I DON’T HAVE ON A COATas my mother flies out of the house. I’m not convinced that she told me to get in the car or that she even remembers I am here. I just chase after her and manage to jump into the backseat before she races out of the driveway.
As we near the hospital, she throws her purse into my lap and demands that I locate her lipstick, so at some point, she has presumably decided that I exist enough to dig through her makeup bag.
“It’s important to look your best, no matter what the occasion,” she practically shrieks. “What? No, not that one! No one wears bright pink to a hospital. Good Lord, Stella. Find me something more neutral. The brown. And put some on yourself. But don’t use mine. You look as white as a sheet. Did you bring blush? You didn’t? What on earth is wrong with you? Pinch your cheeks at least.”
I shift my focus from worry about my father and sister and the car accident they were in and lift my fingers to my face. My cheeks soon burn with pain, but I’m reassured that I am, in fact, still here.
The car peels out during a turn, and my head cracks against the window. It feels good, and I wish my mother would take all turns with as much vigor. But given my mother’s inattention to the road, I’m still a bit surprised that my body is not in bits all over the asphalt between home and the hospital.
So, happy birthday to me.
I am alive.
My mother abandons me as soon as we enter the emergency room, and I overhear enough to know that my eighteen-year-old sister, Amy, is being examined and that my father is with her.
On my sixteenth birthday, I sit alone in the waiting area of the hospital.
I smell antiseptic cleaners and burned coffee. I smell chaos and misery. The truth is that I could very well be experiencing some similar crap even if there wasn’t a car accident because that is about how life in my house goes. But I’d rather be at home where at least there is familiarity. I’m uncomfortable in new situations.
A few hours later, a nurse finds me. My father and sister are fine. The accident could have been much worse. Black ice totaled my father’s Lexus, but he and Amy walked away from the accident.
The orange fabric on the chair that I am now sitting on is making me feel ill. It’s hideous. The lighting in this claustrophobic room is hideous. The pile of wrinkled magazines with their airbrushed movie stars and neon lettering and overabundance of exclamation points is hideous. I want to put them all through a shredder and toss celebrity confetti. I would dance and spin under a cascade of shiny paper and forget where I am.
It’s dark outside at only four thirty, but the streetlights shine enough that I can see that snow continues to fall. Chicago winters are not exactly peaceful, but I might prefer to be out in the cold rather than in here.
It is hours later when my mother saunters into the room, moving past me without stopping, and assesses the coffee situation. She frowns at various single-serve flavors, eventually settling on one that passes inspection.
As the coffee maker revs to life and begins brewing her cup, she turns and leans against the counter. She looks startled. “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”
One would never guess that my mother, Lucinda Ford, was in grave concern for her husband and daughter. There is not a wrinkle in her pantsuit, nor a hair not perfectly styled. She wears a matching jewelry set, and I glare at the green stones hanging from her earrings. I immensely dislike them, but my mother infuriatingly makes them look glamorous. Then, I notice her lipstick.
“You’re wearing pink lipstick,” I say. “You said not to wear pink. You put on the brown lip gloss that I gave you.”
She sighs with exaggerated exasperation. “I did no such thing. Andwhyyou are concerned with my lipstick at this moment is beyond me. It’s your fault that we’re here in the first place.” She whips around and simultaneously tears open three sugar packets before shaking them into the paper cup. With her back to me, she takes a wooden stick from a container and begins stirring her coffee. She stirs and stirs and stirs.
I drop my head and look at my feet. My boots are too small. They barely fit when I got them two years ago, and this year, I have squished toes and blisters.
“You do know that, don’t you?” Lucinda asks. She is calm, eerily calm, and matter-of-fact in her speech. “That this accident is your fault?”
I can’t begin to know how to respond.
My mother continues, “They were on their way to buy you a birthday present. Myhusband andmydaughter. Do you get that? And they could have been killed while trying to get you”—she waves a hand in the air—“some sort of trinket to commemorate your birth.” Suddenly, she begins to cry, and she clutches her hands to her chest. “Oh, if anything had happened to them, I don’t know what I would have done. They are everything. You understand? They are my world. Myfamilyis my world. Stella, come here.”
She opens her arms to me, and I quickly cross the floor and let her wrap my body against hers. Tentatively, I hug her back.
She is right about the lipstick. She must have asked for pink. She’s always right.
“I’m so sorry about today. I don’t need anything for my birthday. They shouldn’t have gone out in this weather.” Now, I shut my eyes and hold on to her more tightly. I want her to stroke my hair, to tell me everything will be all right.
She quickly pats my back. “This could have been much worse.” Then, my mother pushes me from her hold, and her tone grows harsh. “Stop being so clingy. I need to get back to Amy. They’re discharging your father but keeping Amy overnight just as a precaution. She’s a bit batty and combative right now, but it’s probably a concussion of sorts, nothing permanent. Considering what the car looks like, everyone is surprised that she’s as perfect as she is. You’re lucky they are both unharmed, don’t you agree?” She smiles as she turns to pick up her coffee.
I drop back into the orange chair as she walks out the door. I sit, unmoving, for three hours. Maybe I fall asleep. I’m not sure. But I don’t budge.
When enough time has passed, I leave the room and wander the hospital until I find a restroom. It smells worse in here than the rest of the place. My reflection in the mirror is alarming. I gather that I have been crying because my eyes are puffy and red. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve just woken up—that is, if I did indeed fall asleep. The porcelain sink is cold against my hands as I grip it and stare at myself. My heavily streaked hair has lost its bounce from my early-morning round with the curling iron, and the blonde highlights have a green tint in this light. Sixteen is not looking very attractive.
I don’t have my purse with me, so I can’t touch up my smeared mascara or tear-streaked complexion. I just hope that my mother doesn’t see me like this. It would only embarrass her. Running wet fingers under my eyes and over my cheeks helps a bit, so I rally as I take a deep breath and force a perfect smile.
There. Everything is fine.
