Into the Velvet

Fifteen Days After

I could never get used to that hospital smell. It was unique to all health care facilities – concentrated and aseptic. Clinically sterile.

That was the first thought I had when arriving yesterday. When the ambulance doors had opened — and I was wheeled along on a stretcher, tied up like a criminal — all I could think of was the scent of bleach.

I awoke to the staccato of wheels moving along a tiled floor. Catching on tiny grout lines. Another patient admission. The sound reminded me of the hours I'd spent wandering airports with my family. Wheeling Olly on my suitcase. Squabbling. Breathless with laughter, wanting the next turn.

Armed with the comfort of the past, I felt safe enough to sleep again.

Sleep was a remarkable thing. I'd forgotten how joyful it could be, to allow my mind such blissful reprieve. I loved not needing to think. Not needing to process or fixate. I would never take sleep for granted again.

Upon my admission, the nurses said I had to be weighed. Or that I had to wait. I couldn't remember which. Everything had a sepia haze to it. What was my name? Already answered that one. Date of birth and address? Easy enough to recall while half-asleep.

Why was I here? Did I remember what happened to me? These questions were harder to respond to.

Another day had arrived, and I was still held at hospital. The overall consensus was that something was wrong with me. Other voices had to be consulted; psychiatrists, social workers, dietitians, and of course police. The officer named David had stayed by the door all night, and some part of the morning.

I was being doubly detained. But I could only fault the police for one thing: underestimating how much of a force my mother was.

"You will let me through! That's my child in there!"

There was a murmured response.

"David Milevsky, don't think I don't remember you from my Social Studies class all the way back in '09. You know exactly who I am. You know that I know that you cheated your way through community college, and that your entire GED is held together by hopes and prayers. Now, this state requires that an officer of the law have the bare minimum of a GED qualification. Which means I am just one phone call away from having your academic transcript reviewed. And if it is reviewed, Mr. Milevsky, I have no doubt that you will be re-taking credits with me next summer instead of getting paid to stand outside a defenceless teenage girl's room, as if she were some sort of terrorist—"

The door opened without delay. In a few hours, David would be gone.

I called out to her. Stretching my arms wide. "Mama."

Her face looked pinched and tired. Coated with tears. She crossed the distance and wrapped her arms around me. Hiding her face in my matted hair. My mom never cried. She always had to be the strongest person in the room.

But not today.

"What have you done, Lula?" she asked, pulling back. "What's happened here?"

"I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm sorry for everything."

"Do you know how frantic we were, looking for you after you disappeared? I had to hear about the fire on the morning news."

"I don't know what overcame me, Mom. I hate when you look at me like that." That was an easy thing to say in hindsight, after my meds had kicked in. The pain in my body had been dulled with analgesics. I looked down at my hand and saw a fresh dressing. A nasal cannula sat over my face, bringing a steady supply of oxygen to my lungs. The smoke hadn't done as much damage as they'd feared, the doctor told me. Therefore I should consider myself lucky.