Casanova Cowboy (A Morgan Mallory Story) Page 2

  “Morgan? Morgan, wake up,” said a strange voice that resonated in my head.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. It was hard to open my eyes, like my eyelids were glued shut, and my head felt thick. The bright lights told me I wasn’t in the ambulance anymore. I stared at the ceiling and the white pressboard tiles, afraid to move my head. A doctor in a white coat sat down on the edge of my bed and looked into my face.

  “I’m Doctor McMahan. Can you tell me how many fingers I have up?” he asked as he held his hand in front of my face.

  I wondered where Randy was in the hospital, or if he was even still here. I hadn’t heard whether the blood on his pants was all mine. I hoped he was all right, that the cut above his eye wasn’t too bad.

  “Two.”

  “Now,” he said, holding up four fingers.

  “Four,” I answered.

  “Good,” he said. “Do you remember the accident?”

  “Parts of it,” I said.

  “The back of your head suffered a rather large laceration. We’ve stitched that up now, and you should be fine. Better the back of your head than your face. The policeman told me you went partially through the windshield, so I’m surprised you didn’t have more injuries.”

  I tried to grasp what he was telling me. I didn’t remember my head hitting the windshield. I could hear the sounds of the metal and glass again, and it made me cringe. I reached tentatively towards the back of my head. I wondered how large a laceration.

  “Careful,” he said, pulling my hand forward. “You have quite a few stitches, and you also have a concussion. It’s mild, but your head will definitely hurt. I need you to stay awake for a while once I release you. We don’t want patients with concussions to go to sleep too soon after.”

  Sleep sounded so good. I wanted to block tonight out.

  “Is Randy okay?” I asked worried.

  “Randy’s fine, he has a laceration above his eye and some minor cuts on his face. He did a great job of holding your wound together until the ambulance arrived. The majority of the blood on him was yours. We stitched him up and sent him home.”

  I wondered in what, wondered if he even wore briefs or boxers—a lot of the boys didn’t.

  “Do my parents know?” I asked.

  The reality was racing in. Fragments of what had happened, the consequences. My parents finding out I’d been drinking and driving filled me with dread.

  “They’re here in the waiting room. The police want to speak with you first, though,” he said as he raised the head of the bed with a button.

  I adjusted myself to more of a sitting position as he did so. I could feel fear seep into every part of my body. The police.

  “I’m going to go get the officer now. He will have some questions for you about the accident. Just be calm,” the doctor said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.

  I could feel my mouth go dry and the prickling in my jaw that I got when I was super nervous. I worried that the police might arrest me right here.

  “Okay,” I said softly, not wanting to be here any longer.

  When he left, I reached behind my head. I felt the area gingerly, my hair around the wound had been shaved, an area about as large as the palm of my hand. I felt the stitches that ran down my scalp, and I calculated the wound to be about two inches long. I wondered how it must look because it felt like a large area, and Frankensteinish. When I pulled my hand away, there was blood on it, which I quickly wiped on the white sheet covering me. I’d seen enough blood tonight.

  The police officer that came into the room looked like he had just stepped out of the military, his posture very rigid and black hair short and neat. My father, who looked worried, followed him. I was nervous enough thinking it would be a police officer, but now my dad was here too.

  “Morgan, I’m Officer Jim Lewis, and I need to ask you a few questions,” he said in a deep voice.

  I looked at my dad and felt the guilt rush through me. I shifted tensely as my dad took the chair against the wall. I sensed his concern though over the police being involved and my being questioned.

  “The vehicle involved in the accident is not registered to you. Who is the owner of the vehicle?” the policeman asked.

  “My boyfriend,” I gasped. “It’s my boyfriend’s.”

  I couldn’t hold back the tears, and they ran down my face as I tried to wipe them away. Oh god, I’d run Max’s Blazer into a telephone pole. The officer stepped around the bed, bringing me back a Kleenex. My dad stood up behind him now.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded at me. He asked me several more questions about the accident, some of which I couldn’t answer because I didn’t remember. I thought about Max; how pissed off he would be. I wondered if my parents had called him yet.

  “So basically, what I conclude is it was an unfamiliar vehicle, and you lost control. Correct?” the officer coached.

  I looked from the officer to my dad in shock. My dad was nodding his head very subtly up and down. There had been no questions about alcohol. I couldn’t believe it would be this simple; I was sure there was more to come.

  “Correct,” I answered.

  He jotted some notes onto his report and handed me the clipboard and pen. I took it from him holding my breath.

  “Sign this report for me if you would,” he said.

  I signed the form with my hands visibly shaking.

  “Hope you’re feeling better soon,” he said and left the room.

  I was stunned. I let out a huge sigh of relief. He’d given me a break I knew I didn’t deserve. Dad looked at me and sat back down in the chair. He raised both hands to his forehead and pushed his fingers into his hairline, rubbing slightly, something he did when he was stressed or worried. I felt a flash of heat race through me, ashamed at what I’d done.

  “I presume, if he had taken a blood test, he wouldn’t have found alcohol in your system?” he asked.

