He types for a few moments, then looks up at me. “On the self-harm scale from one to ten, ten being the highest, where are you?”
Negative zero to the hell no, but I’m probably not even supposed to know what he means.
He looks into my eyes like he can read my brain. “Do you feel like harming yourself today?”
“No, sir.”
He’s quiet for a few long seconds. His brows pull together as if he doesn’t know what to think about me. I understand. I don’t know what to think about me either. “I’ll consult with your private physician and get back with you.”
When he leaves I lay my head back. Keeping quiet and playing stupid is harder than it seems. Exhausting, too. I close my eyes to try to take a nap, but the nurse comes in and gives me a couple of pain pills and the dreaded stool softener. She takes out the IV and catheter and I drink a lot of water in the hope of avoiding the nuclear option.
She helps me with hospital slippers so we can walk like the doctor ordered. My knees almost buckle when I stand.
The nurse grabs my elbow and says, “You haven’t been on your feet for a while,” but I don’t think it’s that as much as these aren’t my long legs. We walk slowly across the room and I take deep, even breaths so I don’t get light-headed. Edie’s free arm falls straight down her side, her thighs don’t rub together, and her breasts don’t stick out. I feel light and narrow and bowlegged. I don’t know how to move in this body.
“You’re doing good,” she says, and steps out into the hall.
I stop just outside my room’s entrance as all thoughts of Edie exit my head. The hall is exactly the same as the last time I walked it, when I was me and the golfer was a wing nut.
“Do you feel dizzy?”
I look up and down the familiar brown carpet, half expecting to see him or Valentina or Cliff.
“Do you need to go back?”
“No, ma’am.” I’m getting that out-of-body feeling again, but I’m not turning back now. There is something I need to see, and we continue a little ways until I stop at a room on the right.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” I stare into the room where I was hooked to machines and where Momma bargained with God for my life. Where both Momma and Daddy cried over me and where I saw them last. The bed is empty. There is nothing left of me, and I am once again reminded that I am good and truly gone. Tears that I hadn’t been able to shed that night sting my eyes. “Were my parents here when I died?” I wonder out loud as my heart squeezes in my chest.
“No, but we called them when you stabilized.”
I look at the nurse and wipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my gown. With everything that has happened, and with the time difference between the earth and spirit planes, I don’t know if I was alone when I passed. “What?”
“We let them know you were here, and they were contacted when you woke from your coma.”
I blink several times. “Oh.” Those parents. I turn back and glance into each room as we pass. There are new people in both Pearl and the other Brittany’s rooms. Valentina is gone, but sadly Tommy is still here. I don’t want to “blow it,” but I have to know that Valentina is okay and didn’t take a turn for the worse. “Why is this room empty?” I ask.
“There’s been no one to fill it since the last patient was discharged.”
“Discharged to where?”
“A rehabilitation hospital in San Antonio.”
Good. “I hope that person will be okay.”
“She’s facing years of rehab, but she has youth on her side and may regain the use of her arms and legs.”
May? I think of Valentina, of her ponytails and braces and her dream of being a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. I wish her odds were better than may.
By the time I make it to my room, I’m too exhausted to think about my parents or Valentina or Tommy. I don’t know if I’m supposed to remember how to use the bathroom, but I’ll risk it. I’m not going to wet my pants, but the experience is disturbing on so many other levels that I’d rather not think about. Fortunately, I’m quick to fall asleep, but unfortunately, I’m still having freaky dreams. This time I am at my own funeral and when I try to talk to anyone, they scream and run away. Worse, I’m wearing a moldy velvet suit, green and without a hint of sparkle.
A nurse wakes me up at noon to take my vitals again and I recognize her. She’s the nurse who walked through me, got zapped, and made the golfer’s day.
A guy from food service brings me a hamburger, fries, salad, spice cake, and a Dr Pepper. It’s what I’d ordered from the kitchen, but I can’t even finish half before I feel full enough to bust.
After lunch, I am moved to a bigger room on a different floor. The wallpaper has a random pattern, and there’s a window that looks out at the endless Texas sky and congested parking lot. The nurse wraps cellophane around the bandages and asks if I remember how to shower. Using the bathroom by myself is one thing, but washing my hair is something I probably shouldn’t remember. I shake my head, and she grabs Edie’s vanity case from the bedside table and says, “I’ll show you.”