A strange sort of fight or flight response kicks in as I watch the outside disappear. I glance around at the standard-issue doctor room stuff. The paper-covered seat thing, the sink area with a jar full of tongue suppressors, and boxes of latex gloves. A trash can for hazardous products.
She sits, too, and lays a clipboard on her lap. “Claire, I’m here to help you, okay?” Her voice is calm and kind, despite her ragged features. “Can you tell me anything about why you’re here this evening?”
“Um, my ex, Griffin, he fell.” I shift toward the door and then back. “He’s here somewhere.”
She nods and makes a note on the paper. “I see. And what can you tell me about that?”
“About what? I don’t know how he’s doing; they won’t tell me anything because I’m not family.”
Georgia shakes her head. “No, not his condition, but the events that led up to it.”
“He fell.”
“I see.” She stares at me. “Is there any particular reason why that happened?”
“I…” I have to come up with something. “I think he was drinking.”
Georgia writes again. "Uh-huh." She leans forward and lowers her voice. "Claire, this is a safe space, okay? Everything you say in here is confidential, between you and me and the laws that protect people like you."
“What do you mean?” People like me?
“Honey.” Her brown eyes fall to the arms I suck at covering. “How did that happen?”
I bite at my lip to try to stop the tears from starting again.
She raises her hands. “I don’t want to make assumptions, but correct me if I’m wrong. That is not self-inflicted, is it?”
“No.” Even if I did harm myself, the angle and fingerprints are no match to something I could have done.
“I didn’t think so.” She clicks her pen and jots another note. “Do you want to tell me how you got them?”
I remain silent. I don’t know if this is a trick question or not, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing. What if I confess something incriminating?
Georgia slides a pamphlet out from under her paper she’s writing on. “Here.” She hands it to me. “When you’re ready, this is a great resource.”
I glance down at the page and read the headline.
Dealing with Domestic Abuse.
A knock rumbles the door, and a second later, it opens. I expect it to be the cops, a person with a badge to come take me away.
Instead, it’s a middle-aged woman who pokes her head in, her eyes going wide when she sees me. “Claire!”
Another lady appears from behind her. “Georgia, I’m so sorry, this lady wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Georgia stands and tries to shove the intruder out.
“Claire, it’s me.” The random person narrows her familiar blue eyes at me.
“Mom?”
“Oh, sweetheart, you must be in shock.” She shoves past the hospital workers and makes it to my side.
Georgia puts her arm out to block Beth from coming any closer. “Is this your mother?”
I study the arch of her nose, the curve of her jawline. I take in her stature and the scent of her over-the-top perfume. It's strange to only see someone in photos your whole life, and suddenly, they materialize in front of you.
“Yeah.”