My phone had been in my jacket pocket during the accident. It was cracked, but it still worked. And I’d been keeping it hidden under my pillow, charging it at night when the nurses weren’t looking.
For the past three days, every time Vanessa visited, I’d had the voice recorder running. I had her talking about the property, about Marcus, about the plan to develop the land. And now I had her talking about waiting for something to happen to me, about the conservatorship, about the DNR.
It wasn’t enough yet. Not quite. But it was building.
Stay with me here, because this is where I had to make a choice.
I could go to the police with what I had. But what did I have? A recording of my sister talking vaguely about plans and property development. Nothing concrete. Nothing that proved she’d cut my brake lines or planned to kill me. And if I went to the police and they didn’t believe me, Vanessa would know I was faking. She’d know I remembered everything, and then I’d really be in danger.
No. I needed more. I needed proof of the brake line. I needed Marcus on record. I needed something undeniable.
So, on day six, I asked Vanessa about the car. I did it during one of her visits, in the middle of her reading me a magazine article about celebrity weddings. I interrupted her, my voice slow and uncertain, like the words were hard to find.
“Vanessa, the car. What happened to my car?”
She looked up, her expression carefully sympathetic.
“Oh, honey, it was totaled in the accident. I’m so sorry. The insurance company already picked it up. It’s at a salvage yard somewhere, I think.”
“Which salvage yard?”
She hesitated just for a second, but I saw it.
“I don’t know, sweetie. Why? Do you remember something?”
I shook my head slowly, like I was confused.
“No, I just… I don’t remember the accident. I don’t remember driving. I don’t remember anything.”
Vanessa reached over and squeezed my hand.
“That’s okay. That’s totally normal. The doctor said you might not ever remember the accident itself. It’s your brain protecting you.”
I nodded. I let my eyes fill with tears.
“I’m scared, Vanessa. I’m scared I’m never going to be normal again.”
She pulled me into a hug. It was the first time she’d hugged me since I’d woken up. She smelled like expensive perfume and the mint gum she always chewed.
“You’re going to be fine, Marina. I promise. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to take care of everything.”
That night, I called Stephanie over to my bed. I made my voice small and shaky.
“Stephanie, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, hon. What’s up?”
“I need to make a phone call to my friend, but I can’t remember her number, and my phone is broken, and I just… I really need to talk to her.”
Stephanie’s face softened. She’d been my advocate from the beginning. The one who’d fought to get me a private room. Who’d brought me extra pudding cups. Who’d covered for me when I couldn’t keep my eyes open during afternoon tests.
She pulled out her own phone.
“What’s your friend’s name? I’ll look her up.”
“Her name is Carla Hayes. She works at Riverside Automotive. She’s a mechanic.”
It was a gamble, a big one. But Riverside was a small town, and there was only one automotive shop. And if I was right, Carla would remember me. I’d had my oil changed there twice, and we’d talked about her daughter who played soccer, and my grandmother’s farmhouse, and the weather.
Please let her remember me.
Stephanie found the number. She dialed it and held the phone to my ear.
It rang three times. A woman answered, her voice rough from cigarettes or long shifts or both.
“Riverside Automotive. This is Carla.”
“Carla, it’s Marina Castalano.”
