Daniel Barrios
The emergency room was unusually quiet, a sterile stillness lingering in the hallways. I tried to convince myself the quiet would help keep me level-headed, calmado; prevent me from spiraling into anxiety, como Hana dicía. Hana always told me my nerves were too quick, my worry too loud. She had a way of making it sound like teasing, but underneath, I knew it annoyed her.
For months, we’d shared one car, navigating schedules like a carefully choreographed dance. That morning, Hana had dropped me at work, a brief kiss goodbye before she sped off, late as usual for her shift at the daycare. It had become our new normal, these quick, transactional exchanges of affection. Three hours later, the careful routine we’d built shattered when a police officer’s voice crackled over the phone, cold and detached, asking, “Are you Hana’s husband? She got into a car accident. We’re bringing her to the hospital.”
My chest tightened as I entered her hospital room. Immediately, the sharp tang of latex and bleach hit me, mingling with the lingering scent of cigarettes on a nurse’s uniform. It shot through my temples, giving me a maldito migraine. The air felt dense, toxic, seeping into my lungs like invisible gas, making each breath a deliberate struggle.
Hana sat slumped on the bed, her dark hair cascading forward like a curtain hiding her face, her body turned slightly toward the window, pretending I wasn’t there. This was familiar—her shutting down, me uncertain how to cross the distance she’d placed between us.
“Let me see your face,” I said softly, stepping closer.
“What for?” Her voice was flat, defiant. “Are you hurt?”
“Obviously,” she snapped.
When she finally looked up, her left eye startled me. It was swollen, bruised, a vivid purple beet; each blink labored and hesitant, accompanied by an involuntary twitch. That twitch betrayed her bravado, revealing a vulnerability she rarely let show. Instinctively, I reached for her fingertips, needing the reassurance of touch, but she pulled back abruptly, withdrawing deeper into herself.
“You want to be this way right now?” I asked, my voice edged with frustration and hurt.
“Just leave me alone,” she whispered, sucking mocos up her nose, eyes glistening with tears she refused to shed.
I glanced at the door, half expecting her parents to burst in, her mother’s sharp voice ready to assign blame. The tension tightened in my chest. Hana’s parents had always made me feel inadequate, as if loving their daughter wasn’t enough to earn their approval.
“Where are your parents?” I asked cautiously. “Not here yet,” she said, voice brittle.
“I better leave before they show up.”
“My mom’s pissed.” Her voice was small, almost childlike.
“I know,” I murmured, realizing the weight of her mother’s judgment was something we both feared equally, but rarely admitted aloud.
In the silence that followed, everything unsaid between us filled the room, pressing heavily on my chest. I stood frozen, torn between a desire to comfort her and the fear of rejection. Should I kiss her forehead, gently rub her shoulder, or simply keep my distance, preserving the delicate equilibrium between us? My hands stayed uselessly by my sides, paralyzed by indecision.
“The car?” I finally asked. “Acabado,” Hana said.
“I just don’t understand how this happened, Hana.” My voice trembled, betraying worry rather than accusation.
“I lost control on the ice,” she said mechanically, eyes fixed downward.
“Were you speeding or something?” My question slipped out sharper than I intended. “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” she snapped.
I sighed, my frustration dissolving into helplessness. I studied my wife, the swollen eye marking her vulnerability. After a moment, I softened my voice, searching for something ordinary, something safe.
“You hungry? I can go grab us breakfast from the deli down the street,” I offered gently.
She shook her head slightly. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll get you something anyway. Maybe an everything toasted with cream cheese?” I asked.
She hesitated, blinking slowly, the resistance in her posture easing just slightly. “Whatever.”
It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step. I turned toward the hallway, relieved to have at least a small mission, something I could do right.
When I returned with two breakfast sandwiches wrapped tightly in aluminum foil, voices drifted toward me from Hana’s room, tense and clipped. Her mother’s voice carried clearly, sharp as broken glass, filled with barely-contained anger.
“How many times have I warned you about driving recklessly, Hana?” her mother demanded. “Do you realize how lucky you are?”
Hana’s response was barely audible, muffled by emotion and the soft rustle of hospital bedding. Her father remained silent, his presence marked only by an occasional clearing of his throat. I paused just outside the doorway, breakfast sandwiches growing cold in my hands, unsure whether to intrude or wait out the storm from a safe distance.
“And nurse,” Hana’s mother continued, her voice authoritative and demanding attention. “I want a drug test done immediately. We need to be sure.”
My grip tightened involuntarily around the sandwiches, warmth seeping away as I stood rooted in place, embarrassment and anger mixing with a deep, aching sadness. I hated this—hated the suspicion, the quick leap to judgment. I wanted desperately to step in, to protect Hana, but uncertainty held me back. I lingered there, sandwiches growing colder, feeling utterly powerless and unsure of my place in this unfolding crisis.
