sirens are loud now, right outside. Footsteps, shouts, the front door banging open.
“Ma’am? Sir? We got a call about a fall?”
“She’s here.” Ulises’s voice shifts instantly, warm and worried now. Husband of the Year material. “My wife. She fell down the stairs. She hasn’t moved since.”
Hands on my body now. Professional, careful. A light shining through my eyelids that makes me want to flinch but I don’t, I stay perfectly still.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?”
I don’t squeeze. I don’t do anything. I let them think I’m unconscious because I need time. I need to figure out my next move. I need to...
“Pupils responsive. Pulse is strong. Let’s get her on the board and move. Someone grab that neck brace.”
Motion. The sensation of being lifted, strapped down, wheeled. Cold air on my face, then the interior of an ambulance, I can tell by the smell, antiseptic and plastic, and the sudden jolt as we start moving.
“Is she going to be okay?” Martha’s voice, from somewhere behind me. “Can I ride with her?”
“Family only in the ambulance, ma’am.”
“I’m her sister.”
“Then you can ride.”
No. I want to scream it. I don’t want her near me. I don’t want her touching me, talking to me, pretending to care about me.
But I can’t scream. I can’t do anything except lie here and plan.