His gray eyes dropped to the hospital gown. Matthew shook his head. "It's...fuzzy."
The nurse nodded. "That's normal with concussions. Do you, still feel that fogginess? Nausea? Head pains?"
"...just the, uh..." He swallowed, then downed the water in a stinging gulp. He offered the cup to the nurse. "...fogginess." Matthew paused. "Sore, too." He cleared his throat; it hurt. "How long was I out?"
"A couple hours?" the younger man offered, getting another glass for him before checking his vitals. The nurse hovered by the edge of the bed, clipboard in hand, writing down what he observed. "You've drifted in and out of sleep for most of the day, from what your report says. But otherwise, how are you?"
Matthew licked his lips and sat back. "I feel horrible...I look horrible."
With an exhale, the man's small smile returned. It did nothing to offer Matthew comfort. "I can assure you, you just look bad. A few fractures in your arm, some torn skin, but – " His eyes moved back to the clipboard. " – probably the worst you've got are the couple stitches in your head. Just a lot of bruising, otherwise."
His eyes wandered to the nurse.
"Presumably from it going through the side window."
He turned his gaze away, nodding. "...oh."
"We're going to keep you here for the next couple days, just to see how you're doing."
He let out a breathless sigh. "I – no, I need to go back to work."
"Mr. Robinson, you said some things that concerned us. This is just a precaution."
"...what did I say? If, if I can ask."
The nurse closed the plastic cover back on the clipboard after making a few notes. "It's standard procedure, and we also want to make sure your fractures are starting to heal properly." He paused, nodding his head. The nurse paused, as if waiting for Matthew to say something, but when he didn't, he nodded his head again. "If you need anything, Rachel will be here in a couple minutes to introduce herself to you. She's on our evening shift. Our, uh, psychologist will be in shortly, too, just to talk to you in case you need someone to talk to." He nodded his head again. "Let us know if you need anything, okay?"
Matthew nodded. Something dug into his stomach.
The nurse left.
Leaning back into the plastic headboard, Matthew turned his eyes away. From what, he wasn't sure. Yet the welling angry tears in his eyes continued to grow despite the agitation sitting comfy in his stomach. "Fuck, why didn't I just accept?" he whispered, pressing his palms into his eyes. He leaned forward. It could've been over and done with. His life would still be the same. The only thing Matthew did was exasperate the situation, potentially harming the children and Mr. Yang in the process. Lloyd, especially. He didn't deserve the job anymore, after all the trouble he put everyone else in.
Rolling onto his side to the window, Matthew didn't sleep. He so wanted a cigarette.
He wondered through the night whether he had a job to come back to when this was all over.
The first of four reprieves to his hospital stay was the amount of chocolate pudding and strawberry jello he was allowed to eat; it made him feel giddily childish again, and he was sure not to share it when the children came to visit.
The second reprieve were the children visiting, under the care of a returned Mrs. Weiss. Lilliana touched him gently, her words clearly chosen carefully as to not offend him, break him even. Her smile was thin, composure surely shaken from hearing his quiet, whimpering pleas to die. Elliot asked questions, ones that Matthew could not answer – of what the afterlife was like, if he had seen anyone. The look in his eyes was not of morbid curiosity; it was a surprising mix of desperation, of pained hope.
His attention, on subsequent visits, drifted to the room's window, watching the hospital's operations.
Mrs. Weiss nodded her head, the sunken rings under her eyes prominent, turning Matthew's stomach. Her thin, professional smile wavered.
The third reprieve was Toby's visits, conversation strained and his friend clearly unsure of what to say. He asked repeatedly how Matthew was doing, but not much else. The conservatory project, apparently, didn't exist within the walls of the hospital. Lloyd did not exist, either.
Liza came very rarely, but, when she did, spoke little and insisted on representing him in the "obviously forthcoming trial against Culpepper". Her tone, usually harsh with an unwillingness to it, trembled. She wasn't asking; she was begging.
Matthew said no.
The fourth reprieve was when Mrs. Weiss picked him up in her white pickup truck the sunny day he was discharged, the children piled into the backseat; their responses were mixed – "Let's go home, Matt!" shouted Lilly, while Eli complained about leaving the hospital, having started a "collection" of tongue depressors stolen from one of the cabinets.
The celebratory drive away from the hospital was undermined by the doctor's insistence that he relax to fully recover. The doctor's note and bill sat in his pocket, heavy like lead.
Mrs. Weiss rolled the car into a hard left turn, pushing Matthew into the door.
Matthew desperately wanted a cigarette. His gum was not on him.
The fiery colors of autumn continued dropping from their branches.