But I lean forward and rest my head against the mirror as I think about my sister, Amy, and my father. What if I’d lost them? What if I were left alone with my mother? I squeeze my eyes tight and shake the thoughts. What horrible, selfish, ungrateful things to think.
It’s not her fault that I am inadequate on every level. If I only listened to her and followed her lead with more skill, then perhaps I wouldn’t be such a nightmare. Sure, she has her quirks, but Amy has her affection just fine, so I am clearly doing something wrong.
It’s true that Amy is certainly worthy of adoration though. I cannot imagine having a better sister. She’s an honors student, the vice president of her senior class, and a star lacrosse player. She dates any boy she wants, spends weekends with her girlfriends, and still makes time for me, the younger sister with little to offer.
I smile, for real this time, as I remember how she used to sneak into my bedroom when I was little. When the lights were out and I was supposed to be sleeping, Amy would silently open the door and glide noiselessly across the floor and into my bed. There, she would tent up the covers, turn on a flashlight, and read me books until I fell asleep. After three or four stories, when my eyes would finally get heavy, she would tell me good night.
And I always said, “I love you somush.”
And she always giggled and said, “Much, silly.Much. But I love you somush, too.”
Then, she would be gone, and I would sleep peacefully.
I bump my head against the mirror and stand back up to look at myself. “I do not lovemesomush,” I say out loud.
The hospital hallways are a confusing maze, and I can’t find my way back to the waiting room, so I just keep going. I ride the elevator up a few floors and then more. Then, I take the stairs and walk a flight, counting the steps that take me higher. I walk another flight and then another. I continue until I reach the highest floor that I’m allowed on.
My feet throb, and I’m winded, so I plop down on the top step to catch my breath and remove my boots. I’m bleeding through my socks. It’s disgusting. The idea of putting my boots back on is inconceivable right now, but I don’t know what to do. I am, of course, in a hospital where I’m pretty sure there might be a bandage or two to help me out, but I’m too humiliated to go marching through the hospital, leaving bloody footprints behind me. There would be no good way to explain why my winter boots were too small for me, not to mention why I was compulsively running up flights of stairs. It would not reflect well on my mother, and no one would understand that she paid for these expensive boots, and that should be enough. It was my fault for not choosing a size that would last me until my feet stopped growing.
I will just sit here and wait for the blood to dry.
I want to find my sisterandmy father, but that would mean finding my mother, and I seem to be of little comfort to her today. What upsets me more though is that my father has not sought me out today. I know he was not hurt in the accident, and I know that he’s probably been hovering over Amy…but I’m here, too.
I look at the blood congealing on my ankles.See? I really am here. There’s proof.
Dad is loving and funny. It’s easy with him, and he doesn’t seem to feel that I’m any sort of monumental disappointment. Or if he does, he hides it better.
I wrap my hand around my left wrist and feel the imprint of the word engraved on my bracelet.
My father bought this for me last year when we were at a state fair. It was the sort of thing that my mother would never attend as she deemed itlow class and tacky, but Dad had taken me.
I know that she loathes the wide leather cuff and the engraved metal plate on the bracelet that I have on at all times, and more than once, I’ve caught her wrinkling her nose at the sight of it. How the white of the leather stays white is unexplainable, but it never gets dirty. It saysAdoredin beautiful lettering. This bracelet is the one defiance that I allow myself, and I do not take this off because of her. I’ve developed a habit of tracing across the letters with my fingers in a near compulsiveness that I find comforting.
A clomping sound echoes throughout the stairwell as someone walks through the lower levels. I wait for the sounds of a door opening and closing, but instead, the clomping just grows louder. I scoot over on my stair perch and lean against the wall, letting my hair fall over my eyes, while I wait for the person to pass by me. I’m good at being invisible.
Instead, the loud footsteps stop abruptly, and I can tell the person has come to rest on the landing just below me. Perhaps I’m about to be murdered. My bloody feet will likely cause confusion during the investigation into my demise. It will appear that my ankles were savagely attacked prior to my being beaten to death in an unattractive hospital stairwell, and investigators will launch a manhunt for the ankle fetishist.
When I lift my head to meet my fate, I see a boy about my age, or maybe he’s a bit older. I’m not good at guessing ages. His hands are tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, the hem of his white T-shirt bunching up near his wrists. A thin gold chain peeks out from under the collar, and I lift my eyes a bit more. The boy has twinkling eyes filled with mischief and happiness.
“Hi,” he says with a smile. “Whatcha doing?”
“Just…sitting here,” I answer dumbly.
He takes a small hop and lands with both feet on the first step. “Know what I’m doing?”
I shake my head.
His head falls to the side, and he lifts up and down on his toes. “I’m counting steps. Each flight has—”
“Eight steps,” I finish for him. “I counted, too.”
He hops to the next step. “Aha! But did you know that the two flights between the third and fourth level only—”
“Have seven.”
The boy grins and hops again. He is getting closer to me. “Exactly! What does that mean? The third floor is one step shorter than all the other floors?”
I stare at him for a moment. “Or those steps are each a bit higher, adding up to the same height as the other flights.”
