Chapter 14
Mom didn't run. She came in steady and that was worse, in a good way. The door to the exam room had just clicked open and I heard her boots on the white floor before I saw her, that quick squeak on the polished part near the nurses' station. She had her coat still on, her purse strap cutting across her chest like she'd driven straight from work.
I was sitting on the edge of the paper-covered table. My jacket was open over my shoulders, not zipped, not clutched. The burn on my side was dressed with that cool white gauze that tugged a little when I breathed. The plastic evidence bag was gone. Deputy had taken it. The room smelled like ointment and coffee.
Mom stopped in the doorway and looked at me first, not at the nurse, not at the chart. Her eyes went to my face, then down to the jacket hanging loose.
"Hey, baby," she said. Her voice cracked on baby.
I slid down off the table. My feet hit the floor and my hood was down for the first time since that morning. The air felt cold on the back of my neck.
She knelt. I walked to her. She didn't grab. She just opened her arms and waited half a second and I stepped into them. Her coat smelled like outside and her shampoo. She held the back of my head with one hand and didn't squeeze my side where the bandage was. I breathed against her shoulder. It was the first time my breathing hadn't been shallow all afternoon.
The woman in the white coat stood at the doorway. Light blue cuff, black watch on her wrist. She had her hands clasped in front of her now, not reaching. She nodded at Mom, then at me.
"We're going to walk out that way," she said quietly, tilting her head toward the hall. "No rush. Take your time."
Mom pulled back enough to look at me. "They said they have a wheelchair if you want it," she whispered. "Do you want to ride?"
I shook my head. My hands weren't fisted anymore. I reached for Mom's hand and found it. Her fingers were cold. I held on tight, but not like I was holding the jacket closed. Different.
"I want to walk," I said.
Mom nodded. "We walk."
We stepped out into the hallway. The same hallway. Pale bluish-gray walls, white floor with the dark base trim, that flat cool fluorescent light that made everything look even and clean. It was the exact light from earlier, but it felt different because the doors at the far end were propped open. I could see gray winter light coming in from the parking lot.
The man in the coveralls was in the waiting area by the water cooler. His light gray one-piece and brown boots were the same, but he wasn't walking toward me anymore. He was sitting forward on the edge of a chair, his elbows on his knees, his boots planted flat on the floor. He saw me and lifted a hand, just a small wave, no smile that tried too hard.
"You did good, kiddo," he said, soft.
I nodded. I didn't know his name but I knew his boots.
Beyond the glass doors, outside in the lot, I could see two sheriff deputies by a cruiser. One had his hand on the door frame. The other stood with his back to the hallway, shoulders broad. Between them, I caught a glimpse of someone sitting in the back seat. I didn't stare. Mom's hand tightened around mine a little and she guided my eyes forward again.
The white coat woman stayed at her doorway as we passed. She didn't step into our path. She just gave another small nod, respectful.
"Call us if the dressing gets wet," she said to Mom. "Number's on the sheet."
"We will," Mom said.
About halfway down the hall I stopped. It was the exact spot. I knew because of the scuff on the dark base trim where I'd dug my heel in earlier, and the smudge on the wall at my shoulder height where the camera had blurred when I'd pulled away. The same pale wall that had filled the frame after I'd jerked back clutching my jacket.
Mom stopped with me. She didn't pull.
I looked up. There was a little domed monitor in the corner by the ceiling, a security camera with a red dot. Earlier I hadn't noticed it. Now I looked right at it. My chest rose and fell and I let the breath out slow, steady. No tears on my cheeks now. No hands fisted in fleece.
My jacket hung open. The zipper was down halfway, and I could feel the air on the collar of my t-shirt underneath. I didn't fix it.
Mom squeezed my hand. "You ready?"
May you like
"Yeah," I said.
We kept walking toward the open doors. The cold air from the parking lot was coming in and it smelled like snow and asphalt. The lockdown was lifted. The hallway was just a hallway again, and I was walking out of it on my own feet.
