Page 168 of Wrath

I’m trying to rip it all off. Then I’m getting sick. There’s people all around me, wiping, whispering, holding my shoulders.

Someone’s handing me a small cup of ice. My arm’s out. How did my arm get out of the strap?

“I want to go home.” My voice is a moan. Embarrassing.

“It’s okay,” one of the nurses tells me. “It’s okay if you’re emotional. It’s just the treatment.”

“Where’s my mom?” I rasp out.

“She’s been delayed, unfortunately. She called to let us know she’s had car trouble.”

I wipe my face. “Can I have my other arm please?” It’s a whimper.

“Yeah. I think that should be okay.” She sounds chipper. “Wegave you some Valium, so you’re calmer now. We had to put you in restraints.”

I look at my arm—at the black word at the inside of my elbow. “Why is that there?”

“The writing? I don’t know.” She looks thoughtful. “You seem to come in with it every time.”

“What does it mean?” My throat’s sore, and so it hurts to ask that. But it seems important to find out the answer.

“I don’t know. You’ve asked before.”

“Oh fuck.” I’m getting sick again. Someone is holding a small trash bag. Someone says, “We’re pushing a bit of Zofran as a top off dose.”

The needle stings. My eyes are wet. I can’t stop shaking.

“Let’s get you a warm blanket.”

I cover my face with my arm, the marker-scrawled MILLER at the inside of my elbow pressed to my mouth.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

My throat stings so bad. My eyes won’t stop leaking.

Katz and the anesthesiologist come talk to me. They’re all nice. Wet rag on my head. Somebody gives me Chapstick. I can’t put it on because my hands are shaky.

“You’re doing a good job,” says the nurse as she swipes it over my cracked lips. “You’ll feel better.”

“My head hurts.”

I drink water out of a paper cup and take something for the headache.

“I want to go home.” I sound like I’m whimpering again, but my chest feels tight. I feel weird. “I want to go home. I don’t like being in here.”

One of the nurses helps me sit up. Another one joins her, and they help me into a wheelchair. “We know you don’t like small spaces. How about I push you to the waiting room?” one of them asks.

The waiting room is bright and sunny. There’s a door thatleads to the steps outside. The door is shiny wood, with lots of little windows all down the sides. I look out the windows. My body aches like I just played a football game.

Could I get out of the chair? Would my legs hold me?

I look at my arm and tears sting my eyes.

Why do I feel so miserable? Like…agonized.

I check in my pocket. Wallet. I rub at the marker on my inner arm.

Where is my mom?

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