A nurse entered shortly after, quietly informing Hana they needed to step outside to use the bathroom for the test. Hana moved slowly, avoiding everyone’s gaze as she followed the nurse into the hallway, leaving behind a tense, uncomfortable silence.
Hana’s parents turned toward me, her mother’s eyes critical, sharp, scanning me as if searching for fault lines. Her father offered a strained nod, a silent acknowledgment but nothing more. The air between us thickened, charged with unspoken blame and expectation. The hospital room felt suddenly smaller, the pale green walls closing in around us. Fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly, casting harsh shadows on Hana’s mother’s face, emphasizing the coldness in her eyes.
“What exactly happened today?” her mother demanded, arms crossed tightly. “Were you aware of anything suspicious?”
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm despite my racing heartbeat. “No,” I said carefully. “It was just another morning. Nothing seemed off.”
Her mother didn’t look convinced, her gaze narrowing further. “Then you weren’t paying attention,” she snapped. I swallowed hard, gripping the sandwiches tighter, fighting back the
words I knew would only make things worse. Her father sighed softly, looking away, leaving me stranded in their judgmental silence. H Her father offered a strained nod, a silent acknowledgment but nothing more. He leaned against the far wall, silent and stiff as usual, eyes downcast to the scuffed linoleum floor, avoiding confrontation.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” I said.
“Por favor,” her mother scoffed. “Crees que soy tonta? Yo sé que ustedes dos fuman. Solo Dios sabe qué estaba haciendo antes de subirse al carro. ¿Los dos estaban bajo la influencia esta mañana?”
Her accusation hit me like a slap, hot anger flooding my face. “Absolutely not,” I shot back, voice rising uncontrollably.
“Claramente no los conozco,” she retorted coldly, unmoved by my anger. “Si los conociera, Hana no estaría en el hospital ahora mismo.”
“I don’t know what else to say,” I said. “Admite que fumas.”
“I’m done here,” I said. “I’m done. You always assume the worst about us. I can’t stand here and listen to this anymore.”
Before she could reply, I stormed out, the sandwiches crumpling in my furious grip. My pulse hammered in my ears as I hurried down the hall, determined to find Hana, to reassure her,
and myself, that somehow we’d get through this together. I rushed down the hallway, heart still pounding in my ears, searching for the restroom. The sterile corridors blurred past, white walls and fluorescent lights melting into a disorienting haze. When I finally reached the bathroom door slightly ajar, I paused, breathing heavily, the crumpled sandwiches now forgotten in my clenched hand.
Inside, Hana was crouched on the cold tile floor, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The nurse knelt beside her, gently rubbing Hana’s back, whispering calming words I couldn’t quite make out. The scene twisted my heart painfully; seeing Hana broken like this was almost unbearable. The bathroom felt small and suffocating, with pale yellow tiles chipped around the edges, and the scent of industrial cleaner hung thick in the stale air. Watching Hana in such pain, I felt a surge of guilt mixed with frustration. I was tired of always feeling like we had something to prove, tired of constantly defending our lives and choices against her mother’s harsh judgments. It wasn’t fair to Hana, and it wasn’t fair to us.
“Hana,” the nurse was saying softly but firmly, “you don’t have to do this test. You’re over eighteen, you have rights. This test goes on your permanent record. You can refuse. Besides, you’ve already passed the blood-alcohol test, so there’s no reason they need to run this one.”
Hana looked up, eyes swollen, tears streaming down her bruised face. Her voice trembled. “But my mom…she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“Your mother can’t force you,” the nurse said gently. “It’s your choice, Hana.”
I stepped inside slowly, carefully, hoping not to startle them. “The nurse is right, Hana,” I said, my voice softer now, calmer. “We don’t have to stay here. You don’t owe them anything. We can leave right now.”
Hana stared at me, uncertainty and fear clouding her eyes. “She already thinks we did something wrong. If I refuse, she’ll think it’s proof.”
“Who cares what she thinks?” I said firmly, crouching down to Hana’s level. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t have to prove anything to her. Let’s just go.”
The nurse nodded encouragingly. “He’s right. You can walk out right now, together. No one can stop you.”
Hana hesitated, looking from the nurse to me, her breathing uneven. Finally, after a long moment, she nodded slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
—
daniel barrios is a Dominican/Puerto Rican writer and educator from Staten Island, NY. His collection of short stories was a 2025 finalist for the EastOver Prize for a Debut Story Collection and a 2025 finalist for the Black Lawrence Press Immigrant Writing Series. His fiction has appeared in Pleiades Magazine, Action-Spectacle, and The Brooklyn Review.