Thirty seconds later, I’m in control again. I spit into the sink and swear I’ll quit testing my limits. I’ll be better from now on. I’ll be the daughter my mom deserves.
I want the break room to be empty when I return, but instead I find the pair of medics huddled around the table. Rodriguez is muttering something too quiet to hear, his hand on Zawadski’s shoulder. Less comforting her, more anchoring her in place. She sniffs long and deep like she’s trying not to cry, and right then they both realize I’m there.
Rodriguez looks worn out, all the carnage he’s witnessed peeking through the places where his skin’s too thin. Zawadski just looks angry. She chews her lip and glares at me with big, brown, shiny, furious eyes, and the blood-soaked animal inside me snaps to attention. She looks like she’s daring me to get my teeth around her and bite down.
I could. Suddenly, I want to.
“Can I help you?” Zawadski snaps, and I remember what’s real and what’s not. What’s real is that these two are pissed at each other, and at me, and at least one of them is just pissed at the world in general. I’d better get back to work before the night gets any messier.
“Sorry.” My tongue’s too big in my mouth. Will she sense it? “Sorry. I’m leaving.”
They pick up muttering again as I dump my lunchbox and retreat, doing my best to pretend I’m invisible. I brush past Zawadski, feel her flinch away, and the last thing I smell is the salty tang of a scabbing cut, of a semi-healed wound picked open enough times to scar.
2
THE KID WITH THE BROKEN TEETH IS STILL THERE, bloody face to the ceiling and one thumb working furiously over his phone screen, when I head for the dawn outside the ED’s sliding glass doors. The TV screens blast true crime reruns on mute. Close-up photo of a woman’s smiling face. Wide shot of the house she was killed in. Five in the morning smells like boredom, like bad breath and disinfectant and the sweet rancid odor of packed-in, half-asleep bodies still waiting, always waiting, as the sky shifts with agonizing slowness from black to gray to blue. Busy night. It’s always a busy night, somehow.
My car is littered with hair ties and drive-through napkins and a scrunched-up sweater, periwinkle except for a slash of brownish gray down the front where I spilled coffee and chased it with bleach. Dust sticking to the air vents and an empty to-go cup on its side in the passenger seat. My mom didn’t raise me to be this messy. Then again, I’ve disappointed her in much bigger ways.
Twist the key, and the engine sputters. I try it again. Faster, then slower, then fast again, like maybe I can trick it into starting if I move quick enough. It doesn’t work, of course. It’s just an engine.
I press my forehead into the cracked leather of the steering wheel and picture the jumper cables shoved in the back of the pantry. All I want is to run my errands and go home, to wash the night out of my hair and sleep before the Las Vegas sun gets so bright it blinds me awake for hours. A sudden urge to cry grips me by the throat.
I should text her. Maybe I shouldn’t, maybe she’s sleeping. It’ll only worry her. Unless she’s awake, unless she’s alone and confused and her only lifeline is the Post-it I left on the door that said,I’ll be back by six. Love, Ellis.
Why is this so hard?
Hey Mom, it’s Ellis. No, she doesn’t like that. She knows who I am. I delete it, start again.Hi Mom. I’ll be home a little late, my car didn’t start but it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll call Uncle Bill for a new battery. Joanne’s number is on the fridge if you need anything. Don’t worry please. Love you.
She calls almost the same moment as I send it. Like she’s been staring at her phone, waiting.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Where are you?” She sounds worried.
“I’m at work.”
“Don’t lie. It’s five in the morning.”
“I work nights. Remember?”
She sighs, and even over the phone I can read her tone well enough to understand each breath’s secret meaning. “Yeah, baby, I know. I’m not a two-year-old, you don’t have to talk down to me.”
“Sorry.”
She pauses, and I hear her slippers shuffling over the kitchen linoleum. “When are you coming home?”
“Did you read my text? I have to stop by Uncle Bill’s on the way home for a battery and, you know.” Blood, for both of us.
More shuffling. Maybe she’s rereading the Post-it on the door. Or maybe the one on the fridge—Ask Ellis before you take something out of the freezer!—or the stove—Turn off the burner when you’re done!—or the kitchen table—Grocery list is next to the sink!The fridge door clicks open and shut disconsolately.
“Are you at the fridge?” Could be hunger’s making her fussy. A vial of blood, injected intravenously, is usually enough for a full twenty-four hours, but she’s needed to feed more often lately. Like as she fades, hunger is filling in the gaps.
“Yeah.”
“Get a snack and turn on the TV, okay? The remote’s on the table, you can watch something you like.Night Court?”
A long silence punctuated by the click of the fridge door. Open, shut. Open, shut. “You’ll really be home soon?”
