From April to May

By: Mackenzie Evans

I remember the lights. Blinding.

Headlights growing brighter and brighter, each second—an eternity, until they looked like two suns exploding. Exploding? Or, was that me? Was I exploding? Then, nothing. The world went black, and I thought, Is this death? Am I dead?

Awakening later in a cold hospital room on an uncomfortably hard bed, I didn’t know what had happened or how I got there. “Six-car collision… rolled five times… brain trauma… dead on scene.” Sentences flew at me, fragmented and convoluted. Then, darkness again.

I awoke again, this time with a hand in mine. I tried to turn my head, but something stopped me. “It’s okay, Honey. I’m here,” my mom’s voice called from across the room. Confusion struck me once again. If she was on the other side of the room, then whose hand was holding mine?

I tried to muster the strength to spit out one word, “Mom?” but nothing came out. My eyes shifted down. A long tube jutted out of my mouth and intertwined with other cords and wires, all seemingly coming from me. Panic rose in my eyes, and I reached for the tube. “Get this out of me!!!” I wanted to scream, but my voice was trapped inside me, unable to escape my lips.

My mother quickly rushed to my side, and the feeling of comfort against my hand vanished. “Shh. Don’t try to talk, May.” My mother spoke calmly, but when she took my hand, she squeezed it as if she thought I would be ripped from her grasp at any moment.

As I lay on the hospital bed, weeks passed by with nothing to do but think. At first, my thoughts had been jumbled. Like someone took my head and shook it, I thought maybe some of my memories had fallen out of my head when I was in the accident. The longer I had to think, though, the more I started to remember.

April! She had been driving. Where was April? My sister and I were born at 11:59 p.m. on April 30th, and at 12:01 a.m. on May 1st. Identical twins with different birthdays. April and May, inseparable, yet an entire month between us. When given the choice to celebrate our birthdays separately, we laughed. Of course we would celebrate our birthdays together! We did everything together, we always had.

So, why wasn’t she here with me, now? If she were here, maybe I wouldn’t be so bored. Maybe she would have known that when my mom was watching TV, and I was blinking repeatedly at her, I wasn’t asking her to turn it up, but to turn it down!! Maybe April would have known what I needed when no one else seemed to know. Maybe I wouldn’t have been SO miserable for a whole month, while I lay in that stupid, uncomfortable hospital bed, wishing she’d come through the door.

When the doctors finally removed the tube, the first words out of my mouth were a very scratchy, very hoarse, “Where’s April? Was she hurt too?” At the sound of my words, I saw the light in my mother’s eyes die out. In that moment, clear as day, I knew. I knew from the look on her face. The silence in the room. I knew, but I needed to hear it from my mother. “Mom. Where’s April?” The words spewed from my mouth, a choked-up mess.

“May…” I had never heard my name sound like that before — like it was painful coming from her mouth. “April is gone, May. I’m so sorry, Honey. She’s dead.” The steady beeping of my hospital monitor served as a cruel reminder as I processed the news. I survived. She didn’t.

My mom and the doctors continued on, telling me about the accident. About all the victims. Eleven dead, and only one survivor—lucky me. Six cars: A family of four on the way to a soccer game, a newlywed couple on their way to the airport for their honeymoon, an older man taking his grandson to the movies, a freshly licensed high schooler driving home from swim practice, a fifth-grade teacher heading home from work, and a seventeen-year-old girl driving home from school with her twin sister. Eleven lives reduced to a single moment. A gruesome, meticulously detailed police report, chunks of steel torn to pieces like flesh, shattered glass stained red, and blood, lots and lots of blood. That was all that remained of their final moments. That, and the screams of loved ones, hoping for a miracle.

Tears streamed from my eyes. My chest tightened—each breath an impossible chore. I tried to say something, to ask a question, to reassure my mom—anything. But, my words choked me, the universe’s second-attempt, returning to finish the job. I gasped for air, choking and screaming now. Had I forgotten how to breathe? Could this be my final moment? Was I destined to join the others after all? The fated twelfth victim?

No. I felt a hand on my shoulder, the same comfort I had felt when I imagined someone holding my hand. A voice in my head told me to breathe. It will be okay, May. Was this voice mine? I tried to steady my breathing, listening to the voice. You’re strong May, you can do this. My breath steadied. Thank you, I thought.

That night, my mom left me alone for the first time since the accident. I drifted off to sleep while the TV lulled on, a low hum playing dramatic telenovela reruns. Later, I awoke with a startle. George Lopez leaped across the screen while his theme song played. “Annndd that’s my cue,” I chuckled, turning off the TV. I wasn’t supposed to stand on my own yet, but having been bedridden for weeks, and without my mother there to stop me, I decided to try walking to the bathroom myself, before having to bother a nurse at that hour. I crept — ever so slowly — to the bathroom door, nudging it open with my IV pole. Propping myself up on the sink, I saw my reflection for the first time in almost a month. I stared into the overly clean mirror, each and every cut and bruise crystal clear. The longer I stared, the less I recognized myself. For a moment, I even thought I was looking at April again.

“You’re May,” I whispered to myself. Was I though? With a straight face, I watched my reflection as the corners of her mouth slowly curled into a smile. “I’m May,” I whispered again. “But who are you?”