Struggling through waves of dizziness, I pressed the “call” button. Then I sagged back against my pillow, breathing heavily and dizzy.
The door opened and a light flashed on.
“Are you all right?” a soft voice asked. A nurse in a flowered uniform hurried to my bed. “It’s good to see you awake,” she said cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”
“Awful,” I groaned.
“No surprise there,” she said, patting my hand.
I longed to ask so many questions: why my throat burned, how long I’d been here, what was wrong with me, where my real family was, and if there was any special meaning for the horned snake tattoo on her wrist. But I was so damned weak.
“Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
I pointed at the phone.
“Sorry sweetie, but it’s not allowed.”
I mouthed, “Why?”
“For one thing, you can’t talk.”
“I–I can … whisper.”
“For another thing, it’s not allowed.”
I shook my head and pointed at the phone again.
“Would you like me to call your mother, Leah?”
“No!” I croaked. She meant the Lavender Woman.
“Then what do you want?”
To be myself and wake up from this nightmare. But that was impossible to explain, so I just leaned back wearily. Tears burned my eyes and I didn’t even have the strength to stop them.
“Don’t you fret, honey.” The nurse reached to smooth back some loose hair from my forehead. She wasn’t much older than me, yet she seemed motherly, making me miss my own mother even more.
“You’re just making things hard on yourself,” she added. “You have so much going for you. I just don’t get it. Someone like you shouldn’t be here.”
Someone like me? I didn’t understand the disappointed look she gave me, and anxiety knotted in my gut. “Wh … Why?”
She bit her lip, hesitating as if she wasn’t sure what she should tell me. In her hesitation, I sensed pity. Ohmygod! How bad were my injuries? I didn’t seem to be missing any body parts and wasn’t paralyzed, so what was wrong? What was too terrible for her to talk about?
“Don’t you remember what happened?” she asked, glancing behind as if afraid someone might overhear.
I shook my head, then gestured to the phone again, pleading with my eyes for her to help me.
“I can’t,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. They don’t trust you after what you did.”
“W-What?” I cried, fear mounting.
She looked over her shoulder again, then seemed to reach a decision. She bent down, so close that her ponytail brushed my neck. “You can’t make calls or talk to anyone outside your immediate family because you took all those pills,” she whispered. “You tried to commit suicide.”
6
Suicide! But I would never … I mean …
Sure, I’d had self-pitying moments when I threatened to do something drastic, but I never meant it. End my life? No way! I had so much to live for: best friends, family, college, career, and the unknown super-hot guy I would marry. We’d have only one child — boy or girl, I wasn’t picky. Being an “Only” had lots of perks, which I’d enjoyed until the triplets came along, and I wanted that for my child. I had all these huge plans for my career, too, complete with sketches I’d drawn of the fabulous Malibu beach home I’d live in with an entourage of “my people,” which would include a personal assistant, hair stylist, chef, and nanny. It was exciting to imagine myself as a top-flight agent, giving advice, counseling clients, and watching a spark of talent skyrocket into stardom. Also I’d be invited to A-list parties, where dessert tables offered oh-so-delicious chocolates.
Yeah, life was going to sweet.
So suicide? I don’t think so.
Of course, while all these thoughts raced through my head, I watched sorrow play across the nurse’s face as if her heart was breaking for me. And I remembered that this wasn’t about me. I wasn’t the one who’d attempted suicide.
That was Leah.
And she’d nearly succeeded.
Um … not good. Definitely not good.
Not being myself anymore — at least on the outside — was terrifying. Like when I’d been trapped in my sleeping bag at fourth grade science camp. My hair had snagged in the zipper. I screamed, squirmed and yanked, but I was totally stuck. It took two counselors to unsnag me, and eventually the bald spot grew back. But I never forgot the suffocating panic of being trapped.
This was worse.
I couldn’t unzip my way out of this body. I wasn’t me, yet I wasn’t Leah, either. A non-person, that’s what I was — except on the inside I felt like the same Amber Borden. Whatever equaled identity was beneath the skin: fears, hopes, feelings, and memories. I knew who I was — but how could I convince anyone else? Especially as a hospital prisoner with no phone privileges and zero strength to get out of bed? I had to figure out a way out of this mess … but I was just too tired.
So instead of coming up with a plan, I went back to sleep.
* * *
My dreams danced to soul music, soaring with no boundaries. Free from restrictions, I flew backwards into memories.
Zoom in, camera-like, to the rustic lake community of Sutton Pines, to a shady tree-lined street winding into the paved driveway of 43 Molly Brown Lane. Flowering bushes and a brown picket fence welcome visitors into a cozy, two-story, wood-sided house. Pan up to the round attic window, and close in on two thirteen-year-old girls huddled around a plain brown box. Oh, how well I knew that private attic hideout and those girls — and especially that box!
The box was the result of whispered secrets and hard-earned babysitting money. Alyce and I had conspired for weeks. When the package finally arrived, I snatched it up and immediately called her. She came over ASAP, bursting into my bedroom. We couldn’t wait to open our prize.
“Will it work?” Alyce asked as I ripped off the paper.
“It better for $49.95!” I told her.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this!”
“Why not? You thought it was a great idea.”
“But now I’m not so sure,” she said, gnawing on her black-polished pinky. “Maybe it’s too unnatural … shouldn’t we be satisfied with what nature gave us?”
I nailed her with a dead-on stare. “Are
“No, of course not.” She frowned at her chest. “A’s are good when it comes to grades, but not bra size.”
“Exactly. B-minus isn’t that great either.”
“So open the box already!”
Holding my breath, having no idea what to expect, I pushed back cardboard flaps, tossed aside bubble-wrap, and pulled out our very own, guaranteed-to-add-two-cup-sizes-or-your-money-back, “Mammo-Glamm.”
