JAINA
The doctors believe Nathan might be developing a clot in his leg. They are watching it closely and will take him down for a test later tonight. I can hear the information, but they will need his grandmother to give consent if it will require surgery. I leave the hospital early, not able to think straight or sit in that room as the nurses study his limb. It feels like every time we get closer to him being out of the woods, something puts us right back.
My Snap Chat feed is filled with my classmates practicing the graduation. I pull in late to the school. I haven't been here in days and can't bring myself to get out of my car. Nothing feels real here without him. This was supposed to be our time. Nathan and I should be laughing and making fun of the speeches being practiced. We should be texting each other from our folded metal chairs, talking shit about teachers we disliked or bullies that suddenly try to speak to everyone because their glory days are coming to an end.
I turn off the engine. From my car I can hear the crackle of the speaker. I close my eyes and lean my head back. A knock on my window startles me.
"Hey!" Jeni shouts from outside. She's been a classmate of our since first grade.
I roll down my window even though I'm not prepared to answer her questions. This is exactly why I don't want to go in.
"Hi," I say. I put on my best fake smile.
She's distracted for a minute by another student leaving. He shouts to her and she shouts something back. Would it be rude to roll my window back up?
"How's Nathan? We heard he's in a coma. People are saying his legs are broken." She winces as she says it.
I hate people.
"He's alive," I answer. I pause because I don't want to give anyone any information about him. His current status is on the tip of my tongue because it's one of the only things I think about.
"Is he going to wake up?" she asks.
"They don't know," I answer honestly.
"They've been sending your stuff up to the office. I aid there second period. I can bring it to you if you want," she offers.
"I don't need it," I say. The look on her face tells me she isn't expecting that.
"Ok...if you change your mind..."
"I have your info," I say with a smile.
I reach to the ignition and turn the car back on. That's enough of this for today. Jeni gets the hint and backs away from the car. I offer a small smile and a wave. I try not to make eye contact with anyone else as I flee the parking lot. When I am far enough away, I pull over in a shaded spot in the neighborhood and get on my phone. My Instagram feed is now all cars and car parts. It's my fake account and I've been working hard to post pictures that make it seem like I'm part of the lifestyle.
I spend two hours scrolling through accounts to try to find any sign of a car that could have been involved in our wreck. There are posts of wrecked cars, but mostly it's clear they can't be driven. The car that hit us was able to keep moving and fled the scene. It feels hopeless. No matter how determined I am to find the driver, it seems like a world I will never understand and could never know enough about.
I swipe up and clear my screen. My eyes hurtâmy head hurts. I have been trying not to text Elijah to give him the time and space to handle whatever he needs to, but I worry about him. I also miss him.
ME: How is your friend?
I sit a little longer in my car but when I don't get a response, I decide to head over to the police department to speak with detective Ruiz about the case. He's an older guy, who has clearly been on the job for a while, but doesn't have much to go on from that night. I also don't think it helps that our accident took place in LA, where there are always bigger and more pressing issues than a traffic accident that has not resulted in a death...at least not yet.
The drink to the station is ridiculous. What could take twenty minutes on an open road takes an hour and a half in after-work traffic. I will never understand how there is always traffic in both directions no matter when you make your way into the heart of the city. Tourist imagine LA much differently than it actually is. When I pull off the freeway, I pass many homeless camps and graffiti-covered walls. There are no clean streets with green mediums, instead there are narrow one-way streets with trash strewn about. I woman without pants, but in an over-sized coat steps off the curb in front of me, causing my heart to leap into my throat. It's sad that some people exist like this and it really drives home the reasons why the LAPD has their plate full trying to keep this city safe.
"Hi. Can I please speak with Detective Ruiz?" I ask the woman at the front counter.
This station is large and full of many police officers in uniform. The detectives here wear suits, and are always somewhere in the back. I'd like to think Detective Ruiz has our case on the big whiteboard and is constantly adding new clues, but in reality, they call him over the radio and tell me I'll have to wait for him to get back to the station. I'm offered a seat, which I gladly take.
My phone chimes.
ELIJAH: My friend is like a frat boy without a frat.
I contain my laugh. He's painted a great picture. Although, it's also sad that someone our age is acting that way.
ME: Yikes. How long are you going to stay with him?
ELIJAH: At least another day.
Detective Ruiz does not walk through the front doors of the station, but instead he emerges from somewhere in the back. In his arms is a stack of manila folders filled with papers. The other men walking with him fall off in their own directions. He smiles at me in a way that is not unlike a teacher greeting a student.
"Hi Miss. Diaz. Good to see you again," he says.
I stand when he holds open the door to the hallway.
"Hi. Thanks. I wanted to stop by to see if I can help anymore," I tell him. It's a half-truth. I'm also hear to make sure he knows someone is watching. I won't let the case get cold.
"Come on back. Let's chat," he says.
The room in the back has windows. He doesn't have his own office like the detectives in movies. There is a large room with many desks. I already know which one is his. There's a small picture of him with a woman I assume is his wife, and his two sons. One is wearing a blue gown and sporting a graduation cap. The rest of his desk is covered in big black binders and coffee stain rings.
He brushes off the corner and wheels a chair over for me to sit.
"How's your friend Nathan doing?" he asks.
"Still not awake," I tell him. He knows all of this. He is in contact with the staff at the hospital and will be notified with any major change.
The detective nods his head. "I've spoken to a few more people. It's early. I don't think anyone is talking yet, but they will."
He pushes the folders to the corner of the desk so he can use the old notebook to take notes of what I might tell him.
"Do you know anything about the car?' I ask.
Detective Ruiz doesn't lift his gaze from the notebook. He's thinking. It's too long of a pause to be a solid no, but I bet he's decided what information I need and what information will hurt to tell me. Afterall, he has to build a case.
"Small sedan. That's what I'm hearing. But don't you worry about any of that. I have some officers on our task force that will be able to track it down as soon as we get some more intel," he tells me.
"There's a task force?" I ask. I've heard of them, but I want to know what the detective has to say about it.
"Sure is. We are known for our task force. So trust that we will find who did this and get your friends some justice," he assures.
I don't trust it. I don't really trust anything anymore. I get that they are doing their best, but I won't leave that as good enough for Nathan.
"Thank you," I say. I would give anything to be able to look inside that folder. My eyes are drawn back to the family picture. His son must have been about the same age as Nathan and I during the time it was taken.
"Did your son just graduate?" I ask. I point towards the solid black frame on his desk.
Detective Ruiz smiles. "Last year. The younger one has another year before he graduates."
It's quiet for a moment. The sound of men and women talking in other rooms and also at the desks around us grows louder in my awareness. I wish there were a way to tell these cops that Nathan is some's son too. His grandmother is sick over it all. I don't want his case to be some haphazard notes thrown into an old folder. I want justice for him.
"Nathan is an only child," I tell him. "He's all his grandmother has left."
The detective stares at the picture of his son, the one where his strong arm is draped lovingly across the shoulder of his graduating child. I think my message has been received, but just to be sure I add, "He's only a year younger than him. We are supposed to graduate tomorrow."