  I stared back at him, not answering. I blinked a couple of times, trying to hold back the tears, but it didn’t work. I dabbed at my eyes with the worn Kleenex and looked down into my lap. Of course he would have found alcohol in my system and my dad knew it.

  “Kind of what I figured. You’re a very lucky girl in a number of ways, Morgan. Get your clothes back on, and let’s go home,” he said flatly.

  Once he was gone, I slowly got off the bed. My head throbbed and I felt like I might pass out. I clutched onto the bedrail as I reached for my dress. I held onto the rail as I attempted to pull off my hospital gown and put my bloody dress back on with one hand. I was having trouble, as I felt weak, I was afraid to let go of the rail and use both hands. I was so grateful when my mom pulled back the white partition curtain and rushed into the room.

  “Let me help,” she said, taking the dress from me.

  I knew Dad was disappointed in me, and it weighed heavily on my heart. There’d been another incident with alcohol and driving right before I turned eighteen, just before I met Max. I’m sure he felt that I should’ve learned from that, that at twenty-one I should be smarter. The time prior, I was pulled over for swerving and failed the roadside test. Since I was still considered a minor, the court reduced the charge to reckless driving. This time I’d managed to squeak by as well, but it was much worse. This time I had hurt people and property. I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach, a twisting burning knot.

  “Mom, I need to call Max,” I whispered. “How bad is the Blazer?”

  As she gently helped me strip the hospital gown off and put my dress back on, the tears started again. I looked into her eyes and saw the hurt she felt for me. The blood had dried and the fabric was stiff in the front. I could smell the rusty aroma as she pulled it on over my head. I couldn’t wait to get home and get it off.

  “I’ve already called him,” she said, her voice shaking. “He’s going to meet us at the house. I think the Blazer is pretty bad, but I haven’t seen it. Don’t worry about that right now. I don’t give a shit about
the car. I’m just thankful you’re all right.”

  I let go of the bed and tried to balance, but I swayed back and forth. Mom saw it and she put her arm around me and helped me walk out into the hall.

  “Oh, no, no,” a nurse called. “Let me get a wheelchair.”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “It’s policy,” she said, racing past me.

  She wheeled me out of the hospital and to the car. Mom helped me get in. Dad didn’t say much on the drive home. I could tell that his initial relief that I was all right had turned to frustration at my recklessness. There was no excuse and I knew it.

  Once we got to the house, Mom walked me back to the bathroom closest to my room. I stared at my face in the mirror. There were hundreds of tiny nicks all over it with the biggest concentration on my forehead. I leaned toward the mirror and touched my hairline. I took in a deep breath feeling the anger at myself again tear through my body. I caught my mom’s expression in the mirror, as she looked at the back of my head, her lips taunt, forehead wrinkled.

  “Apparently, when you hit the telephone pole, you and Randy went into the windshield. When the car stopped and you were forced back, you ripped the rear view mirror off with your head. The adjustment arm on the back of the mirror is what tore your head open,” Mom said.

  “Does Randy’s face look this bad?” I asked.

  She looked into the mirror at my reflection.

  “He has some cuts, but not as many as you. He took the brunt of it here,” Mom said, drawing a line with her finger above her eyebrow. “About twenty-five stitches, I think.”

  She helped me to my bedroom and pulled a T-shirt out of my drawer for me. I winced as I took the dress off and put the T-shirt on, the muscles in my arms and neck suddenly feeling very sore. The sheets felt cool and soft when I slipped into the bed, comforting, but unable to soothe the pain, physically or mentally. Mom picked the dress up off the end of the bed and held it up to inspect it. I could see the blood from Randy on the front and my own blood on the back.

  “Toss it,” I said gloomily. “I wouldn’t wear it again even if you could get it out.”

  Randy’s eyes, his concerned look in the ambulance, filled my head along with flashback’s of thoughts I’d had at the reception that I should leave.

  “Yes, I think it’s a goner,” Mom said. “A lot of blood, Morgan, I’m so sorry baby.”

  I felt responsible for her dismay and it tugged at my heart.

  “I had clean underwear on,” I said, trying to lighten the moment.

  She smiled at me. I could see the sadness in her eyes.

  “Does your head hurt?” she asked.

  It hadn’t stopped hurting since the ambulance, in fact was getting progressively worse.

  “Yeah, feels like someone is hitting it with a hammer.”

  “Nothing like it’s going to. Dad said the doctor told him that the concussion on top of the injury would be very painful. I’m going to get you some aspirin,” she said.

  As Mom left the room, I could see Max coming down the hall. I would have to deal with his disappointment and anger too. Out of anger, I stole his car, and now I’d wrecked it. Morgan and another bad decision I thought to myself.

  “Hi, Patty,” he said apprehensively, as he passed by her in the hall.

  “I’m going to get her some aspirin. Be gentle, her head hurts,” she said.

  He came and knelt next to the bed and took my hand. His blue eyes searched mine.

  “Let’s see,” he said.

  I turned so he could see the wound.

  “Ouch,” he said tenderly.

  “I’m sorry I took the Blazer. I’ll pay for it, I promise,” I said as I turned to face him my voice trembling.

