“So, what happened?” the officer asked.
I took a deep breath and said, in all seriousness, “When?”
“From the beginning…” he said.
I was standing in my room in the attic of Elderberry when I got the call. I noticed it was a (212) area code and rolled my eyes. After the seventh missed call, I had no choice but to pick up on the eighth.
“You really have no idea what ‘no’ means, do you?” I scoffed.
“Hi, is this Lauren Sharkey?” asked a not-so-familiar voice.
“Um,” I mumbled, “yes, yes – this is she.”
“I’m glad I caught you.” the male at the other end of the line said, breathing a sigh of relief, “my name is Dr. Movate. I am the attending neurosurgeon at Mt. Sinai’s Urgent Care and Multispecialty Center. I have a young man here…”
Tears welled in my eyes as he told me about the accident – that he had been in a coma for two weeks, that no one had claimed him, that he said my name first.
I put Bertha into drive and sped to the city. I parked in a no parking zone on East 90th Street and sprinted down Columbus Avenue as though the devil himself were chasing me.
I remember rounding the corner of the room to find an empty bed. Dr. Movate explained to me that in the time it had taken me to cross the bridge, an aneurysm had burst and he was taken to surgery. Depsite our differences, I had called his mother and she was on her way – it was the right thing to do, after all. I mean, I’d want to know.
“That still doesn’t tell me how you came to be in the apartment that night, Ms. Sharkey.”
“I know, officer” I said, “but trust me, I’m getting there…”