Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
I don’t remember blacking out. But I do remember waking up.
Everything hurt, like I had been hit by a bus.
That was because I had actually been hit by a bus.
The doctors informed me when I woke up. My mother was sleeping on the couch next to the hospital bed.
Everyone—the doctors, the nurses, my mother—looked at me with that same expression, furrowed eyebrows, pursed lips.
It wasn’t until week two, when the psychiatrist arrived, that I realized they thought I had jumped in front of the bus.
Two broken ribs, a concussion, a fractured arm, a torn knee, an ankle strain, and a bit of internal bleeding, but apparently not the super serious kind—only the pretty serious kind.
My recovery was…rough. Everything was rough. The physical pain actually wasn’t too bad. I found I was quite good at disassociating. I’d just close my eyes and imagine that I was in my happy place, Harvard Law School. Plus, they gave me the good painkillers.
The worst part about recovery was the nonphysical parts.
I hated the way everyone talked to me as though I were a delicate little flower that would collapse and die if someone used a voice that was slightly too menacing or slightly too loud.
And I hated being stuck in bed, scrolling through social media with all its reminders of the senior-year rituals I was missing: the boat cruise, the senior gala, the various other traditions involving drinking, and the many, many parties.
That was before I deleted all of my social media. I didn’t want to, but my mom made me.
My body was a wreck, but I’d make a full recovery. The physical injuries were the least of everyone’s worries. Apparently I had suffered a “psychotic break.” No one used this term in front of me. I only found out when I overheard Leah talking with Eunjin outside the hospital door.
“I think she’ll be happy to see us,” Eunjin said. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.”
Leah snorted. “Yeah, there’s not exactly a manual for what to do when your close friend has a psychotic break.”
“Even on our way here I kept thinking through if there were any signs that we missed. I saw her almost every day. How is it possible that I didn’t see her mental state deteriorating?”
I wondered why she didn’t mention the scarf. Was she protecting me?
“I don’t know. I feel the same way. I mean, she said weird stuff sometimes. You know how she gets about her percentiles.”
“Oh my god. The percentiles.”
“Like, girl, stop telling me I’m in the ninetieth percentile of attractiveness or whatever. I get it’s supposed to be a compliment but it’s weird. But she’s always said that. It hasn’t been a recent thing.”
“Oh, you got ninety? She always told me that I was eighty.” They both laughed. Even I couldn’t help but smile.
“And what was Alex?”
“Not sure. She never gave a percentile for Alex.”
“God, such a weirdo. I always thought she was a weirdo. But not clinically psychotic.”
“The Harvard thing was a bit suspicious.”
“Right…right. Did you ever find out if she actually got in?”
Eunjin whispered something that I couldn’t hear.
“Yeah…I see.”
“Maybe there was more we could’ve done. I mean, looking back now, there were definitely signs.”
“Maybe. But it could just be something with her brain chemistry, who knows.”
“Yeah. Maybe biologically she was already in a vulnerable state, and then the law school rejections really fucked her up. Set something off.”
“That’s true.”
“I mean, Harvard was all she talked about for four years.”
“That’s true.”
“Like, literally all she talked about.”
“Poor girl.”
I would’ve liked to keep eavesdropping but the “poor girl” comment was too much to take.
“You know I can hear you, right?” I croaked from the hospital bed.
A few seconds of furious whispers, then the door opened and the two of them walked in.
Leah was holding two balloons and Eunjin was carrying a little pink box that I knew even before peeking inside would be apricot linzer cookies from the Hungarian Pastry Shop.
“Sorry, these were all they had.” Leah tugged the balloons down so I could see. One of them was baby blue and said, “It’s a boy!” And the other had “Happy 40th Birthday!” written in bright magenta lettering.
“We thought you’d find it funny,” she added sheepishly.
“I do find it funny. I just can’t laugh because I’ve broken two ribs.” I gave her the closest thing I could get to a laugh, which was something between a cough and a snicker.
“You do look pretty horrible,” Leah said.
Eunjin slapped her arm. “I mean, she’s not wrong,” she said. “You do. But I, for one, wasn’t going to say that to your face.”
—
I learned about the details in bits and pieces.
Shortly after I left the bar, I walked around the East Village with a dreamy smile.
Witnesses said that I had been talking to myself.
Most of them just thought I was drunk or high.
I didn’t hesitate when walking onto the road.
I didn’t brace for impact. I didn’t seem to see the cars or hear their honks.
It was as though I were a ghost, as though I believed I existed in a separate dimension and was thus immune to the physical objects around me, as though I were singularly focused on reaching my destination on the opposite side of the street.
But alcohol and drugs couldn’t explain my behavior.
For one, I hadn’t taken any drugs. For two, my blood alcohol level was barely above the limit for driving.
So the explanation that both the medical professionals and my friends and family all accepted was that I had experienced a psychotic break.
Yes, I probably had. For weeks I had intentionally isolated myself and allowed the depression and anxiety to fester like an infected wound until it spread to all my major organs.
But there were other facts in contention.
For instance, no one, not even my mother, believed me when I said that I wasn’t trying to kill myself.
To me, it was obvious. I couldn’t inflict that kind of pain on my mother, who had always loved me unconditionally.
I could not bear the thought of imposing upon her that kind of infinite grief.
During my stay at the hospital, I asked the doctors many questions on my physical condition, my treatment plan, and my recovery time.
I wanted to know the scientific names of the bones that were broken, the exact kind of physical therapy I would need, the reason they were giving me one type of drug instead of another.
They joked that it felt like they were in residency all over again, and asked me why I wanted to know so many details.
I said that I was just curious. Of course, I was lying.
Because I was Asian, everyone generally was predisposed to thinking that I was a nerd, so it became quite simple to play the part of the intellectually curious inquirer.
In reality, I was storing these facts in my brain one by one for future use: for when I reapplied to Harvard in the fall.
These complex medical terms would add excellent color to my new essays.
It was just unfortunate that I hadn’t discovered this sooner, that I hadn’t discovered sooner that I didn’t need a pregnancy to make me interesting.
Getting hit by a bus was plenty interesting.
Even better, I wouldn’t have to deal with a kid for the rest of my life.
It was so much cleaner, so much easier. I only wished I had thought of getting hit by a bus sooner.
Then I actually would’ve jumped in front of one on purpose.
—
The bus apparently had not been moving quickly, which was the only reason why I hadn’t sustained worse injuries.
It had just picked up a few passengers at a station and was slowly building up speed when the driver saw me crossing the street.
He hit the brakes as soon as it appeared I was not bluffing in my willingness to walk into oncoming traffic.
The university contacted my mother. They decided it’d be best for me to take medical leave and finish my courses over the summer. I would still be able to walk at graduation in May with my friends, but I wouldn’t receive my diploma until the fall.
After coming to terms with the initial shock of my situation, I began to wonder if I had incriminated myself in Laura’s death.
There were at least a dozen people at the meet-up who suspected I had been impersonating Laura online.
I had even been wearing her scarf. What if one of them reported me to the police, suspecting that I may have been involved, or what if I was already on the police’s radar and they had heard about my outburst?
Each day at the hospital, I waited for the police to show up.
I waited for someone to ask me whether I had anything to do with Laura’s death.
The dread made a home for itself in my psyche, a constant presence no matter what I was doing.
I almost wished that the police would just show up, just question me, so at least I would know more about my own plight.
I still believed that they did not have enough evidence to convict me.
I had gone over the details one by one. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try, that there wouldn’t be more trouble for me in the future.