Page 56 of The Glass Girl

I am begging the nurse for something to stop what I’m feeling and telling her that I can’t catch my breath and she says I’m sorry you’re going to have to live through this pain, sister

(It was my fault. When I was at my mom’s I usually got her paper first thing and put it on the front step before school. But I was late this time)

and I just need to feel better and the nurse won’t listen won’t listen and she is looking at me and saying you’ll have to ride this one out, honey, and I call her a bitch and she just laughs and tells me that isn’t the worst thing a patient has said to her today

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When I wake up, I’m confused. Another nurse is puttering around my bed. I wonder how long I’ve been here. Three days? Four? Did I scream at the nurse last night or this morning or a day ago? I held her sleeve for a long time and she told me a story about her horse named Clarissa and it was a very longstory. Then it was time for my pill and she gave it to me and I fell asleep, hard.

I look at the tray table.

The replacement papers the lady named Tracy gave me are gone.

The nurse is holding out a clear plastic bag of clothes for me. Not the ones I came in with. I remember vomiting, and my mother taking my clothes off, and me not wanting her to see me naked. Those clothes are probably gone and that’s too bad because I really liked those jeans.

“Isabella,” the nurse says gently. “We’re going to take your IV and catheter out now and give you a smoothie. Then you’ll need to change. Maybe shower. Your mom brought some clothes for you.”

“My name is Bella,” I tell her.

“Okay, Bella,” she says smoothly. “Whatever you want.”

She sets the bag on the bed and carefully pulls the thick tube from my arm. There is a bruise around the puncture hole. She presses a bandage over it.

“Sorry,” she says, reaching under the blanket, startling me. “Can you spread your legs just a bit for me?”

I close my eyes and feel a little prick inside me, then a tube being slid out.

“Good girl,” she says.

She points to a large pink tumbler on the tray in front of me. There’s a pill next to it.

“Drink up, but slow,” she warns. “Your body is very tender right now, okay? Then take your pill. It will help with your facial discomfort.”

“I know that,” I say. “I’ve been here awhile. Am I going home? I want to go home.”

I want to disappear in my room. I just want to disappear. I want to be surrounded by my stuff and my fairy lights and my own blankets and my books and put my headphones on and zone out.

The nurse hesitates. “Not just yet,” she says. “There’s a toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom. It’s probably going to hurt when you brush your teeth, so be careful and slow. You can take a shower if you feel up to it. I’ll be here if you need help.”

I drink the smoothie. It tastes nice, fruity and thick and cold. I feel like my teeth are covered in wool.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and weave a little. I’m dizzy after lying down for so long.

“Careful,” the nurse says, holding my arm.

She helps me to the door of the bathroom. My legs feel twisty and rubbery.

She opens the door, puts the bag of fresh clothes inside on the floor.

“Bella,” she says as I’m about to shut the bathroom door.

“What?” I ask.

I’m cold, shivering really hard, air drifting up through my hospital gown. I just want to get in warm water, wash myself off.

“Your face might startle you, okay? It isn’t good. I just wanted to warn you.”

But I’m already staring at myself in the mirror above the tiny white sink in the beige-tiled bathroom.

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