I wanted to ask if she had sat in the waiting room staring at the double doors.
I wanted to ask if she had prayed, because she was always telling other people that a mother’s prayer could hold a child through anything.
But my throat felt raw.
It took effort just to swallow.
And more than that, I knew better than to hand them words.
They had always been good at sharpening words I gave them.
So I watched the ceiling, listened to the monitor, and tried to understand the edges of my body.
The nurse had told me earlier, or maybe I had dreamed it, that I had been brought into the hospital at 11:42 p.m.
That same time was printed on the wristband circling my right wrist.
My name was there in black letters.
A barcode was beside it.
The information looked almost official enough to make me feel real.
