THE LAST TIME THAT I WAS IN A HOSPITAL, I had Sam Bishop to get me through a horrible day.
Today, I have no one.
If I had friends or a boyfriend beyond the superficial, then maybe I would feel less alone. As it is, I am left to manage my mother and sister by myself. Again, I curse my father for running off without a word—well,maybewithout a word. A memory plagues me, but because I can’t trust myself, I don’t know if it’s real or not.
Perhaps my father came to my room the night before he left and woke me with tears and regret.
Perhaps he kissed me and hugged me good-bye.
Perhaps he apologized for not being stronger, unable to live with what he’d done.
But I don’t know. None of it means anything to me.
What does mean something is that he left, and there is no excuse reasonable enough for that. Parents don’t abandon their children.
Today, Amy has been sedated. I look at her in the bed, and she appears pathetically childlike in the patterned blue hospital gown. Her color is better than it was, probably due to the fluids being pumped into her. Inexplicably, no drugs were found in her system, so she’s probably going to be moved to the psych unit later today.
No drugs in her system.None.I don’t get it. That’s impossible.
Amy might be a bitch and a drug user, but she doesn’t belong up in psych. I’m positive that when I first checked, she wasn’t in her bedroom at the condo. Iknowthat. I am sane enough to recognize when something doesn’t make any sense.
Or so I thought.
Oh God, I don’t understand what’s happening—to her or to me.
Hours later, my mother flies into Amy’s room. Immediately, she shoots me a venomous look and angrily hurls her purse at me. The zipper catches my cheek, and I wince.
“What did you do?” she asks with indisputable accusation. “What the hell happened?”
“I just found her.”
“Shut up,” she spits. “What did you do to her?”
“I didn’tdoanything. She was at the condo, acting all crazy.”
“How could she do this to me? And today of all days?” My mother takes Amy’s state personally.
“She didn’t do anything toyou, Mom. She tried to kill herself. She’s suicidal.”
My mother whips around and glares at me, utter confusion on her face. “Suicidal? Why wouldAmykill herself? What a stupid thing to think. If anyone should be suicidal, it would be you.”
Before I can react, she starts compulsively smoothing the sheets and adjusting Amy’s hospital gown. “I had quite the juggling act to do at the luncheon. Imagine trying to explain your disappearance, Stella.”
She delivers soothing words—lies really—to Amy. “You poor thing. You’re probably dehydrated and worn-out. Look at you! Hospitalized for exhaustion, just like all those celebrities!”
I can’t be around her right now, not when she’s like this, so I set her purse down on the floor, next to my chair. It falls open, and the smell of sugar wafts out. For a moment, I just stare into her purse. Then, I push aside the tufts of paper napkin and see three éclairs unceremoniously stuffed into the main pocket.
My éclairs.
My head fills with fog, and I leave the room. Minutes or hours go by in the waiting area while I obsess about the éclairs. Sitting in the same waiting room I was in after the car accident is doing nothing to clear my thinking. The chairs are no longer orange, and now, a children’s play area is set up in one corner, but it’s the same damn room.
My chest is tight. I can barely breathe. Before I lose air entirely, I run from the room and instinctively find my way to the stairwell. Each flight sets me a bit freer, and by the time I reach the top, I am gasping, but at least my lungs are working again. And my shoes fit this time, so that’s an improvement from five years ago.
I’m dizzy, so I hold on to the handrail and shut my eyes as I concentrate on breathing and grounding myself. This is not easy, considering that my blood sugar is probably low because I haven’t eaten today.
Because my pathological mother stole my éclairs and told me that I ate them.
And I believed her.
