Page 85 of Mortala
A little bit ago, the hospitalist came in and removed the sedation protocol for her under the supervision of her psychologist.They want to evaluate and determine if she's going to remain on a seventy-two-hour hold once she wakes up.
I feel like a sellout.I told them everything when they started asking questions.I laid it all out in painful black and white: the appointments, issues at school, her instability, basically every event leading up to this point.It needed to be done, doesn't mean I liked it.
Since then, she’s woken up.I don't want to overwhelm her, but there are people coming, and they’re going to want her to talk.She’ll want to shut down but she can’t.
"Thirsty?"I ask, low and gentle.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Her heart monitor answers.Disappointment creeps and crawls through my chest at her silence.I knew she wouldn’t reply, just hoped she would.I’m worried.Hell, I miss her.
"Doc's going to come by.Ask some questions."
Clutching Sadie’s hand, my thumb brushes over her pale knuckles.The contrast from my livelier, desert war tanned, and scared ones drop too many 'what if' scenarios into my head.She's still here, alive, and that's better than what could have been.The only direction from here is up, which I'll do whatever it takes to get her there.
"I was…" I stop.
Words I had prepared stack in my throat—heavy, and boulder-like.She doesn't need to hear shit that will make her feel worse about herself.Yeah, her actions were irresponsible and dangerous, but throwing it in her face won't help either.
Neither will the lack of consequences.
Biting the bullet, I continue.
"I was so scared, Sunshine."
My fingers lace with hers, too much of a coward to look at the woman who's nothing like the violent smart-mouthed thing I've Pavloved myself into needing.
There's a soft knock at the door before it pops open.A head of chestnut-colored French braids and blue scrubs peeks in.
"She awake?"Nurse Camille asks without entering fully.
"Yeah," I mumble.
I take in Sadie’s profile once my head lifts, watching her blink slowly.
"I'll let the psychologist know."She slips out without another word.
"Got maybe ten minutes.I’m gonna grab some water and a rag, get you cleaned up before she gets here.”
At my return, I ghost a kiss on her forehead before setting down the basin, washcloth, and the awful foam soap hospitals provide.
Little by little, we set a groove: wet the cloth, dampen her skin, apply soap, scrub with another cloth, wipe and repeat.Her face is first, then her neck and a few inches inside of her gown.Both arms are after that.Against the wishes of medical staff, I detached one restraint to get around her wrists, then the same with her legs and feet.
As I finish up, pouring cloudy water down the bathroom sink, we're interrupted once more.This time, it's the Spanish inquisition dressed in black trousers and a cardigan.
"Miss Wilson?"The older woman with greying hair calls her name and plasters on a smile she's reserved for families of trauma, and patients who have given up.
"I'm Doctor Ophelia, the resident psychiatrist.I was hoping we could talk some, would that be alright?"She looks at me, but I turn my back, busying myself with the cleanup of Sadie's sponge bath.
She doesn't seem offended by my reluctance to talk; instead, she moves to take up space on Sadie's other side—claiming the pull-out couch I’ve ignored for the past few days.
"I understand we had a pretty rough time a few days ago.Do you remember what happened?Why you're here instead of home?"
Of course, Sadie doesn't answer.Rather than crowd her or push, I stand near the bathroom and shove my hands into my pockets.All I want is to touch her, make sure she's real and still here with me.
