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AMY
WHEN I GET BACK TO THE HOSPITAL, I BREATHE DEEPLY. IT’S almost a relief to smell the harsh, stingy scent of disinfectant in the air—at least there’s one difference between the air inside and the air outside.
I pass a family checking in their elderly father. The old man mutters to himself under his breath, too low and with too thick an accent for me to understand, but I can still tell he’s upset.
“What’s wrong with him?” the nurse at the desk asks in a bored voice as I wait for the elevator.
“He is having strange memories. ” The young woman’s voice is empty, monotone. I pause, staring at them. If I were checking my father into the hospital, I think I’d be a little more emotional.
The nurse checks something off on a thin piece of plastic-like stuff. “We’ve seen a lot of this recently in the grays. ”
The young man nods. “It’s their time. ” The elevator doors open, but I just stand there, staring at them. Does he mean it’s the old people’s time to die? Surely not.
“Come with me,” the nurse says to the old man. He takes her arm and walks with her toward the elevator. The young couple leave the old man without saying goodbye.
“Please hold the elevator,” the nurse says. I jump out of my distraction and throw my arm out, catching the elevator doors.
“She has odd hair,” the old man says, staring at me, but he’s got very little emotion behind the words.
“Yes, I know,” the nurse says. She glances at me as she steps inside the elevator. “Doc has told us a strange girl would be taking up residency in the Hospital. ”
“Um, yeah. ” How am I supposed to respond to that? I press the third button, where my room is.
“The fourth floor, please,” the nurse says. She glances at the glowing screen on the elevator. “It’s almost time for meds; if we hurry, we’ll get you to your new room in time. ” She pats the old man on the hand.
The elevator doors slide open to the third floor and I move to step out, glad to be breaking free from them. The old man seems as if he should have been checked into a nursing home years ago, even though he doesn’t look that old. But his eyes are vacant, his expression slack. It reminds me of Grandma, when her Alzheimer’s was bad enough that Mom put her in a nursing home. We visited her the Easter before she died, and she gave me a decorated egg. She called me by my mother’s name and didn’t know where she was, but she gave that egg to me.
I give the old man a watery sort of smile that’s mostly an apology.
When I had left earlier, there was only the tall man in the common room. But, as the nurse said, it is now time for medicine. The common room is crowded, and two nurses walk among those gathered inside, passing out big blue-and-white pills. I can tell by the uncomfortable silence that this room had once been buzzing with noise and activity—the dying strains of guitar music are still on the air—but it is as if I’d pushed pause. As soon as everyone turns my way, they freeze.
“Yeah,” says a friendly-looking guy with a grin, “this is gonna get good. ”
Standing behind him, leaning against the big glass window, is the tall man who saw me this morning. His lips spread in a smile, but his grin is more malicious than the friendly guy’s.
Hostile stares follow me as I take a few steps into the room.
“I’m Harley,” the friendly guy says. “You must be the new res!”
One of the nurses fussily hands him three pills—one of the big blue-and-white ones, and two smaller ones, one green, one pink. The man swallows them in one big gulp and bypasses the nurse, striding toward me with an even bigger grin than before. “What’s wrong with everyone?” he calls over his shoulder. “This is the new res Elder told me about!”
Some girls near the elevator twitter nervously, then turn to whisper to each other. A wave of words and whispers washes over the crowd. I can’t distinguish what most of them are saying—really, that accent is hard to figure out sometimes. Still, it’s not like it’s hard to know what they’re talking about. It feels very much like high school lunch for the new girl: seeing everyone staring, hearing everyone talking, and knowing that everyone’s staring at and talking about you.
“What’s wrong with her?” I hear someone nearby whisper.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I say, loudly.
“Her hair. . . ” says someone else behind me. When I whip around, my red hair spinning out behind me, I cannot tell who spoke, but they are all staring with brown eyes in dark faces framed by darker hair.
The tall man licks his lips at me. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare.
“Nice to meet you!” says Harley, interrupting the uncomfortable silence. When he shakes my hand, he leaves behind a bright stain of color on my palms. Harley’s skinny and lanky, with hair that sticks up everywhere, some of it streaked with paint. His face is bright and open. He reminds me a little of Elder that way.
“Everyone, this is the new girl. Elder knows her. New girl, this is everyone. ” A few people look up politely; some actually smile. Most, however, look wary at best, disgusted at worse. The nurse clo
sest to me jabs her finger behind her ear and starts whispering to nobody.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask Harley as he leads me to the table he was sitting at.
