Page 48 of I Know She Was There

“It’s in,” called the first voice, the one without a face.

I closed my eyes, wishing they’d all just go away. Leave me to die. Please. I felt woozy and congested, as though someone had stuffed multiple layers of cotton batting in my head, covering my brain, and all my senses. Thankful for the haze, my mind drifted away.

When I awoke, the room was dimly lit, and the window blinds were closed tightly. I had no idea what time it was; only the flash and beep of machines revealed I was in a hospital. The giant round fluorescent light was no longer hovering overhead. I tried to move my arms but couldn’t. Thoughts of being stuck in Mary’s sparse bed elicited a child-like cry from my lips; I looked around the beige walls, my gaze eventually landing on the empty bedside chair. Why was I again tucked into a lonely place against my will? Was this to be my fate, to wallow in solitude, secured to a spot I’d be unable to escape from? I glanced at a huge, humming machine to my left, a plastic tube connecting my arm to it. The built-in screen across its face relayed what looked like a stock ticker app for tracking the Dow, but was, I realized, monitoring my bodily functions. I yanked my arm sideways, hoping to dislodge the tubing, but I didn’t have enough range of motion to displace it. I couldn’t, it seemed, displace any aspect of my life. Maybe that was my punishment for losing Emmy: being stuck here for eternity without her. My throat stung. I shut my eyes and again felt the undertow of sleep pull me thankfully out of the dismal room, off to a place I’d much rather be.

When I next awoke, the light around me was blinding. I squinted, watching people buzz like busy insects around me, most clad in blue scrubs or white lab coats. Some hurried through my room, connecting or disconnecting tubes or staring at the bleeping machines at the perimeter of my vision, adjusting knobs and buttons. Others lingered, looking at me as though observing something foreign and intriguing. Jotting notes on clipboards balanced in their hands before turning abruptly away. Nobody spoke to me.

I felt studied. A potentially dangerous animal secured and assessed. Separate from everyone else. Dismissed even as they focused on me.

I didn’t care. Emmy was gone.

No, no,it couldn’t be true. There had to be a reasonable explanation for her absence.

You know what happened, said my mother.

“Stop it,” I commanded, feeling the wet trails on my cheeks.

The multitudes around me paused. For an instant, I became someone to take notice of. Someone to deal with. But as my vision blurred with tears, I saw only the movements of resumed life. The colors and shapes shifting like ever-changing patterns within a kaleidoscope. How long I existed in this alternate reality was inconsequential. I could go on like this forever if I didn’t have to think about why my baby was gone.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” came a man’s voice to my left. I looked toward the incongruous tone. A young guy with dusky skin and even darker hair stood in the doorway. He held a clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other. “Welcome to the fourth floor. I’ll tell Dr. Ellison you’ve woken up.”

I shrugged. I didn’t care what the man did.

He rubbed his nose and looked down at his clipboard. “Okay, Dr. Ellison has been in contact with Tasha Turner. She’s filled him in on your most recent history.”

My heart twisted. “Tasha, my friend...”who is cheating on her husband with mine.

“Tasha, your therapist. Seems she’s spent a good deal of time?—”

“Mywhat?”

“Your therapist.” The nurse stood straighter but didn’t take his eyes off my face. “Have you forgotten that?”

“I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.” I shook my head vehemently. “She’s my friend...wasmy friend.”

“Tasha Turner is a board-certified psychologist,” he said, his voice soft. “She’s been assigned to your case since before you were admitted to the psychiatric ward and has continued with your care since this past January, when you were released.”

What was he talking about? I narrowed my eyes, studying his face and his body language. “Psychiatric ward?”

He looked steadily back at me. “Ahh, I see.”

“See what?” My pulse quickened, rushing blood throughout my system alarmingly fast. “What’s going on here?”

The nurse placed both hands in front of him. His palms looked pink and soft. “Hold on. I can clear this up. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t want things to be clear. With clarity came pain. I had no idea what was real and what I’d imagined, and it was too daunting to figure out at this late stage. I no longer worried about the danger dancing around me. I didn’t know whether it was from a malicious outside force or from my own twisted mind. Nothing was what it seemed, and I was tired, so tired. I closed my eyes and tumbled headlong into a deep, dark rabbit hole of sleep.

When I next woke up, Dr. Ellison was standing over me, his hand gently rubbing my own. It was still dark, no light filtering through the slats in the window blinds behind him.

“What are you doing here?” I said, my voice groggy with sleep. “I don’t need a pediatrician.” My lower lip quivered with the realization. “I no longer have a child.”

Dr. Ellison lowered himself into the bedside chair. “I’m not a pediatrician, Caroline. I’m your doctor, your psychiatrist.”

“My psychiatrist,” I mumbled. Maybe that was right. It seemed plausible, somehow.

“My office has been calling you lately because you haven’t been keeping your appointments with me.” There was no accusation in his tone, only concern, yet I felt guilty anyway.

“I told your receptionist—June, right?” Dr. Ellison nodded, and I continued: “I told June I’d be in touch with you.”

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