The night I woke up at Saint Agnes Medical Center, the first thing I saw was the ceiling light above me, shaking like a pale coin at the bottom of deep water. My name is Clara Whitmore. I was thirty-two, a paralegal in Columbus, Ohio, and I had spent my whole life being the dependable daughter. The one who picked up every call. The one who lent money without making a scene. The one who remembered prescriptions, birthdays, tax deadlines, and which relative had food allergies.
A delivery truck had run a red light on Broad Street and slammed into the driver’s side of my Toyota. I remembered glass bursting inward, the airbag hitting my chest, and my left leg pinned beneath twisted metal. Then came sirens, pain medication, and a nurse named Denise telling me I was lucky. Lucky meant cracked ribs, a broken ankle, a concussion, and bruises so dark they looked painted onto my skin.
At 2:14 a.m., I asked Denise for my phone.
“You need to rest,” she said.
“I need to tell my family.”
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