  “I know you will,” he said. “Why did you take it?”

  “Because I was mad,” I said.

  He thought about this a minute and didn’t comment.

  “Why was Randy with you?” he asked.

  “Here,” Mom interrupted as she came into the room.

  She leaned down, opening her hand, which held the aspirin and handed me a glass of water. I took the pills from her and tossed them back. My head was really starting to pound, that motion in itself was enough to make me dizzy. I saw little stars before my eyes. I didn’t want to explain about Randy right now.

  “Max, keep her awake about another forty-five minutes,” she said, looking at her watch. “Then she can go to sleep if she wants. The doctor didn’t want her to go to sleep right away.”

  “Got you,” he said.

  I watched her leave, knowing I had to answer his question, in some form or another. I clutched the sheet in my hands.

  “We went to a wedding reception, that friend of Tom’s, Chris I think his name is. A bunch of people were going. I gave him a ride, Max, that’s it. Nothing happened. I mean, except the accident. Have you seen the Blazer yet?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “No, I’m headed to the impound yard tomorrow to check out the damage,” he said.

  He was glad I was going to be all right, but I could sense his underlying anger about the Blazer and about me being with Randy. The fact that I blatantly defied him in driving the Blazer was puzzling to him.

  “What’s happened to you, Morgan? It’s like you’re trying to make me angry. You take my truck and then give Randy a ride. You know how I feel about him; he’s not one of my favorite people,” Max said, the sympathy now gone.

  I thought about his lie from this morning and decided against bringing it up. Did I want to make him angry? It was my anger, at him, that made me do it. How did he always turn things around to be about him? I thought about how Randy made me feel: wanted and desired. Were Max and I at a juncture of so comfortable, that those feelings had gone away? I was too young to not feel those things. It was like Max and I had settled into some routine like my parents: coexisting.

  “Do you still love me?” I asked, searching his eyes.

  Eyes I had once found to be everything I wanted.

  “What a silly question,” he answered quickly dropping his eyes.

  “Really? When we first started dating, you pursued me. You took me to dinner, bought me flowers, and were honest with me,” I threw in. “It’s like something has changed, but I don’t know what, and you act like I’m crazy when I want to talk about it. I can’t put my finger on it, Max, but something has changed.”

  I felt my cheeks get hot and a shooting pain through my head.

  “Morgan, you have a concussion. You’re not thinking clearly,” he said, turning away from me.

  “Maybe I am thinking clearly, Max, and it scares me. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of a fast-moving river, and I can see the other side, but I don’t know what’s there. Feeling like whatever is there might be exactly what I need, but the river is moving too fast, and I can’t get there from here.”

  “Okay, you’ve lost it, you’re hallucinating,” he said in a frustrated tone.

  “I’m not hallucinating,” I said calmly.

  I realized in my analogy that something needed to change, had to change. For the first time, I was questioning our relationship. Was this really what it was supposed to be like? I found it curious he hadn’t said something like “of course I still love you” when I asked the question. Instead he called it a silly question. Was this what love looked like?

  Chapter 2

  Over the next few months, I questioned everything about my life. My brain kept trying to dig into the real meaning of things, my relationship with Max, what love meant, my feelings. I spent time dissecting past relationships, one in particular, Mathew, my first love. In many ways, it made me more confused. More than once I wished I could stop the thoughts. I was spending a lot more time at my parents’ house, and to my surprise, Max didn’t like it. Didn’t like me not staying at his place. More confusion. Being at home at least I had a sounding board in my mom.

  I seemed to be trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. My questioning thoughts and c
onformity was bugging me now. I had always done things as expected, was a pretty good kid, did well in school, graduated with honors and went to college. Had an all American boyfriend. While I struggled with my feelings the summer flew by and I started back to junior college in September, and it helped distract me.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said as I came into the house through the back door.

  “Hi,” she said, surprised. “What brings you by?”

  “Missed you,” I said, walking up and kissing her.

  I hadn’t been home for several days and it was obvious she really missed me when I stayed away. I felt torn at times on where I wanted to stay: Mom liked my being around, but if I stayed home too much, Max complained. It was almost like, when I pulled away; he wanted to pull me back.

  “That’s so sweet,” she said. “But really?”

  She was dressed in white shorts and a loose pale blue blouse standing at the kitchen table folding clothes. She looked relaxed and pretty. Cool air filtered in through the screen doors.

  “Really,” I said, jumping up on one of the barstools. “Max is going out with Dave tonight, so I thought it was better to hang here than wait for him at his place. I wanted to see you anyway, so you get the pleasure of my company instead.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. I love your company,” she said with a laugh.

  I loved her laugh, a real one, no tee-hee or holding back; she let go with real emotion.

  “Yeah, Liz wanted to go out, but I didn’t feel much like being social,” I said as she moved from the clothes to the sink facing me. “What are you fixing tonight?”

  “Pork chops,” she said. “I presume you are staying for dinner then?”

  Her face lit up, a smile that made my heart sing.

  “If you don’t mind,” I teased.