Page 7 of Such Sharp Teeth

“I just really wanted to see you,” I say. “Bear was an excuse.”

Seth closes his eyes, something he often does when Scarlett and I are being ourselves. It’s a technique he’s developed over the years we’ve known him. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to fortify himself against our collective bullshit. His eyes were closed throughout the entirety of the maids of honor speech that Scarlett and I gave at his wedding. He married our best friend, and that lifelong commitment included us by default. He knew what he was getting himself into.

He opens his eyes. Courageously. “You’re very lucky.”

“Since I was a little girl, I hoped and dreamed I’d someday be the victim of a bear attack. And now here I am. Imagine?”

He shakes his head. “Minor cuts and scrapes. Could have been much worse.”

It was much worse. The pain echoes in my side. The sound, I can hear it clear as day. The bite. Teeth breaking skin. The initial gnaw. I was torn open, mercilessly. Easily. And the smell of it. The smell of animal. The smell of blood. The taste of it in my mouth.

I can question what I saw, but I can’t deny what I felt. A burning, raging hurt. It’s not what it was in the moment, but it’s still there writhing under the surface.

Yet somehow.

This morning, when they wiped away the dirt and dried blood, the damage wasn’t significant. A constellation of shallow cuts. It wasn’t a distinctive bite mark. It wasn’t a distinctive anything.

They said most of the blood was from my head, from where I hit my head, but even that cut, just above my hairline, was measly. Didn’t even require stitches.

My ankle is swollen, scratched, but the scratches are faint. Unapparent.

I don’t know how I could invent pain like that, how I could conjure that type of suffering, those specific, unfamiliar sensations. But I don’t have any evidence. Nothing to prove what I really went through or how it felt. Nothing visible, nothing tangible. I can feel it. The damage is there, but it’s ghost damage, haunting my body like it’s a goddamn Victorian manor. No one can see it but me. No one knows it’s there except for me.

I adjust the neck of my hospital gown.

“Can I go now?” I ask.

“Yes, you can go. You can take some ibuprofen. Change the bandages tonight, or first thing tomorrow morning at the latest. This ointment on your head and your side,” he says, handing Scarlett a white tube. “I can come by the house tomorrow afternoon and take a look. See how you’re healing.”

“Do you make house calls for all of your patients or am I special?”

“You’re special,” he says. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”

“Are you, though?” I ask.

He closes his eyes.

—

On the drive home, Scarlett and I stop for chai lattes at the shiny new Starbucks. We drink them at one of the tables outside, despite the drizzle. We enjoy our beautiful view of the parking lot.

“How long did they say?” I ask. We’re talking about my poor car, the one I got just days ago.

“Three weeks,” she says. “But who knows? You’re welcome to share mine, but then you’ll be trapped at the house while I’m at work. Might want to get a rental.”

“Balls.”

“Yep,” she says, removing the lid of her cup to sip.

Usually, she does this to preserve her perfect red lip, but she’s not wearing any lipstick. It’s so rare to see her without it. I’ve been living with her for two weeks and this is the first time I’ve seen her face bare. It’s the first thing she does when she wakes up. Washes her face, brushes her teeth, applies lipstick. Then the black cat eye, of course, her precision immaculate.

Sometimes she’ll offer to do my makeup. Whenever she does, I always say yes.

“Is it like doing your own?” I asked her once.

“Kind of,” she said. “It is but it isn’t.”

When I’ve got on the red lip and black eyeliner, we look the same. Except my hair isn’t blue. I guess hers isn’t either, technically.